When I was a little girl, I always wore Easter hats; it was part of our family routine. The boys got new suits, and I received a new dress and hat. The hats were always the same, white and floppy with a white ribbon around them, but I loved that tradition. In fact, I’d attempt to curl my hair Shirley Temple-style and now I wonder what my mother was thinking allowing me to use her ancient hot rollers on my hair and coating the resulting curls (nowhere near corkscrew, mind you) with two thick layers of hairspray. They might not have corkscrewed, but no accidental breeze would move one crunchy hair out of place. Maybe mom thought my hat would hide the mess; I don’t know. For whatever reason she allowed me, and as a result, I have very happy memories of Easter.
Now that I’m a mother of two little girls and one handful of boy, I do realize that Easter is not about the new clothes, the hunting of eggs, the eating of ham or other such traditions, though traditions aren’t a bad thing when put in the right place and kept there. Easter is about celebrating our Lord and Savior’s victory over death! So, if we want to celebrate the day by wearing new duds or eating ham, well, so be it, as long as the focus is about Him.
(Just for the record, I’m not about to launch into a tirade about the Easter Bunny because, frankly, he isn’t worth the investment of even this honorable mention, much less a whole blog.)
That being said, I still like to wear hats, though admittedly, I can’t remember the last time I wore one on Easter. Jeff teases me and so do others, but I don’t let their friendly mockery keep me from wearing the few hats that I do own because I think hats are just plain fun.
Today was a very rough day. I won’t go into detail because I might get worked up again, but suffice it to say it started with my fourth and final Kindle breaking down and Amazon happily replacing it if I chose to pay for it since I’m out of the warranty period. Nope. I’m now done with Kindle. A bunch of other things happened, like being attacked by a scrappy little dog, Gideon falling off play equipment and knocking an egg-sized knot upon the back of his head, and me misjudging a “children x-ing” sign and banging my forehead right into it. I was quite cranky after all that and not napping didn’t help. So, after I put the children to bed (where they went willingly because they, too, hadn’t napped) I set out my TPN and got online.
When I’m tired and my mind doesn’t focus, I tend to browse through pictures because friends, even your Facebook posts can’t keep me awake. Somehow, I began looking at pictures of Duchess Kate. That girl can dress. It probably helps that she’s allotted a small army and fortune to outfit her, but still, it got me thinking.
As I was scanning through the pictures, loving the hats and admiring the poise, sophistication, and the all around refinement of the Duchess and the other ladies in the pictures, one thing stood out. These women have class. And I’m not talking about a royal title or heaps of money. I’m talking about quiet dignity and confidence. These women know how to look like and act like ladies.
And then I wind up on MSN and see the Wonderwall of Entertainment, our American-built aristocracy, and I am filled with a deep and resounding shame that I am associated, by nationality, with these people, especially the women. I almost don’t even have to write it because you already know what I’m going to say. Our Hollywood nobility is really ignoble, for our women wear evening gowns with vee’s cut from the neck to nearly the crotch, expose all but their fanny cheeks when getting out of cars, and tape pasties to one loose breast while covering the other with see-through material…and we applaud their boldness and creativity and call that high fashion. I’ve seen 12-year-olds wearing more make-up than I even own, and I love me some Mary Kay. Our girls are growing up believing the only way to garner attention is through flaunting their bodies at every possible opportunity.
Please. I want more for my daughters than that. I’m not saying that our British cousins have got it all together, for women anywhere can be catty, vindictive, and snide, and their insides just as depraved and corrupt as a multitude of my southern sisters, but I want my daughters to not only learn to act like ladies, but I want them to know that modesty is sassy. Modesty is creative. Modesty is bold, and most of all, modesty is downright sexy. (Well, they don’t need to know about sexy until they get married, but you get my point) Duchess Kate has captured the essence of modesty as sexy, in a purely physical sense. I know nothing about her spiritual deportment.
Now, I’m not advocating long skirts and panty hose (in fact, I detest panty hose) at all times. I live in Texas. If it’s summer and over 100 degrees for a record breaking 100 days or more outside, I want to be in shorts and a tank top and *gasp* I never wear hose to church during the summer. (Don’t tell my mother) However, I no longer wear bikinis to the pool and we sure as heck don’t let our little girls wear them. Those are my convictions; they may not be yours, but remember, we do have something in common, and that is the knowledge that our female bodies are treasures, not for the masses to ogle and lust over, but for that one special man that God brings into our lives, and that is what we want to teach our daughters, that they are special because they are godly, compassionate, intelligent, witty, charming, lady-like, athletic, and modesty is simply part of that. Their bodies are the icing on the wedding cake and sex is the utter gratification of waiting to indulge in that icing!
Here’s what I AM advocating…an Easter challenge, of sorts, a return to thinking about modesty before this spring and summer hit in full swing. If you’re committed to retiring those skintight red leather jumpsuits and neck-breaking stilettos I know you have in your closet (that’s a joke), then think about returning to an old Easter tradition this year. Wear an Easter hat and if anyone asks you why, tell them you’re simply bringing back a positively feminine convention and showing your daughters, or other young girls, that it’s fun to be a lady. You still have about 4 weeks to find one. Mine might come from TJ Maxx, Target, Wal-Mart, or the thrift store - - girls, don’t be too good for those places! Who is with me?
Bring back an old tradition in a new and classy way. If you decide to join me in this challenge, I want you to send me a picture of you in your Easter hat. audreamedina@hotmail.com or post it on Facebook and tag me in it!
Let’s bring back a fun tradition and make a statement all at the same time. But, remember, don’t let it distract you from the REAL reason we’re celebrating the day!
Friday, March 16, 2012
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Another One Bites the Dust
It’s days like yesterday, where I began throwing up somewhere in the 6:00 hour and 6 hours later my stomach was still churning, that really prove a mental struggle. Between simultaneous throwing up/offensive diarrhea, attempting to correct bickering children from my porcelain throne, and Jeff gone to work, I just wanted to break down and cry and scream for what was lost because I didn’t think I was strong enough to handle anything else that day....much less more days like that. My strength was running perilously close to empty.
Days like yesterday remind me what I’m missing. Days like yesterday remind me how hard life has become. Days like yesterday remind me that my life is still a constant battle and always will be. Days like yesterday remind me that I am now disabled and prone to stretches of despair because I so desire for 'wholeness' of body again. Days like yesterday reflect those weaknesses and worries in my heart that steal joy. Days like yesterday remind me that I am not strong enough to do this intestine-less life on my own, for I need Christ’s strength simply to make it through to the next hour. Days like yesterday are necessary, though.
Sometimes fighting my physical battles becomes plain wearisome and I just want to power down and go into hibernation mode where I can’t see, think, or especially feel. I get tired of trying to alternate my eating and drinking times, making sure I get enough fluids in so I’m not dehydrated (which is probably why I was throwing up so much yesterday), and to make sure I take in enough food so that I maintain my weight (because the TPN can’t do it all). I can’t eat and drink at the same time because it all slips through faster than a torpedo shaped water slide on a hot summer day. It’s exhausting to mentally plan whether or not I’ll eat breakfast or drink breakfast or if enough hours have passed from breakfast to my next feeding/eating time, and then come lunchtime what should I do, and on and on and on…also knowing that for all my effort, it’s all coming out anyway. It’s enough to make a sane person crazy.
On top of all that, add in a mother’s schedule of school drop offs, pick ups, naps, meals, laundry (and all the other cleaning I don’t get to), church activities, and a wife’s schedule of trying to be helpmate and all that’s left by the end of the day is a fleeting impression of female, a wisp of my morning self - - a woman who still has to pull out her TPN and prepare it and mix it and then somehow drag herself to bed just to start it all over the next day. Oh, I think I forgot to shower in there. Yep. That happens regularly, too.
It is days like yesterday that put ‘me’ into perspective. I may be the gear-shifter in my life, but this life is not simply about me for I am a simple weak fool prone to bouts of mental discouragement over my physical limitations.
(Insert 24-hour break because I had more throwing up to do and by the end of that I was too exhausted to continue writing…and as I begin again, I can’t even remember where I was headed with my last paragraph, so I'll just hop on over to another thought.)
Here I thought things were finally beginning to look up. At my lowest weight during my fissure problems, I was 120…not the best place for my height. I gained back 7 pounds which was terribly exciting, I've kept the weight on, I finished the 2nd round of growth hormone right before Christmas, and had two days running where I woke up and didn’t have diarrhea until well after noon. Progress is terribly addictive.
I try to remind myself that after every ‘bad’ period things usually take a turn for the better. It’s the rough days, the REALLY rough days that keep me tethered to my Lord, though, sharply reminding me of the parallels between my physical life and my spiritual life. That’s where Christ wants me, in a total and complete place of dependency on His strength, and I know this…but I get careless, lazy even, and pride in my own abilities (and complacency) begins to creep up and I start to think “this ain’t so bad, I got it today.” And boom. A REALLY bad day hits and I know I got nothing but…me and the toilet.
Days like yesterday remind me what I’m missing. Days like yesterday remind me how hard life has become. Days like yesterday remind me that my life is still a constant battle and always will be. Days like yesterday remind me that I am now disabled and prone to stretches of despair because I so desire for 'wholeness' of body again. Days like yesterday reflect those weaknesses and worries in my heart that steal joy. Days like yesterday remind me that I am not strong enough to do this intestine-less life on my own, for I need Christ’s strength simply to make it through to the next hour. Days like yesterday are necessary, though.
Sometimes fighting my physical battles becomes plain wearisome and I just want to power down and go into hibernation mode where I can’t see, think, or especially feel. I get tired of trying to alternate my eating and drinking times, making sure I get enough fluids in so I’m not dehydrated (which is probably why I was throwing up so much yesterday), and to make sure I take in enough food so that I maintain my weight (because the TPN can’t do it all). I can’t eat and drink at the same time because it all slips through faster than a torpedo shaped water slide on a hot summer day. It’s exhausting to mentally plan whether or not I’ll eat breakfast or drink breakfast or if enough hours have passed from breakfast to my next feeding/eating time, and then come lunchtime what should I do, and on and on and on…also knowing that for all my effort, it’s all coming out anyway. It’s enough to make a sane person crazy.
On top of all that, add in a mother’s schedule of school drop offs, pick ups, naps, meals, laundry (and all the other cleaning I don’t get to), church activities, and a wife’s schedule of trying to be helpmate and all that’s left by the end of the day is a fleeting impression of female, a wisp of my morning self - - a woman who still has to pull out her TPN and prepare it and mix it and then somehow drag herself to bed just to start it all over the next day. Oh, I think I forgot to shower in there. Yep. That happens regularly, too.
It is days like yesterday that put ‘me’ into perspective. I may be the gear-shifter in my life, but this life is not simply about me for I am a simple weak fool prone to bouts of mental discouragement over my physical limitations.
(Insert 24-hour break because I had more throwing up to do and by the end of that I was too exhausted to continue writing…and as I begin again, I can’t even remember where I was headed with my last paragraph, so I'll just hop on over to another thought.)
Here I thought things were finally beginning to look up. At my lowest weight during my fissure problems, I was 120…not the best place for my height. I gained back 7 pounds which was terribly exciting, I've kept the weight on, I finished the 2nd round of growth hormone right before Christmas, and had two days running where I woke up and didn’t have diarrhea until well after noon. Progress is terribly addictive.
I try to remind myself that after every ‘bad’ period things usually take a turn for the better. It’s the rough days, the REALLY rough days that keep me tethered to my Lord, though, sharply reminding me of the parallels between my physical life and my spiritual life. That’s where Christ wants me, in a total and complete place of dependency on His strength, and I know this…but I get careless, lazy even, and pride in my own abilities (and complacency) begins to creep up and I start to think “this ain’t so bad, I got it today.” And boom. A REALLY bad day hits and I know I got nothing but…me and the toilet.
These days of pain (and torture) are necessary; though my focus is on me and what's going on with my body, my cries to God are real, my tearful query for His aid is heartfelt, and my thoughts are immediately turned to Him. It's become a good time for me to pray (well, not during the throwing up time or the rocking back and forth time, but the other times) because I'm stuck and I ain't going nowhere.
This particular blog hasn't struck me like some of the others, but the the one pervading thought I have as I end this is that I've got to be like Paul, "pressing on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus." (Phil. 3:14)
Though storm and snow and rain and thirst and hunger and cramping and crying may be just a sunrise away, I will not give up and I will not be downtrodden (for long). "I will rise on eagles wings, before my God, fall on my knees....and rise." I like to think that my prize will be two-fold, eternal life with Christ Jesus AND a new intestine! For why shouldn't we eat in heaven?
My weary heart feels lifted just by the thought... and at least I can say about my very bad horrible no good day that..."another ones bites the dust!" Amen.
My weary heart feels lifted just by the thought... and at least I can say about my very bad horrible no good day that..."another ones bites the dust!" Amen.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
For My Jeff, on Our 6th Anniversary
Most marriages have a honeymoon phase, which last longer than the honeymoon itself. When Jeff and I married six years ago, tomorrow, we never saw that phase. As many of you know, I got pregnant on our honeymoon, and when Gideon was 5 months old, I got pregnant with Scarlett. When Scarlett was 6 months old, I got pregnant with Lexi. We moved during that time, Jeff got a new job in a new city, and I became a ‘stuck at home’ mom with only one car and Jeff working 6 days a week. I was either pregnant or nursing and had very little social interaction outside of our home and our very small children. Life was, indeed, very hectic and very hard.
For those of you who think life got ridiculously difficult last year after I lost my intestine, you only know part of the story.
Life was also very personally painful during the first few years of our marriage, for my Jeff did not epitomize the model of a Christian husband. Though he was a believer, striving to serve our Lord, there were many heartbreaking issues he brought, unresolved, to our marriage: anger, lack of self-control, and a disregard for boundaries.
That Jeff was fear-inspiring.
That Jeff no longer exists, praise God.
In the year before I lost my intestine, God had been working mightily in his heart, in my heart, and in our marriage. We had been in counseling several times, together and alone, because we were determined that Satan, bent on the ultimate destruction of our home, would not win and we were willing to humble ourselves and seek outside help. Our home had finally become a place of peace when my medical mishap occurred. Trials have a funny way of stripping everything down to its core and pruning away those dead branches that bear no fruit, and though the pruning may be excruciating in dealing with past hurts, getting rid of those useless branches open a way for new life and new growth. Trials prove the mettle of man, shows where his heart is, and serve as a catalyst for either spiritual growth or spiritual death.
I will not take time to share with you Jeff’s journey, for that is his story to share, but my trial and the loss of my intestine was a vehicle that drove Jeff onward in his journey toward spiritual maturity. This is the man I’d like to tell you about.
Maturity does not take place overnight, and yet Jeff has become a man who I greatly admire and respect. I’ve always known how intelligent he was, for indeed, most of the blogs I write are a direct result of conversations we’ve had and thoughts he’s challenged me with. Intelligence alone, the knowledge of what is, is not enough, though, to merit respect. Even Satan’s lackeys know who Jesus is. Intelligence combined with spiritual awareness and understanding produces wisdom, which leads me to trust his judgment in all matters, knowing he has our family’s best interests at heart and not his own.
Jeff is a servant. He works many evening shifts, and yet, in the middle of the night when our children cry, he is the first one up to check on them. He began that when I was first home from the hospital and couldn’t get up. Now, it is such a hassle to unhook my heavy TPN bag and get myself down the hall that he still sees to our children’s nocturnal needs, no matter how little sleep he’s gotten. And he doesn’t complain about it.
Jeff is funny. He used to tease and flirt with me like he was in middle school, which got really old on, oh, about the first date. His level of flirting and pawing at me may not have changed all that much, but he is sensitive to my rough days, and has toned his teasing down tremendously when he knows I can’t handle it. He is conscientious of my physical limitations and sacrifices his need for intimacy when I’m in pain or too exhausted to even look at him with a wink of romance (and that’s quite often).
Jeff is a modern man. He helps with laundry, unloads the dishwasher every morning, irons his own clothes, and cleans the bathrooms when I haven’t gotten to them. When he was out of work for those 8 months taking care of me, it used to annoy me because he was treading on my terrain…but now I realize I couldn’t have gotten everything done (and still can’t) if it wasn’t for his help. He bathes the children and gets them ready for bed if he’s home and I’m stuck on the toilet. He might forget to detangle the girls’ hair, but at least they’re clean and their teeth are brushed.
Jeff is bold when he needs to be and does the distasteful things I don’t like to do; I have a problem calling people on the phone (and I don’t know why) and he will make those phone calls for me. Jeff is a visionary; he has grand ideas. He can preach, he can teach, he writes wonderful curriculum. He is kind, he is sensitive, and I love to see him working with children.
Jeff can sing. When we were dating he would serenade me with old 80’s love songs, some of which I’d never heard. He’d be sweating and shaking, waiting, I suppose, for me to laugh at him. I never did, and those became some of the sweetest memories of our dating months. He still sings to me, but not as often.
Jeff has put into practice patience like I never thought he could. He still does things in a hurry and becomes impatient to be through, but it no longer explodes into an angry tirade. He comes home happy from work, rather than sullen or discouraged, and he makes a practice of encouraging me, asking me questions about how I feel, and really takes time to make sure I feel loved.
He brings me (and the girls) flowers…just because. He hugs me, kisses me, and tells me he loves me. He gently corrects me when I’m wrong and doesn’t lose his temper if I get in a huff over something inconsequential. He simply says, “Now wait a minute…” And if we do get angry at each other because we are imperfect people, there is no fear of retribution involved, and we’re usually able to laugh our argument to an end by one of us saying something ridiculous, hold our hands and say “Let’s start over…” He doesn’t hold grudges against me and he makes it impossible to hold one against him.
My Jeff is simply the best man that I know and I would follow him the world over if he believed that’s where God was leading our family. He said this has been the best year of our married life, in spite of all the physical challenges I’ve had, and I must say, I have to agree.
I thank you, Holy Father, for bringing Jeff into my life. I thank you for the painful times, for allowing us to seek you more fully, becoming more like you through our aches and hurts. I thank you for not being finished with us, for promising to complete us, and for giving Jeff your mind, your heart, and the ability to see past his own past to become the man you planned him to be, the father you knew he could be, and the husband he must be. I thank you for six short years of marriage and the lifetime of lessons already imparted. I thank you for this treasure of a man you have deigned me worthy to belong to, and I pray you protect his mind, his eyes, his heart, and most importantly, his life.
Happy anniversary, my dear.
For those of you who think life got ridiculously difficult last year after I lost my intestine, you only know part of the story.
Life was also very personally painful during the first few years of our marriage, for my Jeff did not epitomize the model of a Christian husband. Though he was a believer, striving to serve our Lord, there were many heartbreaking issues he brought, unresolved, to our marriage: anger, lack of self-control, and a disregard for boundaries.
That Jeff was fear-inspiring.
That Jeff no longer exists, praise God.
In the year before I lost my intestine, God had been working mightily in his heart, in my heart, and in our marriage. We had been in counseling several times, together and alone, because we were determined that Satan, bent on the ultimate destruction of our home, would not win and we were willing to humble ourselves and seek outside help. Our home had finally become a place of peace when my medical mishap occurred. Trials have a funny way of stripping everything down to its core and pruning away those dead branches that bear no fruit, and though the pruning may be excruciating in dealing with past hurts, getting rid of those useless branches open a way for new life and new growth. Trials prove the mettle of man, shows where his heart is, and serve as a catalyst for either spiritual growth or spiritual death.
I will not take time to share with you Jeff’s journey, for that is his story to share, but my trial and the loss of my intestine was a vehicle that drove Jeff onward in his journey toward spiritual maturity. This is the man I’d like to tell you about.
Maturity does not take place overnight, and yet Jeff has become a man who I greatly admire and respect. I’ve always known how intelligent he was, for indeed, most of the blogs I write are a direct result of conversations we’ve had and thoughts he’s challenged me with. Intelligence alone, the knowledge of what is, is not enough, though, to merit respect. Even Satan’s lackeys know who Jesus is. Intelligence combined with spiritual awareness and understanding produces wisdom, which leads me to trust his judgment in all matters, knowing he has our family’s best interests at heart and not his own.
Jeff is a servant. He works many evening shifts, and yet, in the middle of the night when our children cry, he is the first one up to check on them. He began that when I was first home from the hospital and couldn’t get up. Now, it is such a hassle to unhook my heavy TPN bag and get myself down the hall that he still sees to our children’s nocturnal needs, no matter how little sleep he’s gotten. And he doesn’t complain about it.
Jeff is funny. He used to tease and flirt with me like he was in middle school, which got really old on, oh, about the first date. His level of flirting and pawing at me may not have changed all that much, but he is sensitive to my rough days, and has toned his teasing down tremendously when he knows I can’t handle it. He is conscientious of my physical limitations and sacrifices his need for intimacy when I’m in pain or too exhausted to even look at him with a wink of romance (and that’s quite often).
Jeff is a modern man. He helps with laundry, unloads the dishwasher every morning, irons his own clothes, and cleans the bathrooms when I haven’t gotten to them. When he was out of work for those 8 months taking care of me, it used to annoy me because he was treading on my terrain…but now I realize I couldn’t have gotten everything done (and still can’t) if it wasn’t for his help. He bathes the children and gets them ready for bed if he’s home and I’m stuck on the toilet. He might forget to detangle the girls’ hair, but at least they’re clean and their teeth are brushed.
Jeff is bold when he needs to be and does the distasteful things I don’t like to do; I have a problem calling people on the phone (and I don’t know why) and he will make those phone calls for me. Jeff is a visionary; he has grand ideas. He can preach, he can teach, he writes wonderful curriculum. He is kind, he is sensitive, and I love to see him working with children.
Jeff can sing. When we were dating he would serenade me with old 80’s love songs, some of which I’d never heard. He’d be sweating and shaking, waiting, I suppose, for me to laugh at him. I never did, and those became some of the sweetest memories of our dating months. He still sings to me, but not as often.
Jeff has put into practice patience like I never thought he could. He still does things in a hurry and becomes impatient to be through, but it no longer explodes into an angry tirade. He comes home happy from work, rather than sullen or discouraged, and he makes a practice of encouraging me, asking me questions about how I feel, and really takes time to make sure I feel loved.
He brings me (and the girls) flowers…just because. He hugs me, kisses me, and tells me he loves me. He gently corrects me when I’m wrong and doesn’t lose his temper if I get in a huff over something inconsequential. He simply says, “Now wait a minute…” And if we do get angry at each other because we are imperfect people, there is no fear of retribution involved, and we’re usually able to laugh our argument to an end by one of us saying something ridiculous, hold our hands and say “Let’s start over…” He doesn’t hold grudges against me and he makes it impossible to hold one against him.
My Jeff is simply the best man that I know and I would follow him the world over if he believed that’s where God was leading our family. He said this has been the best year of our married life, in spite of all the physical challenges I’ve had, and I must say, I have to agree.
I thank you, Holy Father, for bringing Jeff into my life. I thank you for the painful times, for allowing us to seek you more fully, becoming more like you through our aches and hurts. I thank you for not being finished with us, for promising to complete us, and for giving Jeff your mind, your heart, and the ability to see past his own past to become the man you planned him to be, the father you knew he could be, and the husband he must be. I thank you for six short years of marriage and the lifetime of lessons already imparted. I thank you for this treasure of a man you have deigned me worthy to belong to, and I pray you protect his mind, his eyes, his heart, and most importantly, his life.
Happy anniversary, my dear.
Thursday, December 08, 2011
Some Final Thoughts
You’d think I’d be finished defending my stance on Santa, and trust me, though I’ve thought of a lot more biblical principles that I’d like to “argue”, I am finished. The original post was never meant to begin an argument amongst believers; it was merely supposed to be a confession and spiritual check-up, of sorts, first for myself, and then for any others who may have been so inclined. The intent (and I apologize if I failed) was to get others to think and to figure out how to make the day more about Christ and less about other, insignificant, things.
The fact that it provoked such strong emotions struck me as very interesting, however.
Obviously, some of you have given great and thorough attention to your Santa decision. Others have not. It is decidedly your prerogative to make the decisions you feel best lead your family to have maximum output for the Kingdom of God, and if you can do that and still allow Santa to be such an integral part of your Christmas tradition, then you rank among the few.
And just to set the record straight, we are not anti-Santa in and of himself. We are simply opposed to setting him up as an iconic reality that takes any bit of focus off of Christ which includes, but is not limited to, leading impressionable children into belief in said reality. As my friend, Julie Brzozowski, so succinctly stated: “We can enjoy Goldilocks and the Three Bears without believing it really happened. And we can do the same thing with Santa.”
My blog and my thoughts are not The Gospel of Jesus Christ. My husband and I try to very carefully consider things for the ultimate glory of our Holy God in light of the Gospel, and though we will undoubtedly make mistakes along the way, our biggest prayer is that our lives pave the way for our children to one day accept Jesus’ loving atonement for sins and choose then to live a life that honors Him. I believe that as long as we learn to seek God first, before everything else, which is what Christ himself commands in Matthew 6:33, the rest will fall in line. If Christians would stand up in arms defending our Lord and Savior and His precepts like they defend their right to promote Santa’s presence at Christmas, neither would be an issue, for Christ would surely be exalted as “Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace” (Isaiah 9:6) and not simply become a chorus we sing once a year.
Almost dying and having my daily life so radically changed a year and a half ago has drastically altered (well, maybe more like ‘magnified’) the way I view life, my faith, and the convictions I consequently hold. I’ve also gotten quite a bit more verbal about those convictions, and I use my blog to work through those issues.
The lines between mainstream Christianity and the secular world are so blurry that the time must be coming where we will be forced to take a decisive stance one way or another on every single issue for when it comes to Christ, there are no gray areas. Either we are for Him or we are against Him. Flippant, careless Christianity is no Christianity at all. When we set something above Christ, we idolize it. When we place something on his level, we deify it, and so, in our house, we will not allow Santa to rule on Christ’s day neither as an equal nor as a superior.
Some may be tempted to get all up in my business and find inconsistencies in my walk and in the decisions Jeff and I make. If you’re coming at us from a place of loving concern, then come on. I don’t want to live a stagnant useless existence. I want to be challenged, every day, to be more like the Savior I serve. And maybe I’m extreme, but I don’t serve a pansy god. I serve the Master and Creator of heaven and earth, One whose
This is the God I serve and I will do everything I can to give him proper recognition and honor.
Most gracious Heavenly Father,
I thank you for this gift of life I so often taken for granted, complaining about my ailments and troubles. I ask for your faithful forgiveness as I determine, with your aid, to accept my life the way you have directed it. I thank you for another Christmas to be with my family, sharing in the joy of your birth. As we seek to give you praise and honor, may our lives, our thoughts, and our decisions all reflect your presence inside our hearts. Holy Spirit, convict us where we seek glory for ourselves, guide us into your Spirit of Truth, and help us to truly remember that this season of gifts, giving, family, fellowship, and generosity is ALL because of your great sacrifice for us. Amen.
The fact that it provoked such strong emotions struck me as very interesting, however.
Obviously, some of you have given great and thorough attention to your Santa decision. Others have not. It is decidedly your prerogative to make the decisions you feel best lead your family to have maximum output for the Kingdom of God, and if you can do that and still allow Santa to be such an integral part of your Christmas tradition, then you rank among the few.
And just to set the record straight, we are not anti-Santa in and of himself. We are simply opposed to setting him up as an iconic reality that takes any bit of focus off of Christ which includes, but is not limited to, leading impressionable children into belief in said reality. As my friend, Julie Brzozowski, so succinctly stated: “We can enjoy Goldilocks and the Three Bears without believing it really happened. And we can do the same thing with Santa.”
My blog and my thoughts are not The Gospel of Jesus Christ. My husband and I try to very carefully consider things for the ultimate glory of our Holy God in light of the Gospel, and though we will undoubtedly make mistakes along the way, our biggest prayer is that our lives pave the way for our children to one day accept Jesus’ loving atonement for sins and choose then to live a life that honors Him. I believe that as long as we learn to seek God first, before everything else, which is what Christ himself commands in Matthew 6:33, the rest will fall in line. If Christians would stand up in arms defending our Lord and Savior and His precepts like they defend their right to promote Santa’s presence at Christmas, neither would be an issue, for Christ would surely be exalted as “Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace” (Isaiah 9:6) and not simply become a chorus we sing once a year.
Almost dying and having my daily life so radically changed a year and a half ago has drastically altered (well, maybe more like ‘magnified’) the way I view life, my faith, and the convictions I consequently hold. I’ve also gotten quite a bit more verbal about those convictions, and I use my blog to work through those issues.
The lines between mainstream Christianity and the secular world are so blurry that the time must be coming where we will be forced to take a decisive stance one way or another on every single issue for when it comes to Christ, there are no gray areas. Either we are for Him or we are against Him. Flippant, careless Christianity is no Christianity at all. When we set something above Christ, we idolize it. When we place something on his level, we deify it, and so, in our house, we will not allow Santa to rule on Christ’s day neither as an equal nor as a superior.
Some may be tempted to get all up in my business and find inconsistencies in my walk and in the decisions Jeff and I make. If you’re coming at us from a place of loving concern, then come on. I don’t want to live a stagnant useless existence. I want to be challenged, every day, to be more like the Savior I serve. And maybe I’m extreme, but I don’t serve a pansy god. I serve the Master and Creator of heaven and earth, One whose
“wisdom is profound, his power is vast.
Who has resisted him and come out unscathed?
5 He moves mountains without their knowing it
and overturns them in his anger.
6 He shakes the earth from its place
and makes its pillars tremble.
7 He speaks to the sun and it does not shine;
he seals off the light of the stars.
8 He alone stretches out the heavens
and treads on the waves of the sea.
9 He is the Maker of the Bear and Orion,
the Pleiades and the constellations of the south.
10 He performs wonders that cannot be fathomed,
miracles that cannot be counted.” (Job 9: 4-10)
This is the God I serve and I will do everything I can to give him proper recognition and honor.
Most gracious Heavenly Father,
I thank you for this gift of life I so often taken for granted, complaining about my ailments and troubles. I ask for your faithful forgiveness as I determine, with your aid, to accept my life the way you have directed it. I thank you for another Christmas to be with my family, sharing in the joy of your birth. As we seek to give you praise and honor, may our lives, our thoughts, and our decisions all reflect your presence inside our hearts. Holy Spirit, convict us where we seek glory for ourselves, guide us into your Spirit of Truth, and help us to truly remember that this season of gifts, giving, family, fellowship, and generosity is ALL because of your great sacrifice for us. Amen.
Wednesday, December 07, 2011
Qualification
Because of some comments received, I want everyone to know my Santa post wasn't a personal dig at anyone who believes or allows their children to believe in Santa and neither was it a censure of the person at my church who mentioned it to my children. It was a general overview of something that I see as a global problem and I felt led to write about it, to work it out on paper for myself as I do everything else.
Because I take my faith and the faith of my children very seriously, when Jeff and I are convicted about something, we do something about it and I'm not ashamed to confess or write about it. I will be the first to admit when we've been wrong, especially when I've been wrong about something. We are imperfect people attempting to reconcile faith and practical living without going overboard in any direction. We still have much to learn and I'm prayerful that our lives will continue to change to prune away anything that entangles or hinders our faith or the attempts to bring our children to the Lord.
That being said, it is your every right to raise your children the way you see fit, just as it is mine. I stand behind every word I wrote, and want you to know that I merely broached the subject because it was heavy on my heart and I simply wanted to challenge anyone who read the post to carefully consider Santa's placement in Christmas, especially if you are a Christ-follower.
And furthermore, it is a reminder for me, and for Jeff, to carefully consider everything we do and why we do it.
Because I take my faith and the faith of my children very seriously, when Jeff and I are convicted about something, we do something about it and I'm not ashamed to confess or write about it. I will be the first to admit when we've been wrong, especially when I've been wrong about something. We are imperfect people attempting to reconcile faith and practical living without going overboard in any direction. We still have much to learn and I'm prayerful that our lives will continue to change to prune away anything that entangles or hinders our faith or the attempts to bring our children to the Lord.
That being said, it is your every right to raise your children the way you see fit, just as it is mine. I stand behind every word I wrote, and want you to know that I merely broached the subject because it was heavy on my heart and I simply wanted to challenge anyone who read the post to carefully consider Santa's placement in Christmas, especially if you are a Christ-follower.
And furthermore, it is a reminder for me, and for Jeff, to carefully consider everything we do and why we do it.
Tuesday, December 06, 2011
Escaping the Santa Trap
I got a bit worked up over the weekend, for you see, some well-meaning person, at church, told my children that Santa is real. Obviously, I had problems with that on so many levels because I never expected that to happen. That particular situation now dealt with and behind me, I hope, did, however, get me to thinking really hard about Christmas, “the real meaning”, tradition, and Santa’s place.
You may wonder why I got all in a tizzy over a harmless, rotund, red-suited, jolly old man whose aim is to simply spread Christmas cheer and gifts. Santa, my friends, (and I hate to burst your bubble if this is the first time you’ve ever heard this) is not real. Legend has inflated this fictitious individual, loosely based on a Greek man named Nicholas, a devout man, who secretly gave gifts and put coins in shoes left outside. Now-a-days, Santa Claus leaves presents only for good girls and boys, his helpful elves are hard at work making toys all year round, he carries these bountiful toys in one very large sack… in a sleigh drawn by flying reindeer, he travels around the world shimmying his extra large girth up and down chimneys (even the houses without chimneys), and to ensure that boys and girls have been “good” he now leaves his Elf on a Shelf to watch over them and to report their behavior back to the North Pole.
Seriously? Seriously.
I love literature, and I love fiction. I love a good book, a little far-fetched time travel, a little mystery, a little illogic, and I celebrate such imagination. The Lord of the Rings trilogy, full of magic, intrigue, and a quest of biblical proportions is a series worth applauding. What I detest, though, is the telling of a falsehood, especially to children who are still learning the difference between concrete and abstract thinking. The Lord of the Rings trilogy is not written for impressionable children, and though I was an adolescent when I read them, I was at least to the level of development in critical thinking that had reached the abstract, knowing and understanding the difference between reality and fantasy.
You tell a 3, 4, 5, 6, or 7 year old that Santa is real and they believe you. You tell them that if they’re good, and the Elf on the Shelf is watching them to report back to Santa any and every infraction of behavior, they’ll get presents, and they’ll believe you. You tell them that Santa comes down the chimney, leaves perfectly wrapped toys, and eats the cookies and drinks the milk you leave out, they’ll believe you. You tell them his sleigh is driven by Rudolph the red nosed reindeer and company, they’ll believe you.
And then you tell them that we celebrate Jesus’ birthday on Christmas. You tell them that everything in the Bible is true. You tell them God created the world in 6 days and on the 7th day he rested. You tell them all the Old Testament stories about the 10 commandments, Noah and the Ark, Moses and the Red Sea, David and Goliath, and then move into the New Testament miracles of Jesus healing the blind, the lame, and the sick. You tell them Jesus died on the cross for their sins and rose on the third day and now sits at the right hand of God the Father. THEY WILL BELIEVE YOU.
What happens when you suddenly tell them that Santa isn’t real, or worse, if they learn it from someone else? What happens to what they believe about the Bible, about God, and about his Son, Jesus?
You have just effectively lost your right to be believed on every level.
They will have discovered that you purposefully lied. It is a crippling, jarring, shocking thing for dishonesty to be unearthed at any age within any relationship, but at a tender, vulnerable age you will have successfully raped their trust and caused them to question anything that further emerges from your lips. As Christian parents, we are charged with protecting, teaching, and leading our children to Christ. Propagating a falsehood is not a way to win your children to the Lord. And coercing ‘good’ behavior so children will want to act right to get presents does children a disservice because it completely misses the mark, which is their hearts.
You may think I’m harsh, overreacting, and perhaps even overly pious, but for me, playing up the Santa card because it’s fun and it’s customary and it’s ‘just what we do’ is not worth playing with my children’s eternity. Allowing them to believe a lie, no matter how harmless it may seem, is still allowing them to believe a lie. Jeff and I do not lie to our children, nor do we perpetuate lies, even if they be based on the practices that have been in our families for years. My father told me that he was devastated when he learned that Santa wasn’t real, and just a few days ago, another friend confessed the same thing. Therefore, I do not relinquish my right to share truth with my children, for when I stand before Holy God, and remember, you will too, what will I say to that charge?
I am not condemning you for playing along with Santa, but I challenge you to investigate the heart of why you do what you do.
Even as I type, I will readily acknowledge that we have allowed our children to read books about Santa, watch Christmas cartoons where he’s a main character, color pictures about him and his team of elves and reindeer. But, after each viewing, I quiz them: “Is Santa real? No. He is pretend. What is Christmas really about? Yes, it’s about Jesus. What did Jesus do for us?”...and so on.
But now I ask myself if that is enough. If we truly want to make Christmas about Jesus, what do we need to cut out? What do we need to purge? And what do we need to change?
Jeff and I had this conversation just last night. We’ve explained to our children about gift-giving, that since Jesus gave the ultimate gift of His life, we honor his birthday by giving gifts to each other. We do retain the ‘We Three Kings’ plan, borrowed from my brother and sister-in-law. Jesus received 3 gifts from the wise men, and so do our children. I know people bake a birthday cake for Jesus, but I want to know how else can we truly merit celebrating His day, for Him, when materialism and traditions tend to usurp the intent of the day?
I don’t have a complete answer, but I do know that by elevating Christ and dethroning Santa and his not-so-helpful Elf on the Shelf, we’re at least headed in the right direction.
You may wonder why I got all in a tizzy over a harmless, rotund, red-suited, jolly old man whose aim is to simply spread Christmas cheer and gifts. Santa, my friends, (and I hate to burst your bubble if this is the first time you’ve ever heard this) is not real. Legend has inflated this fictitious individual, loosely based on a Greek man named Nicholas, a devout man, who secretly gave gifts and put coins in shoes left outside. Now-a-days, Santa Claus leaves presents only for good girls and boys, his helpful elves are hard at work making toys all year round, he carries these bountiful toys in one very large sack… in a sleigh drawn by flying reindeer, he travels around the world shimmying his extra large girth up and down chimneys (even the houses without chimneys), and to ensure that boys and girls have been “good” he now leaves his Elf on a Shelf to watch over them and to report their behavior back to the North Pole.
Seriously? Seriously.
I love literature, and I love fiction. I love a good book, a little far-fetched time travel, a little mystery, a little illogic, and I celebrate such imagination. The Lord of the Rings trilogy, full of magic, intrigue, and a quest of biblical proportions is a series worth applauding. What I detest, though, is the telling of a falsehood, especially to children who are still learning the difference between concrete and abstract thinking. The Lord of the Rings trilogy is not written for impressionable children, and though I was an adolescent when I read them, I was at least to the level of development in critical thinking that had reached the abstract, knowing and understanding the difference between reality and fantasy.
You tell a 3, 4, 5, 6, or 7 year old that Santa is real and they believe you. You tell them that if they’re good, and the Elf on the Shelf is watching them to report back to Santa any and every infraction of behavior, they’ll get presents, and they’ll believe you. You tell them that Santa comes down the chimney, leaves perfectly wrapped toys, and eats the cookies and drinks the milk you leave out, they’ll believe you. You tell them his sleigh is driven by Rudolph the red nosed reindeer and company, they’ll believe you.
And then you tell them that we celebrate Jesus’ birthday on Christmas. You tell them that everything in the Bible is true. You tell them God created the world in 6 days and on the 7th day he rested. You tell them all the Old Testament stories about the 10 commandments, Noah and the Ark, Moses and the Red Sea, David and Goliath, and then move into the New Testament miracles of Jesus healing the blind, the lame, and the sick. You tell them Jesus died on the cross for their sins and rose on the third day and now sits at the right hand of God the Father. THEY WILL BELIEVE YOU.
What happens when you suddenly tell them that Santa isn’t real, or worse, if they learn it from someone else? What happens to what they believe about the Bible, about God, and about his Son, Jesus?
You have just effectively lost your right to be believed on every level.
They will have discovered that you purposefully lied. It is a crippling, jarring, shocking thing for dishonesty to be unearthed at any age within any relationship, but at a tender, vulnerable age you will have successfully raped their trust and caused them to question anything that further emerges from your lips. As Christian parents, we are charged with protecting, teaching, and leading our children to Christ. Propagating a falsehood is not a way to win your children to the Lord. And coercing ‘good’ behavior so children will want to act right to get presents does children a disservice because it completely misses the mark, which is their hearts.
You may think I’m harsh, overreacting, and perhaps even overly pious, but for me, playing up the Santa card because it’s fun and it’s customary and it’s ‘just what we do’ is not worth playing with my children’s eternity. Allowing them to believe a lie, no matter how harmless it may seem, is still allowing them to believe a lie. Jeff and I do not lie to our children, nor do we perpetuate lies, even if they be based on the practices that have been in our families for years. My father told me that he was devastated when he learned that Santa wasn’t real, and just a few days ago, another friend confessed the same thing. Therefore, I do not relinquish my right to share truth with my children, for when I stand before Holy God, and remember, you will too, what will I say to that charge?
I am not condemning you for playing along with Santa, but I challenge you to investigate the heart of why you do what you do.
Even as I type, I will readily acknowledge that we have allowed our children to read books about Santa, watch Christmas cartoons where he’s a main character, color pictures about him and his team of elves and reindeer. But, after each viewing, I quiz them: “Is Santa real? No. He is pretend. What is Christmas really about? Yes, it’s about Jesus. What did Jesus do for us?”...and so on.
But now I ask myself if that is enough. If we truly want to make Christmas about Jesus, what do we need to cut out? What do we need to purge? And what do we need to change?
Jeff and I had this conversation just last night. We’ve explained to our children about gift-giving, that since Jesus gave the ultimate gift of His life, we honor his birthday by giving gifts to each other. We do retain the ‘We Three Kings’ plan, borrowed from my brother and sister-in-law. Jesus received 3 gifts from the wise men, and so do our children. I know people bake a birthday cake for Jesus, but I want to know how else can we truly merit celebrating His day, for Him, when materialism and traditions tend to usurp the intent of the day?
I don’t have a complete answer, but I do know that by elevating Christ and dethroning Santa and his not-so-helpful Elf on the Shelf, we’re at least headed in the right direction.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Being Like Christ
Sometimes emotion hits unexpectedly, welling up inside, becoming a big tight ball of tension behind the eyes and throat. And then, the pressure becomes too great, and the dam bursts, no longer able to hold back the torrent of pain and heartache flooding forth in constricted and unwilling tears.
Tonight that happened to me as I stood in front of my mantle looking at the picture of my baby’s marker. I was listening to Josh Groban’s version of “Noel” and the power of that song mixed with the stress of the last month and a half was simply too much.
I felt the poignant ache of loss and love and hope and loss.
I don’t even know exactly what it was that set me off. I had been merrily listening to Christmas music while folding clean laundry luxuriating in the peace that follows the certainty of sleep from the preschool corridor, and then, BOOM, there I was, a pretty mess.
Maybe it simply was a need to release the stress of the last month…or maybe it’s more. I don’t know. I had surgery on the first of November. You know all that excruciating pain I was in? I thought it was hemorrhoids, a boil, an abscess or something. Well, it wasn’t. It was a fissure (a tear) in my anal canal.
I was in tremendous pain for 3 straight weeks. Every time I had diarrhea, and you know that’s quite often, I would scream in pain. Ladies, take yourselves back to the labor and delivery room if you chose to go natural…and you will understand when I say that it felt like I was pushing razors out of my rear end while they were simultaneously ripping all the way up my colon. I would scream and moan all the way to the bathtub, in tears, and I even frightened my children. Imagine pouring hot rancid acid over a deep fresh gash and then you can imagine the kind of anguish I was in.
Once the pain would somewhat subside into a dull throbbing, I’d sit in the bathtub and cry out to God that I wasn’t strong enough to handle this kind of pain every single day of my life. Even after the surgery, when it still hurt and bled, I began to despair and I became incredibly discouraged with my future, so much so, that as I lay on the sofa one evening tormented with grief and in agony, I admitted to Jeff that I believed it would have been better if I had died on that operating table last year.
This was the first time I’d ever let that thought become more than a flitting wisp; I genuinely wanted to be out of this human shell and into heaven where there’d be no more suffering or sorrow.
Before this latest obstacle, I was able to see with spiritual eyes beyond my immediate infirmities, but at this point, I became spiritually crippled by the unbelievable torture of that fissure. I didn’t want to eat because eating caused more diarrhea. I didn’t want to hook up to my TPN because that caused diarrhea.
The worst part was that my diarrhea was almost out of control. One night, I tried to eat three crackers and I was running to the toilet. I tried to take three tiny sips of lukewarm water and bite off a sliver of ice and I was running to the bathroom. That’s the night I wished I had died. I cried and cried with utter and complete desolation of mind and soul. Jeff tried to comfort me, but all I could say was “I’m just so thirsty, and I can’t even take a drink of water. I just want a drink. Why can’t I just have one drink?”
Have you ever been that thirsty and not able to quench the thirst? Or even partially satiate it? All I could do was swish water around in my mouth and spit it out and that did nothing but depress me. It was the lowest of lows. I just wanted a drink, a sip, a swallow, a taste to ease that arid dehydrated feeling, and I couldn’t.
So, I curled up on the sofa with my head on Jeff’s lap and cried heart-wrenching sobs of hopelessness and despair wishing for things that couldn’t be undone and wondering how I was going to make it through another day.
And then Jeff, in an unusual moment of quiet and sensitivity, said to me, “You know, you’re a lot like Christ.” Well, that got my attention as I was slobbering and snotting all over him because he has NEVER ever equated me to Christ before, at least, not directly.
He proceeded to talk about Christ’s sacrifice of his own life, voluntarily giving himself to be scorned, spit upon, beaten, and finally, crucified in a barbaric way to assuage the wrath of God. This I knew so I tried to jump ahead and figure out where Jeff was heading, but then he said something that I’d not thought about before that jerked my concentration back to him.
“If Christ had not gone willingly to the cross, think about how much worse it would have been for humanity to have had to suffer the full wrath of God for our sins. It would have been better for Jesus because He never would have had to suffer these earthly evils, but it would have been worse for humanity.”
Pulled from reveling in self-pity, I was merely sniveling by now, I had to agree.
So I briefly thought about what Jeff was saying. Instead of giving us, those who are merely the created, what we deserve….death….because we’ve idolized ourselves, set ourselves up to be greater than God, have revolted against His goodness, and have flauntingly disobeyed Him, we have thus created the impossible chasm of sin. In spite of that, in spite of our flagrant disregard for who God is, in spite of every wicked, wretched, evil thing we have ever done or thought, and even in spite of the fact that I know Him intimately and still choose sin, God still chose to pour out His holy wrath upon His own Son (sent to earth for that very purpose) and that atonement was enough to appease His wrath. It was the greatest gift of loving sacrifice, so tell me. What other religion in all of history can boast a god like that, one who would allow his own Son to die for your sins so that you can be reconciled and brought back into a right relationship with Him by no act of your own?
Well, then. Back to my story.
Jeff then told me, “Like Christ, it would have been better for you if you had died, for your body would be perfect in heaven and you’d not need your bowel and you wouldn't suffer in pain, but for us, for me, for the children, it would have been so much worse. God was gracious to us to allow you to stay alive, even though your body is damaged. We would rather have you damaged than not at all.”
When I heard that the slow hiccups and sniveling turned back into full blown tears and I was wholly convicted of the selfishness of wanting to escape my daily struggles by wishing my life away.
I love my husband, and I love my children, and haven’t I always told myself that I would sacrifice anything for them, including my life? I didn’t realize that I was (and am) sacrificing for them every day with my physical health. I thought giving my life would have been the ultimate sacrifice, but it seems giving my intestine was the more priceless commodity.
Though blinded by the rivers of tears, I managed to kiss Jeff’s cheek and whisper “thank you.” And the balm he applied to my heart that night was the beginning to restoring the hope in my salvation of which I'd lost sight.
It doesn’t necessarily mean that this journey of mine will miraculously end (though let us all continue to pray in that vein), and it doesn’t mean that I won’t continue to have bouts of despair, but what it does mean is that I’m not alone in this journey. God has gifted me with a man who, in spite of what I may have believed in the past, actually does understand me and understands how to encourage and build my faith, who loves me damaged body and all, who values me, and who was able to help me at this pivotal moment begin to see again the worth that my life has in Christ, and for that I will be eternally grateful.
Tonight that happened to me as I stood in front of my mantle looking at the picture of my baby’s marker. I was listening to Josh Groban’s version of “Noel” and the power of that song mixed with the stress of the last month and a half was simply too much.
I felt the poignant ache of loss and love and hope and loss.
I don’t even know exactly what it was that set me off. I had been merrily listening to Christmas music while folding clean laundry luxuriating in the peace that follows the certainty of sleep from the preschool corridor, and then, BOOM, there I was, a pretty mess.
Maybe it simply was a need to release the stress of the last month…or maybe it’s more. I don’t know. I had surgery on the first of November. You know all that excruciating pain I was in? I thought it was hemorrhoids, a boil, an abscess or something. Well, it wasn’t. It was a fissure (a tear) in my anal canal.
I was in tremendous pain for 3 straight weeks. Every time I had diarrhea, and you know that’s quite often, I would scream in pain. Ladies, take yourselves back to the labor and delivery room if you chose to go natural…and you will understand when I say that it felt like I was pushing razors out of my rear end while they were simultaneously ripping all the way up my colon. I would scream and moan all the way to the bathtub, in tears, and I even frightened my children. Imagine pouring hot rancid acid over a deep fresh gash and then you can imagine the kind of anguish I was in.
Once the pain would somewhat subside into a dull throbbing, I’d sit in the bathtub and cry out to God that I wasn’t strong enough to handle this kind of pain every single day of my life. Even after the surgery, when it still hurt and bled, I began to despair and I became incredibly discouraged with my future, so much so, that as I lay on the sofa one evening tormented with grief and in agony, I admitted to Jeff that I believed it would have been better if I had died on that operating table last year.
This was the first time I’d ever let that thought become more than a flitting wisp; I genuinely wanted to be out of this human shell and into heaven where there’d be no more suffering or sorrow.
Before this latest obstacle, I was able to see with spiritual eyes beyond my immediate infirmities, but at this point, I became spiritually crippled by the unbelievable torture of that fissure. I didn’t want to eat because eating caused more diarrhea. I didn’t want to hook up to my TPN because that caused diarrhea.
The worst part was that my diarrhea was almost out of control. One night, I tried to eat three crackers and I was running to the toilet. I tried to take three tiny sips of lukewarm water and bite off a sliver of ice and I was running to the bathroom. That’s the night I wished I had died. I cried and cried with utter and complete desolation of mind and soul. Jeff tried to comfort me, but all I could say was “I’m just so thirsty, and I can’t even take a drink of water. I just want a drink. Why can’t I just have one drink?”
Have you ever been that thirsty and not able to quench the thirst? Or even partially satiate it? All I could do was swish water around in my mouth and spit it out and that did nothing but depress me. It was the lowest of lows. I just wanted a drink, a sip, a swallow, a taste to ease that arid dehydrated feeling, and I couldn’t.
So, I curled up on the sofa with my head on Jeff’s lap and cried heart-wrenching sobs of hopelessness and despair wishing for things that couldn’t be undone and wondering how I was going to make it through another day.
And then Jeff, in an unusual moment of quiet and sensitivity, said to me, “You know, you’re a lot like Christ.” Well, that got my attention as I was slobbering and snotting all over him because he has NEVER ever equated me to Christ before, at least, not directly.
He proceeded to talk about Christ’s sacrifice of his own life, voluntarily giving himself to be scorned, spit upon, beaten, and finally, crucified in a barbaric way to assuage the wrath of God. This I knew so I tried to jump ahead and figure out where Jeff was heading, but then he said something that I’d not thought about before that jerked my concentration back to him.
“If Christ had not gone willingly to the cross, think about how much worse it would have been for humanity to have had to suffer the full wrath of God for our sins. It would have been better for Jesus because He never would have had to suffer these earthly evils, but it would have been worse for humanity.”
Pulled from reveling in self-pity, I was merely sniveling by now, I had to agree.
So I briefly thought about what Jeff was saying. Instead of giving us, those who are merely the created, what we deserve….death….because we’ve idolized ourselves, set ourselves up to be greater than God, have revolted against His goodness, and have flauntingly disobeyed Him, we have thus created the impossible chasm of sin. In spite of that, in spite of our flagrant disregard for who God is, in spite of every wicked, wretched, evil thing we have ever done or thought, and even in spite of the fact that I know Him intimately and still choose sin, God still chose to pour out His holy wrath upon His own Son (sent to earth for that very purpose) and that atonement was enough to appease His wrath. It was the greatest gift of loving sacrifice, so tell me. What other religion in all of history can boast a god like that, one who would allow his own Son to die for your sins so that you can be reconciled and brought back into a right relationship with Him by no act of your own?
Well, then. Back to my story.
Jeff then told me, “Like Christ, it would have been better for you if you had died, for your body would be perfect in heaven and you’d not need your bowel and you wouldn't suffer in pain, but for us, for me, for the children, it would have been so much worse. God was gracious to us to allow you to stay alive, even though your body is damaged. We would rather have you damaged than not at all.”
When I heard that the slow hiccups and sniveling turned back into full blown tears and I was wholly convicted of the selfishness of wanting to escape my daily struggles by wishing my life away.
I love my husband, and I love my children, and haven’t I always told myself that I would sacrifice anything for them, including my life? I didn’t realize that I was (and am) sacrificing for them every day with my physical health. I thought giving my life would have been the ultimate sacrifice, but it seems giving my intestine was the more priceless commodity.
Though blinded by the rivers of tears, I managed to kiss Jeff’s cheek and whisper “thank you.” And the balm he applied to my heart that night was the beginning to restoring the hope in my salvation of which I'd lost sight.
It doesn’t necessarily mean that this journey of mine will miraculously end (though let us all continue to pray in that vein), and it doesn’t mean that I won’t continue to have bouts of despair, but what it does mean is that I’m not alone in this journey. God has gifted me with a man who, in spite of what I may have believed in the past, actually does understand me and understands how to encourage and build my faith, who loves me damaged body and all, who values me, and who was able to help me at this pivotal moment begin to see again the worth that my life has in Christ, and for that I will be eternally grateful.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)