Hello everyone! To anyone who has continued reading this, thank you so much! I value your readership more than you know. Just wanted to let everyone know that I have started a new blog. New content, new look! You may now find me at: www.thefearlist.wordpress.com
Please come by and check it out! Feel free to subscribe and share.
Thank you so much for your continued interest and support! I'll look forward to seeing you over there.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Just for You, Pt. 2
My dad is one of the most important people in my life, and it would be hard to give you all the reasons why within the small confines of this blog, but I assure you, there are a great many reasons for it.
My dad has always been a teacher. Although he has probably never been aware of that fact, he has taught me many valuable lessons throughout the years simply through every-day discussions.
One lesson I will never forget. I was sitting by the seat of his throne (what us peasants like to call 'the recliner') when my dad said something so amazing and so extraordinary, I still remember it years later. It wasn't meant to be anything more than a conversation between a father and his daughter, but from it I gleaned a new perspective on God I wouldn't trade for the purest gold you could offer.
He was recounting to me the grief-filled days of his youth, when, at the young age of thirty, my mom and him began trying for a child. I listened attentively, sitting cross-legged on the floor. It was just my dad and I, the TV muted for the moment so that we could talk. Listen, if you will- and hear, if you can-my dad's voice as he began, soft and sure...
Adam
Adam was the first child my parents lost. It was a devastating miscarriage, something doctors assured my parents couldn't have been helped, and urged them to try again. Although they never technically knew the gender of their first baby, my dad says he just knew in his heart. It was a boy, and his name was Adam.
"It seems strange," my dad told me that day, "But I knew him. I knew him in my heart. For some reason, I think he had red hair, like your mom."
Adam's death was painful, but my parents decided to heed the doctor's advice and try again, only to have two more attempts end in miscarriage.
Shannon and Christopher
Shannon and Christopher were the only babies my mom carried full-term. In August of 1984, it appeared that my parent's dreams were finally being realized. Shannon was delivered by C-section, and my dad still grows nauseous at the thought.
"There's just something wrong about seeing your wife's stomach laid open like that," he told me as I sat on the floor.
Just minutes after being born, Shannon was taken away. The only moment my mom had with her was a brief second when the nurses wheeled her away on a cart. My mom got the chance to touch her foot, her fingertips connecting with her daughter's soft heel before she was pushed out of reach. She would never have the opportunity to touch Shannon again.
Shannon died-my parents would later find out-due to a genetic abnormality that affected her heart.
Christopher followed a mere thirteen months later. An almost identical experience occurred; Christopher died just a few hours after being born following open heart surgery.
Grave Experience
The depression my dad sank into is indescribable. Five babies, all within the course of four years. The death of just one child could bring a man to his knees. How could any one man be expected to endure five? Such were my dad's thoughts.
He had been such a newly born again Christian when he and my mom had started trying for a child. His faith had now been tested to its limits. He was broken, angry, and hopeless. He and Robin were never going to have a child. They had tried five times, without success. Losing children was not like losing basketball games; the stakes were much higher and much more painful.
God, I don't understand, my dad cried out in prayer one day at the grave site of his babies. Why would you do this? Where is the justice in this? Robin doesn't deserve this. She wants to be a mom so badly.
God replied in the most remarkable and unthinkable way to my dad that day: Terry, one day you will say that you would do it all again to be where you will end up.
Do it all again? My dad responded angrily, looking at the burial plot made for his two children. Why would I ever want to do this all again?
It would take more than a year for my dad to get his answer.
Adoption
In September, 1986, my parents' sorrow finally turned into joy at the adoption of my older sister, Alicia. It had been exactly thirteen months between the deaths of Christopher and Shannon, and it was exactly thirteen months later when they got the call to come and pick up Alicia.
I was adopted in 1991, and my little sister Rachel in 1995. "I can still see Alicia's face when she saw you for the first time. You were always our little snuggle bug," my dad commented, smiling lovingly down at me.
At last, my parent's wounds had begun to heal. Where once they thought they would forever remain childless, they now had a home full of giggling girls. Where once their hearts had seemed to be forever emptied of love-even for each other-those very same hearts had been filled to overflowing.
God had been faithful after all.
Grave Return
Many, many years later, my dad found himself back at Shannon and Christopher's graves near the anniversary of their deaths. The pain was still there- real, and fresh. But amidst the pain, amidst the tears and memories, something new was there... something my dad couldn't quite put his finger on at first.
Suddenly, a memory came to him. A memory about demanding God to give him a reason why, and how the Almighty had responded. And suddenly, he knew. That something new? It was a grateful heart.
My dad bowed his head in a humbled, thankful gesture as only a man who's been through hell and back could. With tears rolling down his cheeks he whispered, "You were right... it was worth it. I would do it all again. Thank you, Lord. Thank you."
Just for You
My dad stopped in his narrative, looked down at me, and said with a voice husky but resolute, "I'd go through it all again just to have you."
Thunderstruck, I stared at my dad in disbelief. What was he saying? He'd go through the nightmarish horror of having five of his own biological children die, for me? He couldn't mean it.
But as I looked at him, searching his eyes for the truth, the truth stared back at me. He would absolutely go through it all a second time.
I was so incredibly touched, and yet, I felt ashamed and unworthy of such love. What kind of person in their right mind would want to experience that kind of suffering not just once, but twice? How could I be worth all that pain, all that sorrow? In my mind, nothing could be worth that, especially me.
He would actually choose me over his own biological children, over the chance to never have to experience those deaths, over Adam, and Christopher, and Shannon? Looking into his face, I knew he would.
I wanted to cry looking at the tenderness in his eyes and the love in his face. My dad-my dad, would go through it all again, just for me.
I thought nothing in all the world could beat that, but then I remembered someone else who said, "For I am the LORD, your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior; I give Egypt for your ransom, Cush and Seba in your stead. Since you are precious and honored in my sight, and because I love you, I will give men in exchange for you, and people in exchange for your life." (Isaiah 43:3-4, NIV)
My dad wasn't the only one who would choose me over others. God would choose me over entire countries! And the similarities didn't end there.
Adam
Adam was God's first beloved human son. The kind of intimacy Adam and God shared was incredible. Who can say they have talked and walked with God on a daily basis down here on earth? And yet, that was exactly the privilege Adam was given.
My dad has always been a teacher. Although he has probably never been aware of that fact, he has taught me many valuable lessons throughout the years simply through every-day discussions.
One lesson I will never forget. I was sitting by the seat of his throne (what us peasants like to call 'the recliner') when my dad said something so amazing and so extraordinary, I still remember it years later. It wasn't meant to be anything more than a conversation between a father and his daughter, but from it I gleaned a new perspective on God I wouldn't trade for the purest gold you could offer.
He was recounting to me the grief-filled days of his youth, when, at the young age of thirty, my mom and him began trying for a child. I listened attentively, sitting cross-legged on the floor. It was just my dad and I, the TV muted for the moment so that we could talk. Listen, if you will- and hear, if you can-my dad's voice as he began, soft and sure...
Adam
Adam was the first child my parents lost. It was a devastating miscarriage, something doctors assured my parents couldn't have been helped, and urged them to try again. Although they never technically knew the gender of their first baby, my dad says he just knew in his heart. It was a boy, and his name was Adam.
"It seems strange," my dad told me that day, "But I knew him. I knew him in my heart. For some reason, I think he had red hair, like your mom."
Adam's death was painful, but my parents decided to heed the doctor's advice and try again, only to have two more attempts end in miscarriage.
Shannon and Christopher
Shannon and Christopher were the only babies my mom carried full-term. In August of 1984, it appeared that my parent's dreams were finally being realized. Shannon was delivered by C-section, and my dad still grows nauseous at the thought.
"There's just something wrong about seeing your wife's stomach laid open like that," he told me as I sat on the floor.
Just minutes after being born, Shannon was taken away. The only moment my mom had with her was a brief second when the nurses wheeled her away on a cart. My mom got the chance to touch her foot, her fingertips connecting with her daughter's soft heel before she was pushed out of reach. She would never have the opportunity to touch Shannon again.
Shannon died-my parents would later find out-due to a genetic abnormality that affected her heart.
Christopher followed a mere thirteen months later. An almost identical experience occurred; Christopher died just a few hours after being born following open heart surgery.
Grave Experience
The depression my dad sank into is indescribable. Five babies, all within the course of four years. The death of just one child could bring a man to his knees. How could any one man be expected to endure five? Such were my dad's thoughts.
He had been such a newly born again Christian when he and my mom had started trying for a child. His faith had now been tested to its limits. He was broken, angry, and hopeless. He and Robin were never going to have a child. They had tried five times, without success. Losing children was not like losing basketball games; the stakes were much higher and much more painful.
God, I don't understand, my dad cried out in prayer one day at the grave site of his babies. Why would you do this? Where is the justice in this? Robin doesn't deserve this. She wants to be a mom so badly.
God replied in the most remarkable and unthinkable way to my dad that day: Terry, one day you will say that you would do it all again to be where you will end up.
Do it all again? My dad responded angrily, looking at the burial plot made for his two children. Why would I ever want to do this all again?
It would take more than a year for my dad to get his answer.
Adoption
In September, 1986, my parents' sorrow finally turned into joy at the adoption of my older sister, Alicia. It had been exactly thirteen months between the deaths of Christopher and Shannon, and it was exactly thirteen months later when they got the call to come and pick up Alicia.
I was adopted in 1991, and my little sister Rachel in 1995. "I can still see Alicia's face when she saw you for the first time. You were always our little snuggle bug," my dad commented, smiling lovingly down at me.
At last, my parent's wounds had begun to heal. Where once they thought they would forever remain childless, they now had a home full of giggling girls. Where once their hearts had seemed to be forever emptied of love-even for each other-those very same hearts had been filled to overflowing.
God had been faithful after all.
Grave Return
Many, many years later, my dad found himself back at Shannon and Christopher's graves near the anniversary of their deaths. The pain was still there- real, and fresh. But amidst the pain, amidst the tears and memories, something new was there... something my dad couldn't quite put his finger on at first.
Suddenly, a memory came to him. A memory about demanding God to give him a reason why, and how the Almighty had responded. And suddenly, he knew. That something new? It was a grateful heart.
My dad bowed his head in a humbled, thankful gesture as only a man who's been through hell and back could. With tears rolling down his cheeks he whispered, "You were right... it was worth it. I would do it all again. Thank you, Lord. Thank you."
Just for You
My dad stopped in his narrative, looked down at me, and said with a voice husky but resolute, "I'd go through it all again just to have you."
Thunderstruck, I stared at my dad in disbelief. What was he saying? He'd go through the nightmarish horror of having five of his own biological children die, for me? He couldn't mean it.
But as I looked at him, searching his eyes for the truth, the truth stared back at me. He would absolutely go through it all a second time.
I was so incredibly touched, and yet, I felt ashamed and unworthy of such love. What kind of person in their right mind would want to experience that kind of suffering not just once, but twice? How could I be worth all that pain, all that sorrow? In my mind, nothing could be worth that, especially me.
He would actually choose me over his own biological children, over the chance to never have to experience those deaths, over Adam, and Christopher, and Shannon? Looking into his face, I knew he would.
I wanted to cry looking at the tenderness in his eyes and the love in his face. My dad-my dad, would go through it all again, just for me.
I thought nothing in all the world could beat that, but then I remembered someone else who said, "For I am the LORD, your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior; I give Egypt for your ransom, Cush and Seba in your stead. Since you are precious and honored in my sight, and because I love you, I will give men in exchange for you, and people in exchange for your life." (Isaiah 43:3-4, NIV)
My dad wasn't the only one who would choose me over others. God would choose me over entire countries! And the similarities didn't end there.
Adam
Adam was God's first beloved human son. The kind of intimacy Adam and God shared was incredible. Who can say they have talked and walked with God on a daily basis down here on earth? And yet, that was exactly the privilege Adam was given.
But then one day Adam chose to disobey God, and by so doing, committed the very first sin in the history of the world. God is holy, which means he is completely incapable of sinning. Since Adam sinned, the two were now at odds against each other. Once the best of friends, they could be nothing more than enemies now.
You might think that would be the end of it. You know, God kills Adam with his master lightening-throwing skills, or takes the quickest cloud outta there to heaven to get as far away as possible. True, he did remove Adam from the office of head gardener and demand him to relocate, but that's a whole lot better than just annihilating him on the spot.
What some people miss is the pain God must have felt at being separated from Adam. Adam had been created because God wanted to be with him. His sinning was as painful for God as it was for him. Through Adam's sin, we know death came into the world. As it says in Romans 5: "When Adam sinned, sin entered the world. Adam's sin brought death, so death spread to everyone, for everyone sinned."
Adam died a spiritual death the day he chose to disobey God, and created a spiritual heritage of sinful men (and women) for any who came after him. I don't think it would be any exaggeration to say that God must have felt the death of Adam as acutely as my dad felt the death of his first son.
Many More Deaths
Adam was only the first casualty of a war that would now spread throughout all nations, tribes, and times. As the earth and its' inhabitants increased, so did its' sin.
"The LORD saw how great man's wickedness on the earth had become, and that every inclination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil all the time." (Genesis 6:5, NIV)
And there cannot be sin without a spiritual death-an eternal separation from God-occurring. So as sin increased, so, also, did the death toll. How did God feel about this? "The LORD was grieved that he had made man on the earth, and his heart was filled with pain."
Grief. Pain. Words associated with death. To God, our sins were making us dead to him. We were daily separating ourselves from him with the words that came out of our mouths, the thoughts that came into our heads, and the actions that came from our hands. God cannot stand sin and cannot be in close contact with it. It would be like us trying to live with pigs for an entire week. We would be offended daily by the scents and antics of our swine acquaintances, find no way of communicating, and just generally be disgusted. It would be impossible for the two species to relate. So were we to God. Our sins were an offensive odor, our actions disgusting for a holy God.
Again, that could be the end of the story. God leaves us in our mess, goes merrily along his way, or wages an enduring and wrathful war against us. But check out Genesis 6 again: "The LORD was grieved that he had made man on the earth, and his heart was filled with pain."
God felt pain and grief at our separation from him. He didn't just want to leave us pigs wallowing in our sin. He wanted to find us a way to be back within his presence without any communication barriers. He just wanted us back. But how?
Grave Experience
Enter Jesus. Jesus was God's remedy, his way-maker, and only begotten son. Begotten is the past tense of the word beget, which simply means, "to be the father of."
God sent Jesus to bring us back to him. Many of us know what happens next, but do we really understand the gravity of it all? Do we really get it?
God had every reason in the world to hate us. Had every reason in the world to condemn us to a life of misery and death as a perfectly just God. Instead, he chose to take for us that death. Chose to be mocked, ridiculed, and shamed. Jesus was humiliated before the greatest men of his day. Spit upon and hated, offered up by people he had likely known all his life to be killed in the most brutal way imaginable.
He was treated as a game, a group of men beating him with their fists and jeering, "Prophesy to us, you Messiah! Who hit you that time?" (Matthew 26:67, NLT) He was whipped and scourged, every lash digging deeper until muscle and tissue were revealed. A crown of thorns was pressed into soft scalp.
Bloodied and bruised, maybe with a few broken ribs, a cross weighing around 110 pounds is laid across his back for him to carry for 650 yards. His skin is raw and unprotected, and the cross's splinters chafe his opened back. The jeers from the crowd will not stop.
At last at the place of his crucifixion, he collapses in fatigue. He feels the coarse hand of a solider grab his and stretch it out, and next the cold, iron tip of a nail. The nail plunges through tendons and bones.
Next, he is placed upright, the weight of his body pulling down on his throbbing, nail-bitten hands. His shoulders are being stretched like a child dangling on some monkey bars, only excruciatingly worse. (By the way, did you know the word excruciating literally means, "out of crucifying?") Every breath is painful, but he finds just enough to cry out, "My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?" Why have you abandoned me to this grief and pain? Why have you left me here to die?
That is how God chose to bring us back to him. By sending his only biological son to die in our place. To take for us the punishment we deserved. In essence, by becoming the pig.
Just so we're clear, Jesus was dead. A Roman soldier pierced his side with a spear just to make sure, and a man named Simon physically took him down from the cross and laid his unresponsive body in a tomb. Jesus was good and gone and in his grave.
Adoption
But through Christ's death, we were now made right with God. Through his sacrifice, Jesus-the sinless one-became the atonement for us, the sinners. Now, at last, the communication barriers had been tossed aside. The stench of our sins was no longer present for those who called upon the name of Jesus to save them from death.
As it says in one of the most well-known Bible passages of all time, "For God loved the world so much that he gave his one and only Son, so that everyone who believes in him will not perish but have eternal life." (John 3:16, NLT.)
For those who know they are sinners, believe that Jesus died and rose again to save them, and who ask him to forgive them and come into their hearts, they have now not only been made acceptable to God, but have also been adopted into his family. Stop, and grasp that if you will... wouldn't it be enough for a blameless God to just accept us into his presence? King of Kings, Lord of Lords, Holy of Holies... yeah, I think I'd be good with him just being able to tolerate me and not kill me! But no, our Heavenly Father wanted so much more for us. He wanted us to be a personal part of his family!
Check this: "God sent him (Jesus) to buy freedom for us who were slaves to the law to, so that he could adopt us as his very own children." (Galatians 4:5, NLT.)
Adopted by God Almighty, maker of the universe. Could you ask for a better father?
Grave Return?
For those of us who believe, we have this assurance: there will be life after death. How do we know this? Well, we know this for a couple reasons. Number one being that Jesus did not experience a "grave return." After three days laying dead in a tomb, Jesus came back to life, and never returned.
"The Spirit of God, who raised Jesus from the dead, lives in you. And just as God raised Christ Jesus from the dead, he will give life to your mortal bodies by this same Spirit living within you." (Romans 8:11, NLT.)
So because we know that God had the power to resurrect Jesus after death, so we also know he has the power to do the same for us. Scratch that; not only has, but wants to.
"So just as sin ruled over all people and brought them to death, now God's wonderful grace rules instead, giving us right standing with God and resulting in eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord." (Romans 5:21, NLT.)
Just for You
As I listened to my dad telling his story that night, something clicked within me. At first, it was just the voice of my dad, reminding me of all the heartbreak it had taken to get me. But then, a second voice-a voice I have come to know and love, saying, "Elizabeth, my daughter, I'd go through it all again just to have you."
It was the voice of my Jesus, and his saying that left me just as speechless as when my dad had said it. The same emotions dug deep into my consciousness, only intensified. I felt so unworthy and ashamed. How could Jesus say that? How could I be worth such a painful, torturous death as a crucifixion? How could I be worth the thorns, the nails, and the cruel taunts of the merciless soldiers who beat and ridiculed him? I wasn't worth that even once, let alone twice.
Just as when my dad had spoken, I wanted to challenge his statement, reject it. It couldn't be true. I did not deserve such uninhibited, freely given love. Why? I asked, struggling with the oppressive feelings of guilt and unworthiness.
If I was willing to die to be able to adopt you once, why wouldn't I be willing to do it a second time? Let me tell ya something: if it took me dying on a cross a second time just to have you, I'd do it again in a heartbeat.
Still, I argued. Oh, no, Lord! I am not worth it. How can you say that?
Lizzie, if even your father-a human, and sinful man-can honestly say that he would go through what he went through all over again just to have you, how much more can I say it, whose love is perfect and unfailing?
At last, the truth began to wash over me and joyful tears began to find their way to my eyes. For just as clearly as my dad's eyes had spoken to his sincerity, so, too, my Savior's voice: "I would go through it all again, just for you."
There is no greater truth in all the world, and I implore you, reader, to remember what Christ did for you this Easter. May you learn the same lesson my dad taught me, for: He would go through it all again, just for you.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Just for You, Pt. 1
Inspiration; the thing that every writer needs. My inspiration came to me today at the sight of my belly button. Do I have your attention? I thought so.
But wait, and hear me out- if you choose to do so, this outrageous statement will redeem itself momentarily.
It's a little thought of thing, the belly button. But for me it holds special significance... it is the only thing left to me of my birth mother. It is my lingering and ever-present connection to her... reminding me that once she gave me all the nutrients and oxygen I needed to survive, and was my home for nine months.
My adoptive mom is so clearly and incontestably my mom, that without this proof, I may have denied this other woman's existence entirely. But as much as I love my parents and accept them as my own, I could never deny the role my birth mother has played in my life. She gave me life!
I hold a certain fascination and curiosity toward this woman, this birth mother of mine-whoever she is. But more than that, gratitude overcomes me at the thought of her. I know very little of her, but one thing is clear in my mind: she has to be one of the most courageous women I have ever known.
From what I have been told, my birth mother was a very sweet woman. She let herself be abused and mistreated by a man who was the father of her two sons before she finally became brave enough to leave, forced to leave her boys behind for reasons I don't know. Some time later she met up with a hotel manager, and became pregnant with me.
It was not an easy pregnancy for her, and she was in the hospital sick and in pain most of the time. She needed the nurse's assistance so often, she felt the need to apologize for bothering them. The nurses all loved her and asked the adoption agency to relay how sweet she was to those who would take home her child.
For nine months she endured a pregnancy that she could not sustain. Who would be the father for this child? What kind of home could she give this baby living within her if she couldn't even give that baby a family? For nine months she carried me, uncomfortably and sorely. She waddled and peed at inconvenient times, paid for countless doctor's visits, and never once bought a onesie. Never had a baby shower, painted a nursery, or bought a car seat to take her new baby home in.
Instead, she went through the exhausting process of giving me to someone else. Looked through pages and pages of prospective parents, wondering who could give her baby girl the life she deserved. She wanted more for me than she felt she could offer. Two of those things she wanted was for me to be raised in a Christian household, and have a sibling to play with.
A couple by the name of Terry and Robin caught her eye. Three miscarriages, two stillborn. Unable to have children. Christians, with one other adopted girl. She made her choice. Her daughter would have an older sister to look after her, and parents who desperately wanted her.
She went through all the pain of labor. Cried out with the stabbing pressure pulsing through her, and pushed when she was told. Gave birth and heard her daughter's cries... then gave me away.
All the work, without the reward. Her arms were left empty after having just given birth. The only thing she was left with was stretch marks and baby fat.
The umbilical cord was cut, and we were separated from each other. That act left me with only a belly button, a reminder, and a family, but it left her childless.
Giving me up for adoption was not the only choice my birth mother faced back then. Abortion could have been a very attractive option. No troublesome pregnancy, no painful labor. Besides, it would be just like surgically removing a lifeless tumor threatening to invade her life... done early enough, no harm would occur. It was only tissue in her womb, not a living being. She wouldn't have to deal with doctor's visits, stretch marks, paperwork. Just one quick operation, and the horrible nightmare in which she found herself would disappear.
But my birth mother was a courageous person, and she chose the courageous route. Although I do not know her and have never seen her, I feel as though she would shake her head in ashamed denial if I mentioned such a thing to her. Perhaps memories of her life would flood through her mind, reminding her of all the many disgraceful and frightened moments. The day she ended up in that abusive relationship, and the many days it took her to leave it. The day she crawled into a stranger's bed for fear of being alone, and wound up pregnant with me.
Maybe even the day she chose to give me up for adoption, for fear she was incapable of being the mother I needed her to be. But that is not how I see it.
I see a woman at a crossroads, faced with two directions. One is the easy way- the straight, shady, and peaceful way. The other a rocky, steep, and uncertain climb. If she chooses the first way, she will not be alone... she will have plenty of company. It's a wide road, and seems so pleasant... upon the other, wolves howl. They are hungry wolves; since so few come upon this road, they would devour her in a moment if she slips but once. She will be utterly alone, defenseless. She chose that route.
I see a woman sacrificing and putting her life on hold for a child she won't even be able to legally name.
I see a woman who was either demeaned or hit for years, and yet, survived. Who found the strength and courage to leave.
I see a woman who saw my mom's five lost babies, and said, "I cannot be a mom, but she can."
I see a woman gripping her ripened stomach with tears in her eyes as she whispers, "Just for you. Just for you, I'll do it. I'll go through the pain, the being uncomfortable, the embarrassment, and the sorrow at having to say goodbye... just for you."
I would not be here or writing this if she hadn't. How very, very, thankful I am to see in my birth mother something selfless, brave, and special.
I see many things in this woman, but above all, I see poetry in motion.
But wait, and hear me out- if you choose to do so, this outrageous statement will redeem itself momentarily.
It's a little thought of thing, the belly button. But for me it holds special significance... it is the only thing left to me of my birth mother. It is my lingering and ever-present connection to her... reminding me that once she gave me all the nutrients and oxygen I needed to survive, and was my home for nine months.
My adoptive mom is so clearly and incontestably my mom, that without this proof, I may have denied this other woman's existence entirely. But as much as I love my parents and accept them as my own, I could never deny the role my birth mother has played in my life. She gave me life!
I hold a certain fascination and curiosity toward this woman, this birth mother of mine-whoever she is. But more than that, gratitude overcomes me at the thought of her. I know very little of her, but one thing is clear in my mind: she has to be one of the most courageous women I have ever known.
From what I have been told, my birth mother was a very sweet woman. She let herself be abused and mistreated by a man who was the father of her two sons before she finally became brave enough to leave, forced to leave her boys behind for reasons I don't know. Some time later she met up with a hotel manager, and became pregnant with me.
It was not an easy pregnancy for her, and she was in the hospital sick and in pain most of the time. She needed the nurse's assistance so often, she felt the need to apologize for bothering them. The nurses all loved her and asked the adoption agency to relay how sweet she was to those who would take home her child.
For nine months she endured a pregnancy that she could not sustain. Who would be the father for this child? What kind of home could she give this baby living within her if she couldn't even give that baby a family? For nine months she carried me, uncomfortably and sorely. She waddled and peed at inconvenient times, paid for countless doctor's visits, and never once bought a onesie. Never had a baby shower, painted a nursery, or bought a car seat to take her new baby home in.
Instead, she went through the exhausting process of giving me to someone else. Looked through pages and pages of prospective parents, wondering who could give her baby girl the life she deserved. She wanted more for me than she felt she could offer. Two of those things she wanted was for me to be raised in a Christian household, and have a sibling to play with.
A couple by the name of Terry and Robin caught her eye. Three miscarriages, two stillborn. Unable to have children. Christians, with one other adopted girl. She made her choice. Her daughter would have an older sister to look after her, and parents who desperately wanted her.
She went through all the pain of labor. Cried out with the stabbing pressure pulsing through her, and pushed when she was told. Gave birth and heard her daughter's cries... then gave me away.
All the work, without the reward. Her arms were left empty after having just given birth. The only thing she was left with was stretch marks and baby fat.
The umbilical cord was cut, and we were separated from each other. That act left me with only a belly button, a reminder, and a family, but it left her childless.
Giving me up for adoption was not the only choice my birth mother faced back then. Abortion could have been a very attractive option. No troublesome pregnancy, no painful labor. Besides, it would be just like surgically removing a lifeless tumor threatening to invade her life... done early enough, no harm would occur. It was only tissue in her womb, not a living being. She wouldn't have to deal with doctor's visits, stretch marks, paperwork. Just one quick operation, and the horrible nightmare in which she found herself would disappear.
But my birth mother was a courageous person, and she chose the courageous route. Although I do not know her and have never seen her, I feel as though she would shake her head in ashamed denial if I mentioned such a thing to her. Perhaps memories of her life would flood through her mind, reminding her of all the many disgraceful and frightened moments. The day she ended up in that abusive relationship, and the many days it took her to leave it. The day she crawled into a stranger's bed for fear of being alone, and wound up pregnant with me.
Maybe even the day she chose to give me up for adoption, for fear she was incapable of being the mother I needed her to be. But that is not how I see it.
I see a woman at a crossroads, faced with two directions. One is the easy way- the straight, shady, and peaceful way. The other a rocky, steep, and uncertain climb. If she chooses the first way, she will not be alone... she will have plenty of company. It's a wide road, and seems so pleasant... upon the other, wolves howl. They are hungry wolves; since so few come upon this road, they would devour her in a moment if she slips but once. She will be utterly alone, defenseless. She chose that route.
I see a woman sacrificing and putting her life on hold for a child she won't even be able to legally name.
I see a woman who was either demeaned or hit for years, and yet, survived. Who found the strength and courage to leave.
I see a woman who saw my mom's five lost babies, and said, "I cannot be a mom, but she can."
I see a woman gripping her ripened stomach with tears in her eyes as she whispers, "Just for you. Just for you, I'll do it. I'll go through the pain, the being uncomfortable, the embarrassment, and the sorrow at having to say goodbye... just for you."
I would not be here or writing this if she hadn't. How very, very, thankful I am to see in my birth mother something selfless, brave, and special.
I see many things in this woman, but above all, I see poetry in motion.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
A Lifetime in a Moment
Christmas Eve, 2009. I witnessed poetry in the raising of an old man's hand.
With over 3,000 members, you could say that my family's church is a big one. There are three services, each equally packed, and this Christmas Eve wasn't any different. My family made sure of exceptional seats by arriving a full thirty minutes before showtime, and were one of the very few first to get in line for the opening of the Sanctuary doors.
If you think that sounds more like some music celebrity's concert than church, you would be right. Sort of.
With so many members, you gotta figure there's a reason for it. The only way I can describe it is this: in my church, people are excited. They can't wait to get there, and as soon as Monday comes around, they are already waiting for Sunday again. At least, that's true for me.
Every Sunday there is the palpable presence of God. If that doesn't get you just as excited as seeing Taylor Swift live in concert, I don't know what would. Think about it; the Living God, inhabiting the praise of his people. The Heavenly Father, reaching down to earth. God- speaking, moving, acting, healing.
So yes, I would say attending our church can be very similar to the concert experience. However, the celebrity we are welcoming is not a former American Idol, Beyonce, or even the pastor. The celebrity we are welcoming is the great I AM.
If just the regular weekend services are so powerful, Christmas Eve was going to be bigger. Little did I imagine how big.
We pulled into the parking lot at roughly 2:30 PM and headed in. As soon as the doors were opened we headed to where our inside man (security friend of my dad's) had saved us front row seats. We were a little unnerved to be so close to the massive stage, but later I would find myself more than grateful for the seating arrangement due to the miracle I was allowed the privilege to watch occur.
With the room darkened, a projector casting delicate blue snowflakes on the walls, and the sound of women's voices harmonizing on a soft song, I already felt the peace and stillness that is usually associated with the Savior's birth. I settled into my seat, content to observe and enjoy yet another Christmas service, but not expecting much more than that.
I didn't want to miss the true meaning of Christmas, and prayed not to. I didn't just want to sing oh-so-familiar songs, and forget why I was singing them. I didn't want to miss the joy of Christmas, nor the opportunity to thank and praise my God.
But none of this was new to me. I'd grown up in church; I'd heard the same passages of scripture, the same songs. I knew all about the Wise Men and the star, and it would not surprise me to know that Jesus had been born in a manger.
I was expecting much from the service, but from myself? Not much.
The service began with an electric guitar solo that rocked Joy to the World, and flooded the church with excitement. Throughout the service there was much to capture my attention, but instead of what was happening on stage I found myself being drawn to an old man and an even older woman standing just a few people down from me.
The man was gray-haired and well-dressed. Wrinkles drew deep furrows across his cheeks, and he stood stoically.The thing that made me the most curious about him was his pursed lips. Even during well-known songs such as O Holy Night, the man simply stood, lips pressed together into a tight line.
This puzzled me; surely this man was just as familiar with these songs as I was. I mean, it wasn't like they were modernized worship songs... they were the traditional Christmas songs, and this man had surely heard them even more than I had, given his age. Even if he hadn't known the songs, the lyrics were projected on two huge side screens for everyone to see. Still, he remained silent.
No matter how popular the song or how many times I glanced at him, he was always the same: squinting ahead, lips pursed, and rigid as a soldier. The thought occurred to me that perhaps he just didn't sing- maybe he was embarrassed. He didn't seem like one of those who just walked into a Christmas service having never attended church before... those people usually chose a seat toward the back, choosing to be inconspicuous and hoping that no one would try to approach them. This man was in the very front row, something that had made even my family feel a little uncomfortable.
Beside him was an even older woman, probably his mother. She was a fragile, white-haired lady, about as wrinkly as a raisin. I caught glimpses of her only occasionally, and was unable to tell what her singing status was.
Needless to say, I found myself just as interested in them as I was in the service. People- watching is both a habit and a hobby of mine, and while I tried to tune in to the sermon, I never lost sight of them. (You know, I could have made a great stalker had I not been saved.)
Toward the end of the service the Pastor began explaining what Christmas was all about, and how to begin a relationship with Jesus Christ. Sadly, the explanation could have lulled me to sleep, I was so used to it. The pastor asked us all to bow our heads, and led those who had never asked Jesus into their hearts into the Salvation Prayer.
At the conclusion of said prayer, he asked all those who had just prayed to begin a life with God to raise their hands. I was mentally in the middle of a yawn when a motion to my right caused me to sit upright in my chair.
My people I'd been watching- the old man and woman- they had raised their hands! The Pastor grinned broadly, looked directly at the old man and sighed happily, "Aw, man... that's awesome."
I couldn't believe it. Besides their lack of singing, if I could have picked anyone out of the entire congregation who I was sure were saved, I would have picked them. Seeing the excited and touched visage of my pastor, I wondered if I felt the same.
Did I even remember anymore what it meant to be saved? Beyond even Christmas and the birth of Jesus... had I forgotten what He had done for me? Had I forgotten "The Good News" and what it was all about? So much so that I couldn't even rejoice at the salvation of others?
I had to admit, it was pretty amazing. The woman looked like she had a couple years, at best, to live. The man probably had longer than that, but must have spent more than half of his life unsaved. Statistics indicate that most people accept Christ between the ages of four and fourteen... in fact, 85%. The chances of teens being saved between fourteen and eighteen is a meager 4%. Any older than that? Almost nonexistent.
I realized the miracle I had seen, and I was sincerely, genuinely, happy for them. But looming in front of me was a stark contrast I didn't want to face: they had probably spent their entire lives without God, but had now found him and were relishing this Christmas Eve service. I had spent most of my short life with God, and was just hoping to get through this Christmas Eve service without feeling guilty.
When had I lost it? When had I forgotten? My Lord, my God, the Maker of Heaven and Earth, had come down from his majestic home to put on the guise of sinful man. The all-powerful had chosen to reveal himself as all-vulnerable. Had hung on a cross humiliated before his friends, family, and the most influential men of his day to die for my sins. How could I not marvel at that? How could I not rejoice at that? How could I not sing about that?
Sure, I'd been singing- but my heart wasn't in it. A man a few people down from me hadn't been singing- but he had also raised his hand proudly and unashamedly into the air, declaring to the world that he was now beginning a life with God.
Even that phrase, a life with God... incredible.
What must it have taken to get that man to raise his hand on Christmas Eve, 2009? Had he spent his life rebelling against God? As an atheist? As a man who came to church and played religion, but never took it any farther than that? Had it taken the death of someone he loved, or maybe just the invitation from a friend to come to church? Had he needed to swallow a pride he'd spent years building? Had he needed to choke down fear, or re-open his deepest wound?
Whatever it was, one thing is clear... that night, he heard something whispered into his ear that he couldn't ignore. Perhaps the voice of God had called out his name before- perhaps many times. But that night he responded. That night he raised his hand and accepted Christ's sacrifice for him.
For those of us who saw, it was only a moment. But for him? There was a lifetime in that one moment.
For those of them that saw, Jesus dying on the cross was only a moment. But for us who believe? There is a lifetime to be had in that one moment.
A lifetime to be spent with Him, and there is no greater gift. Not even at Christmas.
With over 3,000 members, you could say that my family's church is a big one. There are three services, each equally packed, and this Christmas Eve wasn't any different. My family made sure of exceptional seats by arriving a full thirty minutes before showtime, and were one of the very few first to get in line for the opening of the Sanctuary doors.
If you think that sounds more like some music celebrity's concert than church, you would be right. Sort of.
With so many members, you gotta figure there's a reason for it. The only way I can describe it is this: in my church, people are excited. They can't wait to get there, and as soon as Monday comes around, they are already waiting for Sunday again. At least, that's true for me.
Every Sunday there is the palpable presence of God. If that doesn't get you just as excited as seeing Taylor Swift live in concert, I don't know what would. Think about it; the Living God, inhabiting the praise of his people. The Heavenly Father, reaching down to earth. God- speaking, moving, acting, healing.
So yes, I would say attending our church can be very similar to the concert experience. However, the celebrity we are welcoming is not a former American Idol, Beyonce, or even the pastor. The celebrity we are welcoming is the great I AM.
If just the regular weekend services are so powerful, Christmas Eve was going to be bigger. Little did I imagine how big.
We pulled into the parking lot at roughly 2:30 PM and headed in. As soon as the doors were opened we headed to where our inside man (security friend of my dad's) had saved us front row seats. We were a little unnerved to be so close to the massive stage, but later I would find myself more than grateful for the seating arrangement due to the miracle I was allowed the privilege to watch occur.
With the room darkened, a projector casting delicate blue snowflakes on the walls, and the sound of women's voices harmonizing on a soft song, I already felt the peace and stillness that is usually associated with the Savior's birth. I settled into my seat, content to observe and enjoy yet another Christmas service, but not expecting much more than that.
I didn't want to miss the true meaning of Christmas, and prayed not to. I didn't just want to sing oh-so-familiar songs, and forget why I was singing them. I didn't want to miss the joy of Christmas, nor the opportunity to thank and praise my God.
But none of this was new to me. I'd grown up in church; I'd heard the same passages of scripture, the same songs. I knew all about the Wise Men and the star, and it would not surprise me to know that Jesus had been born in a manger.
I was expecting much from the service, but from myself? Not much.
The service began with an electric guitar solo that rocked Joy to the World, and flooded the church with excitement. Throughout the service there was much to capture my attention, but instead of what was happening on stage I found myself being drawn to an old man and an even older woman standing just a few people down from me.
The man was gray-haired and well-dressed. Wrinkles drew deep furrows across his cheeks, and he stood stoically.The thing that made me the most curious about him was his pursed lips. Even during well-known songs such as O Holy Night, the man simply stood, lips pressed together into a tight line.
This puzzled me; surely this man was just as familiar with these songs as I was. I mean, it wasn't like they were modernized worship songs... they were the traditional Christmas songs, and this man had surely heard them even more than I had, given his age. Even if he hadn't known the songs, the lyrics were projected on two huge side screens for everyone to see. Still, he remained silent.
No matter how popular the song or how many times I glanced at him, he was always the same: squinting ahead, lips pursed, and rigid as a soldier. The thought occurred to me that perhaps he just didn't sing- maybe he was embarrassed. He didn't seem like one of those who just walked into a Christmas service having never attended church before... those people usually chose a seat toward the back, choosing to be inconspicuous and hoping that no one would try to approach them. This man was in the very front row, something that had made even my family feel a little uncomfortable.
Beside him was an even older woman, probably his mother. She was a fragile, white-haired lady, about as wrinkly as a raisin. I caught glimpses of her only occasionally, and was unable to tell what her singing status was.
Needless to say, I found myself just as interested in them as I was in the service. People- watching is both a habit and a hobby of mine, and while I tried to tune in to the sermon, I never lost sight of them. (You know, I could have made a great stalker had I not been saved.)
Toward the end of the service the Pastor began explaining what Christmas was all about, and how to begin a relationship with Jesus Christ. Sadly, the explanation could have lulled me to sleep, I was so used to it. The pastor asked us all to bow our heads, and led those who had never asked Jesus into their hearts into the Salvation Prayer.
At the conclusion of said prayer, he asked all those who had just prayed to begin a life with God to raise their hands. I was mentally in the middle of a yawn when a motion to my right caused me to sit upright in my chair.
My people I'd been watching- the old man and woman- they had raised their hands! The Pastor grinned broadly, looked directly at the old man and sighed happily, "Aw, man... that's awesome."
I couldn't believe it. Besides their lack of singing, if I could have picked anyone out of the entire congregation who I was sure were saved, I would have picked them. Seeing the excited and touched visage of my pastor, I wondered if I felt the same.
Did I even remember anymore what it meant to be saved? Beyond even Christmas and the birth of Jesus... had I forgotten what He had done for me? Had I forgotten "The Good News" and what it was all about? So much so that I couldn't even rejoice at the salvation of others?
I had to admit, it was pretty amazing. The woman looked like she had a couple years, at best, to live. The man probably had longer than that, but must have spent more than half of his life unsaved. Statistics indicate that most people accept Christ between the ages of four and fourteen... in fact, 85%. The chances of teens being saved between fourteen and eighteen is a meager 4%. Any older than that? Almost nonexistent.
I realized the miracle I had seen, and I was sincerely, genuinely, happy for them. But looming in front of me was a stark contrast I didn't want to face: they had probably spent their entire lives without God, but had now found him and were relishing this Christmas Eve service. I had spent most of my short life with God, and was just hoping to get through this Christmas Eve service without feeling guilty.
When had I lost it? When had I forgotten? My Lord, my God, the Maker of Heaven and Earth, had come down from his majestic home to put on the guise of sinful man. The all-powerful had chosen to reveal himself as all-vulnerable. Had hung on a cross humiliated before his friends, family, and the most influential men of his day to die for my sins. How could I not marvel at that? How could I not rejoice at that? How could I not sing about that?
Sure, I'd been singing- but my heart wasn't in it. A man a few people down from me hadn't been singing- but he had also raised his hand proudly and unashamedly into the air, declaring to the world that he was now beginning a life with God.
Even that phrase, a life with God... incredible.
What must it have taken to get that man to raise his hand on Christmas Eve, 2009? Had he spent his life rebelling against God? As an atheist? As a man who came to church and played religion, but never took it any farther than that? Had it taken the death of someone he loved, or maybe just the invitation from a friend to come to church? Had he needed to swallow a pride he'd spent years building? Had he needed to choke down fear, or re-open his deepest wound?
Whatever it was, one thing is clear... that night, he heard something whispered into his ear that he couldn't ignore. Perhaps the voice of God had called out his name before- perhaps many times. But that night he responded. That night he raised his hand and accepted Christ's sacrifice for him.
For those of us who saw, it was only a moment. But for him? There was a lifetime in that one moment.
For those of them that saw, Jesus dying on the cross was only a moment. But for us who believe? There is a lifetime to be had in that one moment.
A lifetime to be spent with Him, and there is no greater gift. Not even at Christmas.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
An unusual, oppressed, and incapable poet
Today, I saw poetry. I saw poetry in the loving earnestness contained within my mom's eyes as she explained to me why she home schools.
It's not the first time I've seen it... over the course of 18 years I have both witnessed and experienced it innumerable times. My mom is a devoted, wouldn't-have-it-any-other way stay at home mom, and from hemming her 5' nothing daughter's pants (guess who?)- to spending hours in the kitchen just so that we can have a meal together, it seems like there's nothing she can't handle.
Although I have been a recipient of this selfless and beautiful poetry for years, I have not always seen it. I saw her chop onions and place that next load in the dryer, and yes, I saw her in the mirror all those times as she struggled to curl my hair in a way that would please me. I saw her eyes light up as she saw me in the perfect prom dress, then widen as she saw the price tag... only to light up again as she said, "I don't care. You love it; we're buying it."
I have seen all these things with my physical eyes... yet gone blind when it came to the vision of my heart. But today, today I saw poetry.
We were in the kitchen... the poem that is my mother, and myself. She was explaining to me a conversation she'd had with another mom who simply "didn't get it." In a world where nannies, daycare, feminism, and the working woman run rampant, this mom just couldn't understand what my mom was doing staying at home. Not only that, but home school?
My mom is neither the confrontational nor the argumentative type, so she saved most of her rebuttals for me. Near tears and clutching her heart as she spoke because of how ardently she meant it, my mom began telling me why she home schools my little sister: "Yes, there are so many other things that I could be doing, and yes, I could be working on my photography a whole lot more, but I believe this is what is best for Rachel. It's hard on me with trying to cook and clean and watch my granddaughter, but I can't in good conscience let her go to public school and fall behind. If I have to get up an hour earlier to learn Latin just so I can teach her, I'll do it. It's hard on me, but it would be so much harder to see Rachel coming out of high school with a low self-esteem and feeling stupid. I won't let that happen."
Some might call that oppressive, based on one adjective... "hard." Are all things "hard" considered to be "oppressive"? If that's the case, I could start my own advocacy group against school and chores. School was hard, I didn't always like it... wow, kids, rise up! You are being oppressed! Chores are hard... never really have liked them. Children everywhere, join with me! Are we such slaves to our parents that in the 21st century we still have to do chores?
Not all things that are hard are oppressive. To some, my mom's case is oppressive. But to my mom? A different set of priorities.
Society has made my mom an anomaly. A person to be skeptical of, and look sideways at. An unusual, conservative, over-indulging, oppressed, and incapable idiot. Why would you spend the time to teach your kids when the government already provides that for you? And the kids get out of your hair for five whole days, getting their proper socialization? Why stay at home with them when there is a perfectly equipped daycare right around the corner?
My mom has become- as she puts it- "A dinosaur." She now has to defend herself in every-day conversation for doing what God created her to do, and being what God created her to be... a mother! Even among friends.
Television scorns her, politicians fight against her, and women roll their eyes at her.
But you know what? My mom has written poetry. Poetry that the world may be blind to... but poetry that is burned and sealed into the hearts of her children, and read by Father God Almighty. Poetry that is still being written as she bravely continues sacrificing for the next generation... for her granddaughter, Mackenzie. If you asked her, she probably wouldn't call it sacrificing, but: Love.
Now, there is not anything wrong with being a working woman or putting your child in daycare if the need arises, however- and this is important- neither is there anything wrong with what my mom does for a living. If she wanted to be a career woman, great! We'd be happy for her, cheer her on to victory, and proudly brag on her. But she has never expressed any such desire, and I can say this honestly: I still want to brag on her.
Pick up your pen, and write. Write unashamedly. Not because it's going to be easy, or because you'll always be recognized and lauded, but because the eyes of the Lord are on you. He sees every hidden tear, every forced, patient reply, and every kiss on the forehead.
Do it so that God may say smilingly, "Yes, now there is my love at work. She is my Poetry... my scriptures, and what they teach... in Motion."
Know that he is with you every step... not to judge you, but to cheer you on. He has equipped you for the race you will run, and wants to see you get to the finish line. Never stop doing what's right because you grow tired... let God take over from there.
It's not the first time I've seen it... over the course of 18 years I have both witnessed and experienced it innumerable times. My mom is a devoted, wouldn't-have-it-any-other way stay at home mom, and from hemming her 5' nothing daughter's pants (guess who?)- to spending hours in the kitchen just so that we can have a meal together, it seems like there's nothing she can't handle.
Although I have been a recipient of this selfless and beautiful poetry for years, I have not always seen it. I saw her chop onions and place that next load in the dryer, and yes, I saw her in the mirror all those times as she struggled to curl my hair in a way that would please me. I saw her eyes light up as she saw me in the perfect prom dress, then widen as she saw the price tag... only to light up again as she said, "I don't care. You love it; we're buying it."
I have seen all these things with my physical eyes... yet gone blind when it came to the vision of my heart. But today, today I saw poetry.
We were in the kitchen... the poem that is my mother, and myself. She was explaining to me a conversation she'd had with another mom who simply "didn't get it." In a world where nannies, daycare, feminism, and the working woman run rampant, this mom just couldn't understand what my mom was doing staying at home. Not only that, but home school?
My mom is neither the confrontational nor the argumentative type, so she saved most of her rebuttals for me. Near tears and clutching her heart as she spoke because of how ardently she meant it, my mom began telling me why she home schools my little sister: "Yes, there are so many other things that I could be doing, and yes, I could be working on my photography a whole lot more, but I believe this is what is best for Rachel. It's hard on me with trying to cook and clean and watch my granddaughter, but I can't in good conscience let her go to public school and fall behind. If I have to get up an hour earlier to learn Latin just so I can teach her, I'll do it. It's hard on me, but it would be so much harder to see Rachel coming out of high school with a low self-esteem and feeling stupid. I won't let that happen."
Some might call that oppressive, based on one adjective... "hard." Are all things "hard" considered to be "oppressive"? If that's the case, I could start my own advocacy group against school and chores. School was hard, I didn't always like it... wow, kids, rise up! You are being oppressed! Chores are hard... never really have liked them. Children everywhere, join with me! Are we such slaves to our parents that in the 21st century we still have to do chores?
Not all things that are hard are oppressive. To some, my mom's case is oppressive. But to my mom? A different set of priorities.
Society has made my mom an anomaly. A person to be skeptical of, and look sideways at. An unusual, conservative, over-indulging, oppressed, and incapable idiot. Why would you spend the time to teach your kids when the government already provides that for you? And the kids get out of your hair for five whole days, getting their proper socialization? Why stay at home with them when there is a perfectly equipped daycare right around the corner?
My mom has become- as she puts it- "A dinosaur." She now has to defend herself in every-day conversation for doing what God created her to do, and being what God created her to be... a mother! Even among friends.
Television scorns her, politicians fight against her, and women roll their eyes at her.
But you know what? My mom has written poetry. Poetry that the world may be blind to... but poetry that is burned and sealed into the hearts of her children, and read by Father God Almighty. Poetry that is still being written as she bravely continues sacrificing for the next generation... for her granddaughter, Mackenzie. If you asked her, she probably wouldn't call it sacrificing, but: Love.
Now, there is not anything wrong with being a working woman or putting your child in daycare if the need arises, however- and this is important- neither is there anything wrong with what my mom does for a living. If she wanted to be a career woman, great! We'd be happy for her, cheer her on to victory, and proudly brag on her. But she has never expressed any such desire, and I can say this honestly: I still want to brag on her.
What is Poetry in Motion? It's you, moms... you putting your foot on the gas to pick up and drop off; you throwing that disaster of a diaper into the trash, and you hugging and consoling. Don't you ever let anyone tell you differently.
Pick up your pen, and write. Write unashamedly. Not because it's going to be easy, or because you'll always be recognized and lauded, but because the eyes of the Lord are on you. He sees every hidden tear, every forced, patient reply, and every kiss on the forehead.
Do it so that God may say smilingly, "Yes, now there is my love at work. She is my Poetry... my scriptures, and what they teach... in Motion."
Know that he is with you every step... not to judge you, but to cheer you on. He has equipped you for the race you will run, and wants to see you get to the finish line. Never stop doing what's right because you grow tired... let God take over from there.
To anyone who asks my mom the question: "What are you doing at home?", I got this one. She's being a mom and a grandmom, and no, you can't take her from us.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Explanation and purpose of Poetry in Motion
Poetry is a wonderful thing. It can be beautiful, expressive of the deepest sorrows and joys, and incredibly enlightening. Poetry in its most understood occupation (as writing), comes easily enough to me, a writer. I might not write it correctly or very well, but poetry to me is as silk sheets to a homeless man.
However, poetry in motion... poetry outside of a book, outside of the mind, outside of noble ideas and fine ideals, and inside actual, day-to-day life... now there is something I struggle with.
The way I see it, anyone who has ever lived has written themselves a book of poetry. No, their names are not insribed on a leather-bound book, but they have written poetry nonetheless.
Every day you live is another page in your book... every word you say another rhyme in your verse. It's your choice what you compose. What kind of poem do you write today? An angry, resentful, selfish one? Though this thought in itself may cause a guilty wince, worse still is the reflection of an entire book filled with such poems. And there are many books with many different authors written just so.
But there are also those other kind of poems... the uplifiting, encouraging, and teaching kind. Those kind that can leave you forever changed, and take you places you never thought you'd see yourself. That is the kind of poem I aspire to be.
Poetry in motion. Poetry is in the life of every individual; the pen is in every hand. You write poetry by the way you live your life. It is either beautiful and promising, or deathly and discouraging.
Poetry is one thing... poetry in motion- in action, in deeds, in living- now that, is quite another. I have already told you that poetry in the first instance comes easily enough to me; writing and imagining honorable thoughts and actions is much simpler than actually performing them myself. When it comes to composing my life, there is not always a rhyme or reason, let alone a beautiful poem to be found out of it.
If we could all see our lives thus far as a book of poetry, I dare say there would be some severely disappointed, others left in disgust, and still more hopeless. Though I have not had the opportunity to read about my life, I feel confident that I would be all of the above. That is, if not for the grace of my Savior.
This grace takes smattered ink and turns it once more into a new, clean white page. Takes blood, and brings redemption. Takes disaster, and makes it lovely. It's because of Him I know of true poetry at all. If not for this, my life would be as useless and confusing as Drew Carey in a Speedo. (Forgive me for the image.)
So there you have it: the purpose of this blog. (And no, it is not to find Drew Carey in a Speedo.) It is to find and document poetry as I see it, in a world that no longer realizes it exists. This poetry may be discovered in the face of someone I love, a sunset, or within the scriptures. But wherever it is, I'm determined to find it.
Many things that are hidden are hidden not because they are unable to be found... but because we are unwilling to look. I choose today to look.
Yes, with this blog, may I and any who read, find and become: Poetry in Motion.
However, poetry in motion... poetry outside of a book, outside of the mind, outside of noble ideas and fine ideals, and inside actual, day-to-day life... now there is something I struggle with.
The way I see it, anyone who has ever lived has written themselves a book of poetry. No, their names are not insribed on a leather-bound book, but they have written poetry nonetheless.
Every day you live is another page in your book... every word you say another rhyme in your verse. It's your choice what you compose. What kind of poem do you write today? An angry, resentful, selfish one? Though this thought in itself may cause a guilty wince, worse still is the reflection of an entire book filled with such poems. And there are many books with many different authors written just so.
But there are also those other kind of poems... the uplifiting, encouraging, and teaching kind. Those kind that can leave you forever changed, and take you places you never thought you'd see yourself. That is the kind of poem I aspire to be.
Poetry in motion. Poetry is in the life of every individual; the pen is in every hand. You write poetry by the way you live your life. It is either beautiful and promising, or deathly and discouraging.
Poetry is one thing... poetry in motion- in action, in deeds, in living- now that, is quite another. I have already told you that poetry in the first instance comes easily enough to me; writing and imagining honorable thoughts and actions is much simpler than actually performing them myself. When it comes to composing my life, there is not always a rhyme or reason, let alone a beautiful poem to be found out of it.
If we could all see our lives thus far as a book of poetry, I dare say there would be some severely disappointed, others left in disgust, and still more hopeless. Though I have not had the opportunity to read about my life, I feel confident that I would be all of the above. That is, if not for the grace of my Savior.
This grace takes smattered ink and turns it once more into a new, clean white page. Takes blood, and brings redemption. Takes disaster, and makes it lovely. It's because of Him I know of true poetry at all. If not for this, my life would be as useless and confusing as Drew Carey in a Speedo. (Forgive me for the image.)
So there you have it: the purpose of this blog. (And no, it is not to find Drew Carey in a Speedo.) It is to find and document poetry as I see it, in a world that no longer realizes it exists. This poetry may be discovered in the face of someone I love, a sunset, or within the scriptures. But wherever it is, I'm determined to find it.
Many things that are hidden are hidden not because they are unable to be found... but because we are unwilling to look. I choose today to look.
Yes, with this blog, may I and any who read, find and become: Poetry in Motion.
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