We're taught from our baby Christian days on that Bible study and prayer are the keys to a successful relationship with Christ. I'm not here to dispute that notion, but my experience has shown me it's a little more complicated than that. I don't think it's supposed to be complicated - Jesus was the one who said his yoke is easy and his burden is light. I think that like the rabbis of old who took the fairly straightforward law and turned it into something far more complicated, we are guilty of the same crime: taking the simple Gospel and muddying it up with self-help books cleverly disguised as something spiritual...with opinions and interpretations and ideas about what the Bible REALLY means. Why would I call them "self-help" books? Because, as Flyboy preached this morning, we don't get better by trying harder - we get better, or become fruit-bearers (thus fulfilling our purpose), by clinging to the vine. Books and more books are written with the latest and greatest answer to the question, "how is the Christian life meant to be lived?" If you just pray this prayer, if you just read the Bible in a year, if you follow these steps...whatever the flavor of the day prescribes...you can live the life God called you to live.
I remember a certain discipleship program I participated in many years ago. One of the boxes to check was a quiet time 14 days in a row. If you missed one day, you had to start counting all over again, and you couldn't move on until you completed the task of 14 quiet times in a row. I walked away from that exercise with two feelings. One, I did sense a genuine gratitude for the push to develop that kind of a habit, having been to that point unsuccessful. But second, I felt little empty, like I had not really gotten any farther in knowing or loving God...I'd just checked off a box and could now graduate to the next book.
So what is the answer? More Bible study? More prayer? There was a little song we sang with our kids when they were little: "Obedience is the very best way to show that you believe, doing exactly as the Lord commands, doing it happily." Besides Bible study and prayer, this is another common answer for how to get it together as a Christian - be obedient. I think I try to be obedient. I'm certainly not trying to be disobedient. What's missing?
I've been pondering this a lot lately, and I think that the way to peace with God is even easier than the four steps Billy Graham incorporated into a little tract in the 60s. It's certainly easier than a lifetime of willing oneself to be more obedient while trying to discover the right combination of doing my part and allowing God to do His. It's not meant to be hard or complicated or something where a cipher code has to be broken in order to figure it out. We are the goofy ones that make it so much harder than it really is.
I think the answer is so close I can smell it.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Beginnings
Maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm the only one. I made a profession of faith in Christ at the age of five, when after telling my mother I wanted to take communion like the big people was followed by a conversation with the pastor, I learned that taking communion had to be proceeded by becoming a member of the church (yes this was possible at the age of five in a Southern Baptist church), which had to be proceeded by being baptized, which had to be proceeded by proclaiming faith in Christ. And yes, I know that was a very long sentence because for a five year old, it was a very long way from the question, "can I take the Lord's Supper?" to "yes, you can. You have been validated and credentialed." When the pastor asked if I believed in Jesus, I responded, "of course I believe in Jesus. And I believe in Peter and John and all those other guys, too." And a week later I was baptized, and on the next Lord's Supper Sunday, I took communion with the big people.
So, with such an auspicious beginning in the Christian faith, one might figure it would be smooth sailing from there.
Not so much, but maybe it's just me.
When I was thirteen, I attended a youth retreat at Falls Creek, a Southern Baptist camp in the Arbuckle Mountains of southern Oklahoma. At the end of our second night there, the pastor instructed us to go out on the hillside under the stars, be quiet and listen to what God might say. I felt the presence of God strongly that night, as if He were audibly saying He had given His life for ME. I was moved, and felt that my earlier proclaimed faith was slowly moving from my head to my heart.
Sometimes the difference between your head to your heart feels a whole lot farther than twelve inches. And travelling that twelve inches is taking a lifetime. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever really get there, or if understanding what faith is really all about doesn't happen until we see Jesus face to face. I'm 55 years old and sometimes I get really frustrated with myself for not being farther along in this journey than I am. It's not for a lack of trying. I've read all the latest and greatest books through the years from The Prayer of Jabez to In His Steps (the basis for the What Would Jesus Do movement) to The Purpose Driven Life and a number of the classics, like Hannah Whitall Smith and St. Augustine and Oswald Chambers. I've studied the prayer lives of George Mueller and Brother Lawrence, taken classes in everything from apologetics to evangelism, done countless Bible studies and Bible reading plans and yet there are things in my life that elude me. Like how to lose 35 stinking pounds. Or how to be the light of Christ in a black world without getting lost in the dark. Or how to really find joy in the midst of trials.
Like Vizzini, who said the only way to regroup is by going back to the beginning (name that movie), that's where I'm headed. We trivialize the profound and make the simple far, far too difficult. Someone once said that the Gospel is simple enough for a child to wade in but deep enough for a champion swimmer to drown in. I think I'm treading water somewhere in between. It's not a matter of doubt or unbelief, but just needing to go back to the beginning to remember what is really the most important.
If I wind up just talking to myself here, that's fine. But if you can relate, please chime in. I'm guessing I'm not the only one.
So, with such an auspicious beginning in the Christian faith, one might figure it would be smooth sailing from there.
Not so much, but maybe it's just me.
When I was thirteen, I attended a youth retreat at Falls Creek, a Southern Baptist camp in the Arbuckle Mountains of southern Oklahoma. At the end of our second night there, the pastor instructed us to go out on the hillside under the stars, be quiet and listen to what God might say. I felt the presence of God strongly that night, as if He were audibly saying He had given His life for ME. I was moved, and felt that my earlier proclaimed faith was slowly moving from my head to my heart.
Sometimes the difference between your head to your heart feels a whole lot farther than twelve inches. And travelling that twelve inches is taking a lifetime. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever really get there, or if understanding what faith is really all about doesn't happen until we see Jesus face to face. I'm 55 years old and sometimes I get really frustrated with myself for not being farther along in this journey than I am. It's not for a lack of trying. I've read all the latest and greatest books through the years from The Prayer of Jabez to In His Steps (the basis for the What Would Jesus Do movement) to The Purpose Driven Life and a number of the classics, like Hannah Whitall Smith and St. Augustine and Oswald Chambers. I've studied the prayer lives of George Mueller and Brother Lawrence, taken classes in everything from apologetics to evangelism, done countless Bible studies and Bible reading plans and yet there are things in my life that elude me. Like how to lose 35 stinking pounds. Or how to be the light of Christ in a black world without getting lost in the dark. Or how to really find joy in the midst of trials.
Like Vizzini, who said the only way to regroup is by going back to the beginning (name that movie), that's where I'm headed. We trivialize the profound and make the simple far, far too difficult. Someone once said that the Gospel is simple enough for a child to wade in but deep enough for a champion swimmer to drown in. I think I'm treading water somewhere in between. It's not a matter of doubt or unbelief, but just needing to go back to the beginning to remember what is really the most important.
If I wind up just talking to myself here, that's fine. But if you can relate, please chime in. I'm guessing I'm not the only one.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Making My Way Back
Yes, it has been a barren blogging summer, and I think I'm ready to try to work my way back. Blogging can be an obsession, causing one to feel the need to write every single day. I've stepped away from the blog for a season because that's right where I was. On the other hand, however, waiting for the inner prompting to write hasn't been working too well either, confirming the feeling that a break was in order.
Why do people blog anyway? For me, it is a place to fill the need to write. People who write and people who like to write understand the need to write regularly. It is a creative outlet, it is a record of thoughts and events and it communicates with the people who care most about what's going on in my life (namely my parents and my kids).
I think I'm ready to try to find a balance in blogging. I've missed blogging, and there must be a way to get some thoughts down on paper without being neurotic about it. I've frequented a couple of blogs that pick a day of the week to just post pictures, letting them speak for themselves without a lot of narration. I like that idea, particularly with young grandchildren that are changing by the minute, and seasons in life that deserve some documentation.
For today, I woke up this morning with a song in my head. This happens fairly regularly to me, where I'll have fragments of lyrics or melody floating around and when I go find the words it's like a message hand delivered to me by God for the day ahead. Today, the Casting Crowns song "Lifesong" was on the tip of my tongue.
"Lifesong"
Empty hands held high
Such small sacrifice
If not joined with my life
I sing in vain tonight
May the words I say
And the things I do
Make my lifesong sing
Bring a smile to You
Let my lifesong sing to You
Let my lifesong sing to You
I want to sing Your name to the end of this day
Knowing that my heart was true
Let my lifesong sing to You
Lord I give my life
A living sacrifice
To reach a world in need
To be Your hands and feet
So may the words I say
And the things I do
Make my lifesong sing
Bring a smile to You
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Let my lifesong sing to You
This is my prayer for the day. I hope it's yours, too.
Carol
Why do people blog anyway? For me, it is a place to fill the need to write. People who write and people who like to write understand the need to write regularly. It is a creative outlet, it is a record of thoughts and events and it communicates with the people who care most about what's going on in my life (namely my parents and my kids).
I think I'm ready to try to find a balance in blogging. I've missed blogging, and there must be a way to get some thoughts down on paper without being neurotic about it. I've frequented a couple of blogs that pick a day of the week to just post pictures, letting them speak for themselves without a lot of narration. I like that idea, particularly with young grandchildren that are changing by the minute, and seasons in life that deserve some documentation.
For today, I woke up this morning with a song in my head. This happens fairly regularly to me, where I'll have fragments of lyrics or melody floating around and when I go find the words it's like a message hand delivered to me by God for the day ahead. Today, the Casting Crowns song "Lifesong" was on the tip of my tongue.
"Lifesong"
Empty hands held high
Such small sacrifice
If not joined with my life
I sing in vain tonight
May the words I say
And the things I do
Make my lifesong sing
Bring a smile to You
Let my lifesong sing to You
Let my lifesong sing to You
I want to sing Your name to the end of this day
Knowing that my heart was true
Let my lifesong sing to You
Lord I give my life
A living sacrifice
To reach a world in need
To be Your hands and feet
So may the words I say
And the things I do
Make my lifesong sing
Bring a smile to You
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Let my lifesong sing to You
This is my prayer for the day. I hope it's yours, too.
Carol
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Senior Shopping
Peanut's first birthday is this weekend, and we headed to Target after supper to pick out a gift for her. And a card for Flyboy's pastor friend whose birthday is tomorrow. While Flyboy was looking at the cards I headed to the toy department. I've had in my head that I wanted to get Peanut an upholstered chair just her size that is sturdy enough for her to climb in and out of without tipping it over. I've searched every store in town and had this itty bitty hope that Target might be having some 60% off sale or something, but alas, the beautiful baby wingback chair in pink was still $80 and seeing that Peanut doesn't even know it's her birthday or what that even means quite yet, I think that's a little more than we want to spend. I knew this already, but the instinct was confirmed when I showed it to Flyboy and he gave me a look. You know that look. It says, "have you lost your ever-lovin' mind???" This was after he searched and searched for me in the toy department, not knowing I'd been drawn like a magnet to the furniture department on the great chair hunt. Ever the funny guy, he was carrying an ab machine for Peanut when he found me. I gave him the look. He knew exactly what it meant.
In the meantime, two lovely little old ladies were at the end of the baby doll toy aisle on the red phone looking for a cashier in electronics. One was explaining her dilemma to the person on the phone while the other was trying to find the ringing cell phone in her purse. The ensuing conversation was precious:
Lady #1: Isn't there usually someone at the electronics counter? How am I supposed to check out there when there is no one around?
Lady #2: I know I heard my phone ringing but I can't find it in my purse.
Lady #1: Maybe you left it in the car. I think you did leave it in the car.
Lady #2: I think you're right. I must have left my phone in the car.
Lady #1: But you heard it ringing - it has to be in your purse.
Red-shirted clerk: May I help you ladies?
Lady #2: I lost my cell phone. I heard it ringing but I can't find it.
Red-shirted clerk: Did you need some help at the electronics counter?
Lady #1: Unless you can find a missing cell phone, no...
Red-shirted clerk: Um...okay...well...if you need anything else, I'll be right here.
Unable to settle between the wingback chair and the ab machine, we finally found something soft we could both agree on. We checked out, got a couple of lattes from the in-store Starbucks and made our way to the parking lot.
Where we found our two ladies looking for their car. They had enlisted the help of a passing-by driver, who suggested they hit the panic button on their remote to locate their vehicle. And it worked.
Gigi: Well, that could be us in a few years, you know...
Flyboy: I certainly hope not. Just shoot me now.
In the meantime, two lovely little old ladies were at the end of the baby doll toy aisle on the red phone looking for a cashier in electronics. One was explaining her dilemma to the person on the phone while the other was trying to find the ringing cell phone in her purse. The ensuing conversation was precious:
Lady #1: Isn't there usually someone at the electronics counter? How am I supposed to check out there when there is no one around?
Lady #2: I know I heard my phone ringing but I can't find it in my purse.
Lady #1: Maybe you left it in the car. I think you did leave it in the car.
Lady #2: I think you're right. I must have left my phone in the car.
Lady #1: But you heard it ringing - it has to be in your purse.
Red-shirted clerk: May I help you ladies?
Lady #2: I lost my cell phone. I heard it ringing but I can't find it.
Red-shirted clerk: Did you need some help at the electronics counter?
Lady #1: Unless you can find a missing cell phone, no...
Red-shirted clerk: Um...okay...well...if you need anything else, I'll be right here.
Unable to settle between the wingback chair and the ab machine, we finally found something soft we could both agree on. We checked out, got a couple of lattes from the in-store Starbucks and made our way to the parking lot.
Where we found our two ladies looking for their car. They had enlisted the help of a passing-by driver, who suggested they hit the panic button on their remote to locate their vehicle. And it worked.
Gigi: Well, that could be us in a few years, you know...
Flyboy: I certainly hope not. Just shoot me now.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Double Nickel
In roughly three months, I will be celebrating my 55th birthday. I only bring this up because I've been pondering the ramifications of growing older, as, apart from the alternative, it seems to be an inevitability. Many realities accompany this conclusion, some over which one seems to have more control than others.
For example, Flyboy has reflected upon the very question that, in his own experience, has moved beyond possibility to reality: Why does the hair thin on top of my head and thicken in my ears? There is no good explanation...it just is. He has not control over where his hair decides to grow (or not grow) but he doesn't lose any sleep over it. It just is.
I have been cogitating on some of the deeper realities of life myself. Such as, who decided that having gray hair was a shameful thing? Or, on a more personal level, why do I think that looking like a grandmother (after all, I am one, and three times over) is something to be avoided at the hassle and expense of coloring my roots every 5-6 weeks? I started graying in my early 40s, and have spent the better part of the past fifteen years trying to cover that fact, like a sinister plot being held at bay. Frankly, I'm getting tired of the headache of it all, both the never-ending processing and the whole ruse itself, and as Flyboy has been encouraging me for the better part of the past fifteen years, I am letting nature take its course.
But wait...I have made an amazing discovery, thanks to the able counsel of a co-worker who was a hairdresser in a past life. The reason I began coloring my hair in the first place, lo those many years ago, was not so much to hide the truth as to put some life back into the drab, non-color, dirty dishwater blah-ness of the shade it was becoming. Now that I'm letting it go gray, I'm discovering that I'm not stuck with whatever color it happens to evolve into. I can be gray. I can be 55. Only better. Some highlights here and there are brightening my color palette and helping the grays blend in gracefully with the *dark golden blonde*.
This revelation is causing me to consider further applications of the same principal. How can I be 55 (for real), but only better? It seems to be time to contemplate my wardrobe, for example, and ask some probing questions. Are my clothes age appropriate? Flattering to my *maturing* figure? Do the earthy tones I have traditionally been drawn to help or hurt the cause? Is there a better way to work with what I have to bring out the best of 55?
And speaking of that middle-aged inner tube I'm carrying around my middle, am I just stuck with that? And how important is it to me to do something about it? Apparently not very, since it's literally be stuck there for at least ten years. But is that where I really want to be?
Fifty-five seems to be a good place to get out of the traffic, pull over, and stop in a rest area for some deeper reflection about what it means to get older.
Besides the obvious (hair, flubber, clothes), there is a whole 'nother level of introspection just waiting to be explored under the surface. Realizing that there more days behind than ahead begs the self-conversation and the prayer-conversation about what it looks like to finish well. I figure I'll spend the next three months trying to thoughtfully answer that question and then the next however-many-years-God-gives-me trying to live accordingly. Life is so much more that what we look like - or even about treating our body well. It's about who we are at the core, and what our priorities are, how we treat others, and what we do with what we know. Knowing is only the surface area of the matter. Doing is what lies beneath. Doing is what counts.
I'd really like to look back, three months from now and have a game plan. A God plan. A concrete idea of what the coming years should look like from the inside out. I don't want to just go from home to work to church to home to work to church over and over again. We all long for meaning and to know we're doing something important and fulfilling the purpose for which we were created. I'm going to be asking a lot of questions. And hopefully stumbling upon a few answers along the way.
For example, Flyboy has reflected upon the very question that, in his own experience, has moved beyond possibility to reality: Why does the hair thin on top of my head and thicken in my ears? There is no good explanation...it just is. He has not control over where his hair decides to grow (or not grow) but he doesn't lose any sleep over it. It just is.
I have been cogitating on some of the deeper realities of life myself. Such as, who decided that having gray hair was a shameful thing? Or, on a more personal level, why do I think that looking like a grandmother (after all, I am one, and three times over) is something to be avoided at the hassle and expense of coloring my roots every 5-6 weeks? I started graying in my early 40s, and have spent the better part of the past fifteen years trying to cover that fact, like a sinister plot being held at bay. Frankly, I'm getting tired of the headache of it all, both the never-ending processing and the whole ruse itself, and as Flyboy has been encouraging me for the better part of the past fifteen years, I am letting nature take its course.
But wait...I have made an amazing discovery, thanks to the able counsel of a co-worker who was a hairdresser in a past life. The reason I began coloring my hair in the first place, lo those many years ago, was not so much to hide the truth as to put some life back into the drab, non-color, dirty dishwater blah-ness of the shade it was becoming. Now that I'm letting it go gray, I'm discovering that I'm not stuck with whatever color it happens to evolve into. I can be gray. I can be 55. Only better. Some highlights here and there are brightening my color palette and helping the grays blend in gracefully with the *dark golden blonde*.
This revelation is causing me to consider further applications of the same principal. How can I be 55 (for real), but only better? It seems to be time to contemplate my wardrobe, for example, and ask some probing questions. Are my clothes age appropriate? Flattering to my *maturing* figure? Do the earthy tones I have traditionally been drawn to help or hurt the cause? Is there a better way to work with what I have to bring out the best of 55?
And speaking of that middle-aged inner tube I'm carrying around my middle, am I just stuck with that? And how important is it to me to do something about it? Apparently not very, since it's literally be stuck there for at least ten years. But is that where I really want to be?
Fifty-five seems to be a good place to get out of the traffic, pull over, and stop in a rest area for some deeper reflection about what it means to get older.
Besides the obvious (hair, flubber, clothes), there is a whole 'nother level of introspection just waiting to be explored under the surface. Realizing that there more days behind than ahead begs the self-conversation and the prayer-conversation about what it looks like to finish well. I figure I'll spend the next three months trying to thoughtfully answer that question and then the next however-many-years-God-gives-me trying to live accordingly. Life is so much more that what we look like - or even about treating our body well. It's about who we are at the core, and what our priorities are, how we treat others, and what we do with what we know. Knowing is only the surface area of the matter. Doing is what lies beneath. Doing is what counts.
I'd really like to look back, three months from now and have a game plan. A God plan. A concrete idea of what the coming years should look like from the inside out. I don't want to just go from home to work to church to home to work to church over and over again. We all long for meaning and to know we're doing something important and fulfilling the purpose for which we were created. I'm going to be asking a lot of questions. And hopefully stumbling upon a few answers along the way.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
My Baby Is Thirty
It happened the moment he was born. Well, actually, it was before that. It was shortly after we decided to try one more time to complete our family with a son. We had two beautiful daughters who could share clothes and toys and grow up as best friends, and we were content with our family of four. We fit comfortably in our small sedan, a three-bedroom house was just the right size, and when we went for walks, each parent had a hand to hold when we crossed the street. Our two bicycles had two bike carriers, and our toothbrush holder housed four toothbrushes. Truly, America was made for families of four.
But there was this nagging desire lurking deep inside to have one more child. Actually, it was me more than Flyboy. He was completely content with our little family, but I, having had two brothers, felt it important to give it one more shot. If we had another girl, we would love her with every fiber of our being, as we already loved Girlfriend and Elasti-girl. And then we would stop, no matter what. But what if...there was, after all, a 50-50 chance we'd have a boy. And, now that Flyboy wasn't flying jets anymore, our odds might have actually been better than before.
And then it happened. From the moment I found out I was pregnant that third time, I was already in love with this new little person - whether it was a boy or a girl. Ultrasounds were pretty unreliable thirty years ago, and we decided to wait until delivery day instead of wondering if we'd gotten the right information. When that day arrived, planned in advance (I'd had two prior c-sections), we checked into the hospital and were greeted by a man in scrubs, sporting a beard and a ponytail. My doctor was no where to be seen, and this man said he was covering for him. Truly, he looked more like a janitor than an obstetrician. But at 38 weeks, I decided to believe him and have a little faith that God was really in charge, no matter what the doctor looked like.
We talked through what was about to happen, and a few hours later, we were heading to pre-op. Having been unconscious for the first two deliveries, I was a little apprehensive about being awake this time. But Dr. Ponytail assured me it was in the best interest of the baby, and I proceeded to get a *spinal block*, as they called it then. Next stop, the operating room, where Dr. Ponytail was soon announcing we had a son, and I was seeing the proof for myself before they knocked me out to finish the surgery. Flyboy was waiting in the hall, where his new son was brought out, wrapped in a blanket.
We had our boy. And he was a big one, at 8 lbs 9 oz at 38 weeks.
This one was a cuddler, and he spent many hours in my arms, particularly at night, where we watched Kojak reruns to pass the time until he got the memo that nighttime is for sleeping. He preferred my company above all others, was my constant companion, and we called him my little Klingon.
Today, Bamm-Bamm is thirty years old. Now that I no longer have any children under the age of thirty, I wonder where the time went...wasn't it just yesterday that he was dismantling his sisters' tape player? That he was clomping around in his cowboy boots, not ever wanting to take them off? That he was breaking the car window with a hammer before he was two? That he took off for Joey's house one boring day - eight miles away? That his dad was coaching his first football team? That he was learning how to play the trumpet and wowing us with his musical ability?
We have really come full circle. And it took what happened yesterday to make me really realize it. Bamm-Bamm had a meeting with a client at a business near where I work. He called me, and stopped in, looking quite dashing in his suit and tie, and I took him on a tour, showing him off to all of my co-workers. He was making one good impression after another, and we made one final stop, where the last introduction took place. She smiled, with a little twinkle in her eye, and asked Bamm-Bamm, "are you the naughty one?" I felt like he'd been kicked in the stomach. I didn't know what to say...how do you recover from that? I was dumbfounded, my mind reeling, trying to remember what I could have said sometime in the past to cause her to ask such a question. I tried to breathe...tried to think...and then I heard Bamm-Bamm's unflapped voice, answering with a little chuckle, "Yes, I guess that would be me." He chatted, seemingly unaffected, until we continued our walk through the building. "I am so sorry," I said, fighting back the tears. He put his arm around me, smiled, and said, "It's okay, Mom. Really. Don't worry about it."
And that's when it hit me.
I no longer see Bamm-Bamm through a lens filtered by the past. The past is in the past and it doesn't even matter any more. There was a time when the pain of the past was a companion I longed to be free of. There was a time when the joy of the present reminded me that things weren't always this good, and a little of the pain lingered.
No longer. Today, I see my son - the man I always knew he would become - a devoted husband and father, a hard worker, a passionate man of conviction. In the past few years, when I would tell him how proud I was, it was in the vain of what he had overcome. I AM proud of what he has overcome. But now, the past is no longer in my periphery vision. Today, when I tell my son how proud I am of him, it's no longer because he's not who he was - it is because of who he is. It's not even because of what he has done by excelling at his job (which he has) - it's because of who he is on the inside. It's because he has the heart of a warrior and is loyal to the death. It's because when you ask him for ten push-ups he'll give you twenty. It's because when God put it on his heart to wear a toga and play the part of Pontius Pilate when he didn't want to, he said yes and did an amazing job. It's because he looks people in the eye and can talk to anybody. It's because he brings out the best in the people who work for him. It's because he is determined to be the best person he can be.
Bamm-Bamm, I love it that you still hug me every time we see one another. I love watching you love Pebbles and be such a great dad to Peanut. I love you for now and forever, and I'm so glad you are our son.
Happy birthday.
But there was this nagging desire lurking deep inside to have one more child. Actually, it was me more than Flyboy. He was completely content with our little family, but I, having had two brothers, felt it important to give it one more shot. If we had another girl, we would love her with every fiber of our being, as we already loved Girlfriend and Elasti-girl. And then we would stop, no matter what. But what if...there was, after all, a 50-50 chance we'd have a boy. And, now that Flyboy wasn't flying jets anymore, our odds might have actually been better than before.
And then it happened. From the moment I found out I was pregnant that third time, I was already in love with this new little person - whether it was a boy or a girl. Ultrasounds were pretty unreliable thirty years ago, and we decided to wait until delivery day instead of wondering if we'd gotten the right information. When that day arrived, planned in advance (I'd had two prior c-sections), we checked into the hospital and were greeted by a man in scrubs, sporting a beard and a ponytail. My doctor was no where to be seen, and this man said he was covering for him. Truly, he looked more like a janitor than an obstetrician. But at 38 weeks, I decided to believe him and have a little faith that God was really in charge, no matter what the doctor looked like.
We talked through what was about to happen, and a few hours later, we were heading to pre-op. Having been unconscious for the first two deliveries, I was a little apprehensive about being awake this time. But Dr. Ponytail assured me it was in the best interest of the baby, and I proceeded to get a *spinal block*, as they called it then. Next stop, the operating room, where Dr. Ponytail was soon announcing we had a son, and I was seeing the proof for myself before they knocked me out to finish the surgery. Flyboy was waiting in the hall, where his new son was brought out, wrapped in a blanket.
We had our boy. And he was a big one, at 8 lbs 9 oz at 38 weeks.
This one was a cuddler, and he spent many hours in my arms, particularly at night, where we watched Kojak reruns to pass the time until he got the memo that nighttime is for sleeping. He preferred my company above all others, was my constant companion, and we called him my little Klingon.
Today, Bamm-Bamm is thirty years old. Now that I no longer have any children under the age of thirty, I wonder where the time went...wasn't it just yesterday that he was dismantling his sisters' tape player? That he was clomping around in his cowboy boots, not ever wanting to take them off? That he was breaking the car window with a hammer before he was two? That he took off for Joey's house one boring day - eight miles away? That his dad was coaching his first football team? That he was learning how to play the trumpet and wowing us with his musical ability?
We have really come full circle. And it took what happened yesterday to make me really realize it. Bamm-Bamm had a meeting with a client at a business near where I work. He called me, and stopped in, looking quite dashing in his suit and tie, and I took him on a tour, showing him off to all of my co-workers. He was making one good impression after another, and we made one final stop, where the last introduction took place. She smiled, with a little twinkle in her eye, and asked Bamm-Bamm, "are you the naughty one?" I felt like he'd been kicked in the stomach. I didn't know what to say...how do you recover from that? I was dumbfounded, my mind reeling, trying to remember what I could have said sometime in the past to cause her to ask such a question. I tried to breathe...tried to think...and then I heard Bamm-Bamm's unflapped voice, answering with a little chuckle, "Yes, I guess that would be me." He chatted, seemingly unaffected, until we continued our walk through the building. "I am so sorry," I said, fighting back the tears. He put his arm around me, smiled, and said, "It's okay, Mom. Really. Don't worry about it."
And that's when it hit me.
I no longer see Bamm-Bamm through a lens filtered by the past. The past is in the past and it doesn't even matter any more. There was a time when the pain of the past was a companion I longed to be free of. There was a time when the joy of the present reminded me that things weren't always this good, and a little of the pain lingered.
No longer. Today, I see my son - the man I always knew he would become - a devoted husband and father, a hard worker, a passionate man of conviction. In the past few years, when I would tell him how proud I was, it was in the vain of what he had overcome. I AM proud of what he has overcome. But now, the past is no longer in my periphery vision. Today, when I tell my son how proud I am of him, it's no longer because he's not who he was - it is because of who he is. It's not even because of what he has done by excelling at his job (which he has) - it's because of who he is on the inside. It's because he has the heart of a warrior and is loyal to the death. It's because when you ask him for ten push-ups he'll give you twenty. It's because when God put it on his heart to wear a toga and play the part of Pontius Pilate when he didn't want to, he said yes and did an amazing job. It's because he looks people in the eye and can talk to anybody. It's because he brings out the best in the people who work for him. It's because he is determined to be the best person he can be.
Bamm-Bamm, I love it that you still hug me every time we see one another. I love watching you love Pebbles and be such a great dad to Peanut. I love you for now and forever, and I'm so glad you are our son.
Happy birthday.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Finally...
The first few weeks following our return home from England have been filled with many memories, along with playing catch-up and getting back into the routine of life. I've wondered how long it will take before the fresh memories fade and the days aren't interrupted with frequent pictures in my mind of England.
It was an amazing trip.
And I'm finally ready to share it with you. It's taken me this long to get the photos uploaded and organized and captioned, but I enjoyed every minute of it. I've had the chance to relive everything we saw. We've decided that England is definitely a place we could go back to.
Oh - and you won't believe this - the weather was absolutely beautiful 8 of the 9 days we were there. We basked in the 65 and sunny days, being told over and over this was NOT characteristic.
So - click on the link below and share in our English adventure!
http://s1141.photobucket.com/albums/n597/iamcaroling/England%202011/
It was an amazing trip.
And I'm finally ready to share it with you. It's taken me this long to get the photos uploaded and organized and captioned, but I enjoyed every minute of it. I've had the chance to relive everything we saw. We've decided that England is definitely a place we could go back to.
Oh - and you won't believe this - the weather was absolutely beautiful 8 of the 9 days we were there. We basked in the 65 and sunny days, being told over and over this was NOT characteristic.
So - click on the link below and share in our English adventure!
http://s1141.photobucket.com/albums/n597/iamcaroling/England%202011/
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