fighting the selfish battle...and its wounds

Selfishness is one of those sins I think everyone struggles with greatly, though we seldom recognize it. The last few years, I've noticed it more. Sometimes the battle is H A R D and other times, not so much (and that very well could be because I'm ignorant of it).

I am very selfish with my time. I am very blessed in that I do not have to work outside the home. Before we were married, Bobby and I looked at all our options, and decided that for us and our situation, it would be best if I were his caregiver. And for this season of our lives, that is still the case. The first year of our marriage, against his advice but with his blessing, I worked part-time, about 30 hours a week. And it was rough. When my contract ended at the end of the school year, I didn't renew it.  Five years later I went back to school as a student, and then resumed working part-time again. It started out as 20 hours, which was manageable, then increased to 25. I found myself frustrated and out of whack, and when hints and suggestions for 30 hours or full-time started being made, I had absolute peace about being a stay-at-home wife. Thankfully most people are understanding, though there have been some the last few years that seem to think because I don't have children and don't work, that I have absolutely nothing to do and are free for their every beckon and call. They don't see the 3-6 hours a day that caregiving requires, or the responsibilities I volunteer for. I find my patience for these people very shallow, even when their requests are legitimate. I ponder that a friend can call during one of my busier weeks with a need and I'll bend over double to help them and love every minute of it, but one of these few people can call when my schedule is somewhat empty, and I cringe at helping them, even resent the time. That's not love; that's not kindness; that's not Christlike. I've been working on my attitude with these people and situations. Some days, I manage things a little better. Others, I lose that battle with almost no fight.

This weekend brings about another fight in the same area, but with a much different angle. If you're an adult and childless, I don't have to tell you that Mother's Day is one of the most painful days on the calender. It would be one thing if I were at church with my Mom and honoring her, but to sit in an auditorium when every other adult female is standing and listen to everyone raving about what their kids did for them that morning is hard. The reality is, no matter how hard it is for me, those women are my friends, and they deserve it. Yes, it hurts immensely that like Hannah, I'm forgotten. Yes, it drives me crazy that the sermon that morning is almost always about motherhood (and even crazier when they talk about barren Hannah...who had a child!!!! How's that for pouring salt in a wound?) But it doesn't change the fact that every day of every year my friends sacrifice their time, energy, desires, money, and sleep for miniature people. It doesn't change the fact that they are taking their responsibilities to teach these little people right from wrong very seriously. I watch them on Sunday mornings as I can focus on the music and the words overhead but they keep one eye on a wriggling body beside them. I see their faces flush as a little body goes into full panic mode as the offering plate comes near and that child is slinging everything on the pew everywhere in desperation to find their money, and they seem to delight in dropping the coins as loudly as they can. And the parents are horrified. There are so many Sundays I see their exhaustion, and I want to hug them and shake them and say "It's okay! Everyone else is laughing. You're doing a good job. I love your child's generosity, their seriousness about giving, their willingness to share their offering with the child in front and behind them who forgot theirs, even when you only want them to sit still in their seat. And when your child wants to move from one row to the next to be next to you, I think that's an incredible testament that they feel safe and secure beside you, that they love you." But I don't. So why should I not for one Sunday a year gladly smile and edify my sisters who struggle every single Sunday? The selfish part of me wants to argue that they get their rewards with nightly hugs and group activities with other Moms and kids, with family portraits, and such, but the reality is there are times when those Moms would like a day to read a book or go shopping without hearing "Mom!" every three minutes. I go to church because I love Jesus. I go to church because I need interaction with other believers. To stay at home because I hurt and ache so badly inside on a day when my friends are honored for their sacrifices...that's selfishness. No matter how bad the ache or how hard the hour, my mother and my friends who are moms do deserve the recognition they receive. What type of soldier runs from an awards ceremony because his friends are being pinned and she's not? We've all heard the saying "the world doesn't revolve around you", but yet, there are days when we seem to act or think like it does. For me, Mother's day fits into that category.

So as I see the Facebook posts piling up from barren and single friends about their dread for this Sunday, I wrestle. Like so many, I long to surrender to selfish desires and stay home, to avoid the well-meaning but ignorant people wishing me "Happy Mother's Day 'cause you're so like a Mom", but I can't. I need to celebrate my Mother and friends for the job they do, to let them know that I'm in their corner praying and cheering them on, that I applaud them for being so dedicated to the task God has blessed them with. Overcoming sinful desires, even when they seem reasonable, is hard. But I serve the Great Physician who promises to heal my hurts. With that promise, can I not set aside my personal desires to celebrate and show joy for friends and sisters in Christ who have a reason to celebrate?

fact check

On Mother's Day, a friend of mine posted a link to this blog post that made me both sympathetic and mad at the same time.

I've read many articles, most by Moms, a few by nurses, addressing the whole medical terminology of "abortion".  Bascially, the term abort means "to stop", so an abortion means a stop or termination of the pregenancy. Medically, it has always been used to define a miscarriage. After the 1970s in America, it also came to mean a voluntary ending to a pregnancy, often labeled as a "selective" abortion after numerous women began complaining after learning their miscarriage was on their medical charts as an abortion. My heart goes out to any woman who has to deal with such a situation, especially in the case where something was medically coded incorrectly.  But I fear the author of this post is totally ignorant when it comes to our country's history, specifically in cultural matters.

Women who lived prior to Roe v. Wade will tell you that people didn't discuss sex back then - period. The word pregnant was simply not used, at least not by polite society. The term "with child" or "expecting" was most often said. I've heard countless women in their 80's talk about their shock or horror the first time they heard a preacher or Christmas program refer to Mary as being "pregnant" with Jesus.  It was revolting, crude, and scandalous to them.  (and people certainly didn't tell their other children they had babies in their tummy or wear clothes that revealed your "condition" to others...that subject will keep my mother-in-law talking for quite a while!) And just as pregnancy in and of itself wasn't discussed, neither was a miscarriage. I've heard more than one older woman tell a young woman who was grieving or hurting after a miscarriage "At least you can talk about it. When I was your age, it was never, ever mentioned. I lost two (and at this point their son's or daughter's mouth would drop open in shock) and it was never mentioned by anyone, except my husband who said something once or twice in private." And the irony of some of those settings was that prior to that elderly person coming in and saying that, the young, grieving mother had just moaned that no one seemed to care, not realizing the fact that a) people knew and b) she could publicly state that was monumental in and of itself.

Yes, there is a small degree where America's abortion industry has destroyed the right to mourn the loss of a child. But I think the larger reasoning behind that is because historically people have not mourned the loss of children who didn't survive the birth process...children died far too often and easily to mourn one who had never been held, fed, or legally named (ie, one that didn't exist by community or government standards). That's cruel and hard to read/write, but it's true. I've heard many, many older women say after hearing about a miscarriage, "Well, that's God's way of taking care of things" (or those not Christians would say "nature's way") and I think those statements, while perhaps true, are even worse to tell someone than not saying anything at all.

How do you grieve or express sympathy for the loss of someone you've never met, never held, never clothed? For all but the mother and father, that child was simply an unfulfilled hope and promise. No one (on earth anyway) but the parents had felt that child kick and grow; no one but the parents (or grandparents) had begun to dream or plan for that child's life.

My heart hurts for anyone who has suffered in this way. But despite the suffering, we can't say our refusal to mourn or grieve in these situations is a result of the abortion industry. Neither history nor reality supports that social theory. And I think we as Christians, especially Christians, need to continue to "provide things honest in the sight of all men". (Romans 12:17 -KJV)

lessons learned

This morning was the mother/daughter breakfast for the junior age kids at church. We thought we had everything set to run like clockwork. Set up tables and such at 8:30am, start the bacon by 8:40am, batter on the griddles by 8:45am, food ready to serve at 9:00am. We had the tables up by 8:40 and the bacon ready to start, but NONE OF OUR PLUGS WOULD WORK!!!! About the point the back of my brain is starting to scream "McDonald's is across the road!", plans C&D finally kicked in and started working. So for next year, here's what we need to know:

a) the keys in the combination lock at the side door don't open the front door
b) have a cooking table set up in three different classrooms
c) bring extra extension cords
d) one plug can only handle two waffle irons, or ONE coffee pot, or ONE blender, or ONE griddle
e) don't forget the coffee
f) the fuse box is behind the rolling bookcase in the front kid's room
g) designate one person to be in charge of cooking, one person for decorations, one for the craft, and one to be a greeter/photographer
h) buy a food warmer
i) start the food early and use the warmer rather than cook it to serve hot and have the fuses continuously blow and not be ready on time

and now we know. And according to G.I.Joe, knowing is half the battle.

I'm thankful for our CBC ladies and their loving attitudes and helpful hands. I am SO blessed to have such wonderful Christian sisters who not only care about events, but who also care more about the PEOPLE. I have learned so much about servanthood and the body of Christ since being at our church, and I look forward to what God has in store for us.

a top 10 list

It's so cool how God let's things happen, whether it be an overheard comment or a hug, right when we need them. So, based on the last two days, here's my top 10 list for this year's Mother Day:

10 Reasons Why I'm Glad to Be Childless

1. No throw-up on me, my cart, or the floor while in Target.
2. I've never had to move a car seat.
3. I can shop in peace.
4. I can afford to shop!
   
5. I can actually have a focused conversation with someone without my kids running wild.
6. We can afford to eat out.
7. I can take a nap when I need to.
8. "Couple Time" is not a luxury.
9. I only have to fight with one person over the radio.
10. I have time to blog about it.

especially for me

I've posted in the past about my amaryllis "mother's day" flowers.
30 years ago my grandfather bought them when my mother was diagnosed with melanoma.
We've taken bulbs to transplant everywhere we've lived, and Mom brought some to my house the first few years we were here.
They've been close to blooming.
Today, after the phone call from my Dad saying Mom once again has
melanoma, I walk outside, and the flowers by the door have bloomed.
It's my rainbow, a sign of beauty, my reminder of hope.
Christ is here, and he's in the boat with me.

an ode to my friends who are mothers

Gone are onesies, wet wipes, rash,

We're adding pull-ups to that stash

Or so we hope.

In comes big boy underpants,

frilly panties or dinosaurs that dance,

We dream of progress.

Methods come, endless advice;

Our children have their own device.

Training's not their choice.

Some kids go upon command,

others require a more firm hand.

Or just won't go.

Targets for the boys to hit;

Girls who scream and throw a fit;

Or sit terrified.

It seems they'll poop in every place

Except the spot reserved with space.

And then go hide.

Every country, every tongue

Has a way it must be done.

To train a child to properly

Do what does come naturally.

I've been thinking about you and praying for all of you these last few weeks!

Momma Power

Several weeks ago a family friend of ours was summoned to the place where his son works. A boy who has bullied and attempted to bully their son throughout high school had come by and paintballed his car. The paint washed off easily enough, but the blasts left little dents all over. The parents wanted to call the police and report it; the son wanted to call the boy's Momma. His parents were trying to reason with him that this was a criminal offense and needed to be addressed as such, as well as claim insurance on the car, thus involving the police. The son's response was that this boy had been in jail before and it wouldn't matter, but calling his Momma would. I don't think the parents were too convinced that calling Momma would make a difference, but it made me laugh a little.
In this 19 year-old's mind, nothing would get through to this boy or put him in more trouble than telling the Momma. And to a small degree, I think that may be true. Granted, I agree with his parents that the police should be called and the Mother obviously can't control her son, but there's something about having a boy's mom see firsthand what the child has done.
Think back to middle school...besides the issue of girls, what prompted more fights and arguments among boys? ...your momma jokes. There's some relationships that are tight, and I don't think the term "Momma's boy" came about without reason. I've seen numerous high school kids get in trouble for things and would gladly take a punishment but "just don't tell my Momma..." They won't their Moms to think highly of them.
So to all my Mommy friends out there, I know you get extremely frustrated with so little time to yourself and the endless list of things to do, but know when all else fails, you're still Mom. You've got that Momma Power!

my memory flower

When I was small, my grandfather would come and cut part of our grass while my Dad was at work. It always irritated my mother that he would just mow down all her flowers. She would point them out every time; he would nod his head, and the minute she went inside, he'd mow 'em down.

When I was 8, the night my Dad was to preach his first sermon, my mother was diagnosed with melanoma. They had to cut a spot out of her calf that was a little larger than a softball, as well as take a skin graft from the opposite leg to cover the opening. My grandfather, who didn't have a lot of money, bought these HUGE pillows so she could keep her leg elevated to eliminate swelling. And he also bought a whole bag of bulbs and planted where Mom had her flowers. Mother about croaked when she saw the receipt in the bag; she said he paid a fortune per bulb. I don't know what he paid, but I do know that everywhere we have moved, we have transplanted half of the bulbs. They multiply, and we have left some and taken some from every parsonage or house we've lived in. A few years after Bobby and I got married, Mom and Dad showed up with several plants in the back of the truck. Every time they bloom, I get excited. It's my reminder of a family who loves me, and that home is truly where our hearts are. I guess these red & white amaryllises are beautiful to me in more ways than one, and I post them today as a tribute to my Mom.