Reality: Burying an Unborn Child

Today we buried Tereo, our child who died at 8 weeks gestation. 

Burying a miscarried child isn't something most people talk about.  There are many reasons for this, and I believe that one is because it boils us down to facing the ugliness of death.  It is horrible.  I have just lived through the death of a human being inside my body for the second time in my life.  People don't talk about burying miscarried children because they can't really wrap their mind around the idea of a body at such an age.  

I wish I didn't feel the need to talk about it myself, honestly.  When people have asked me how I am doing one week after our miscarriage, I usually respond with, "I don't really have many words yet."  For those that know me, words are not usually hard for me to find.  I love words.  But I share my rawness and lack of words with you today to show you how one family is facing the ugliness of death.  I pray these words somehow reach those who might need to hear them.  And if you are reading this following the death of an unborn child, know that our family is praying for you.  Your child's life matters, and we mourn with you.

There are so many sobering and humbling aspects of miscarriage, but one of the largest I faced this time was loneliness.  My husband and I are extremely close, and we have an amazing marriage.  He was in tears over the loss of this child, but even he could not face this death with me.  

There is a feeling of shame, doubt, and ugliness that cannot be described, and they are feelings you must face as a woman almost completely on your own.  

In the pit of despair, I was reminded again of the first commandment - You shall have no other gods before Me.  When God allows all other helpers and comforts in your life to be stripped away, you are left with nothing but your God.  As I sat there alone and scared, I was brought to a great peace with the loneliness.  A loneliness that made me realize that I am not capable of holding onto God in my fears.  He reaches down and bears this loneliness Himself.  He watched His only Son die, blood dripping from His veins, and He knows what that pain and loneliness is like.  

The Son's loneliness in death.  

The Father's loneliness in watching His Son die.  

Women facing miscarriage are not alone in the blood and tears.  

They are upheld by a God who truly feels the pain of this particular loss.  

When you see the body of a child at 8 weeks gestation, you think to yourself, "What do I do now?"  The ugliness of death is almost too much to bear, but the thought of discarding your child in the trash or the toilet is far too much to bear. 

We are the kind of people that march in the March for Life in Washington, D.C. 

We are the kind of people who adopt. 

We are the kind of people that welcome God's gift of life.

Life begins at conception. 

Every life matters. 

And then we see our tiny child's remains...

Death is ugly.  It is gory.  It is bloody.  It is not how God intended. 

But it is how God now brings Christians to Himself. 

When I see my child there, I know his or her soul is with Jesus already.  I know that God can and will raise the bodies of all the saints on the Last Day, no matter whether they were discarded or not.  I know that our first child's body, who died at 10 weeks gestation, will rise on the Last Day even though I have no clue what the hospital did with Jovi's body after my surgery.  I don't place undue burden or blame on anyone who chose a different option than burial for their unborn children.  In these moments, there is so much fear, anxiety, and innocence.  So few people talk about what they do in these moments that it is hard to make a decision.  The first two graveyards we called wouldn't allow burial without a death certificate, and you can't get that for an unborn child before 20 weeks in our state.   Medical professionals often speak of these unborn children as "its," and don't have good answers for how to proceed after death.  Having been through miscarriage once before and having four living children who are also mourning the loss of a little brother or sister moved us to this decision.  Since we were able to protect this child's body from being destroyed unlike our first miscarriage, we knew we wanted to respect this tiny person.  Tereo, as we named our child, was a person, and we believe all people who have died deserve a resting place. 

Tereo's body was created by God.  God cares about that body.  He made it. 

Do I know what God plans to make of that tiny body in the Resurrection?  No. 

But I know it will be glorious, and for that reason, Tereo deserves to be preserved. 

"...till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Genesis 3:19 

"For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother's womb.
I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well.

My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth.

Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them.

Psalm 139:13-16

We were blessed to be given a small burial site in a local LCMS church's cemetery. We are so thankful for such a beautiful gift from our fellow Christians. 

And so today, our whole family went to the cemetery. 

My husband dug a small hole at the site. 

He led us in a service for the death of an unbaptized or stillborn baby. 

We sang, "I am Jesus' Little Lamb." 

The children covered the tiny burial box with the dirt. 

And we laid sweet Tereo to rest next to the saints of the last hundred years. 

Tereo, pronounced Tay-REH-o, is Greek for "to keep, to hold, or to guard" as in John 8:51, "Truly, truly, I say to you, if anyone keeps my word, he will never see death." 

This is most certainly true.

Until the Last Day, our child.  

My View from the Front

Tap. Tap.  "I want to sit with Ms. Sue.  Can I have my notebook?"  Five-year-old son runs back to his favorite pew with a couple who have adopted him into their pew on Sundays.  They snuggle him, bring him little gifts, and all around love on him as if he were their own grandson.

"Mommy?" followed by a silent point.  "Ms. Cyndee!"  Off the three-year-old daughter runs to her adopted pew with two couples and their elderly mother, whom they provide care for.  There she is cuddled, led to Communion, and all around loved on as if she were their own granddaughter.  

Glance forward to the front pew.  The two service helpers are standing in the first pew dressed in white robes.  Two adult members of the congregation with developmental disabilities (the woman has Down Syndrome) who are given the role of acolytes so they may serve the church in an important way each Sunday.  

They fill the role with pride.  

You can see it in the way they carry themselves, with the respect to which they step up to the Altar, with the joy in their faces as they sing.  

The man is not able to read or find the correct number in the hymnal.  Each week, the woman with Down Syndrome lovingly takes his hymnal, and trades it for hers that is already on the right page.  He can't read it, but he takes it with joy and sings along to a surprising number of hymns that he knows by heart.  

More times than less, a tear finds it way down my cheek about now, while I watch them interact.  My mind wanders off to our culture's hatred of people with disabilities, particularly shown through the way they fight for the right to kill people with Down Syndrome before they are born.  I thank God that this woman is in my life and in this church, serving her neighbor by caring about him in the pew.

Christ's love shown through this very important and very joyful person.  She loves her life and I do, too.  As the service goes on and they both quote it without missing a beat, I thank God for the historic Liturgy.

My husband begins his sermon.  I grab the milk cup to appease the 17-month-old for a few seconds...maybe a minute.

Oh, that law hit hard.  A sermon about weakness.  I got a lot of that.  My children show me my weakness everyday.  I glance at our six-year-old, who spent his toddler years kicking, thrashing, and spitting at me during church.  There he sits quietly looking through his new book from his Godparents, quoting the Liturgy during some parts, off in his own wonderland during other parts.  How God's grace has been sufficient in weakness during his six years would blow the mind of most adults.  

OK, mind, back to the sermon you go.  

The sincerity by which my husband speaks of weakness catches me off-guard.  "...felt weak..."

My mind flashes to some friends of mine who have just lost a child in miscarriage.  Lord, have mercy on Stephanie, I say in my mind.  

Mind wanders to our miscarriage - our child that is not with us in our pew or an adopted pew throughout the church, but with our Lord on the greatest pew imaginable.

Flash back to real time.  

The soothing Word of Gospel.  

My husband preaches it so boldly.  

I am free.  I am clean.  I am forgiven.  I am righteous.  Thanks be to God.

A constant rolling hum and occasional scream of children is heard constantly through the service.  Children are here.  Thanks be to God! 17-month-old rolling around on the floor beneath my feet.  The thought of "how could she possibly be getting anything out of this" flashes through my mind.  "Why do I bring her in here and fight her every week?"

The Lord's Prayer.

I look down and she has crawled onto the pew next to her oldest brother, hands folded.  "Amen!" she says at the end.

I smile.  OK, God, I hear you.  She is getting it.  She belongs here.  Thanks for the reminder. 

"Solomon, time for us to go up for Communion."  

"OH YES!  Time to receive Jesus' BLOOD!  My favorite part!"

Smile.  Yes, son.  The confession of children is bold and accurate.

Glance over during Communion and see a family next to us, bringing their children to this place to receive Christ's gifts together.  Sad thought of them moving away soon, followed by a fun thought of rejoicing in the WHOLE Christian church gathered around at Communion, and how that will connect us over many miles.

Back to the pew, and I watch our other two children walk up to Communion with their adopted pew friends.  Joy in the family of Christ.  People pass by, and thoughts of the beauty of the Christian church flash through my mind.  

I watch children pass by who are brought to the Altar by their faithful grandmas and grandpas. 

I see children who grew up without a father but have been taught about their Heavenly Father through others around them.

I see the disabled.

I see the elderly.

I see babies.

I see children who were babies when my husband baptized them, and now they are walking around talking about Jesus.

I see husbands.

I see wives.

I glance up and see my husband's eyes catch mine.  He grins at me, and a few chills run down my spine.  My husband still gives me chills...even in church...even in a collar...even while serving Communion.  God has been gracious to me.

I see widows, and I remember to pray for them, as I am sure they miss those chills.

I see the young man who was baptized on the same day as our youngest daughter.  He was a teenager and she was a newborn.  I flash to a memory of him holding her that day.

I see people who are poor.

I see people who are wealthy.

I see people who are black.

I see people.who are white.

I see people who are mixed race.

I see people.

I see the masks of Christ in this world.

This is Christ's flock.  

Church isn't about a feeling.  I don't need to feel the Spirit move to know God is present in His Word and Sacraments.  I don't need to be brought to tears to know my heart is changed by the Word.  I know these things because He promises these things in this place.

But when the Lord gives the feelings, the memories, and the tears, I am thankful for that, too.

The Life that Changed Mine

I wanted to share with you about a person who changed my life.
She challenged me to think beyond myself.
She caused me to spend more time thinking about someone else and less time thinking about my problems.
She brought me to my knees in prayer more often than any single person ever has.
She made me realize the love you can have for someone you have never even met.
She made me see that every life has a purpose.
She made me more fully appreciate that people with disabilities cause the rest of us to be better.
She didn't even live three days outside the womb, but her life accomplished all of this in me.

Let me tell you about my friend, Matilda.

You see, our dear friends were pregnant when they discovered their child had down syndrome and a severe heart defect related to the disorder.  As time marched on, it became clear the heart defect was probably going to take Matilda's life.  But thanks be to God, our friends were able to hold firm to their view of life being God's choice, not theirs, because had they followed suit with 90% of parents who find out their child has down syndrome, Matilda would never have had the opportunity to change so many of us who spent our days and nights humbled to God in prayer for her.

Constant praying for another's welfare changes your soul.

Matilda's short life was not without a purpose.  Her time in utero was surrounded by the prayers of her fellow Christians.  God preserved her life long enough to be born into the loving arms of her parents.  He preserved her life long enough to be washed in the saving flood of Baptism.  He preserved her life long enough to change the hearts of those who knew and loved her.  And finally, He preserved her life in eternity where we plan to see her.

When emotional stories of women who chose abortion for their disabled child come up, I hurt for them.  I cannot imagine the pain involved in discovering your child may die in utero or shortly after birth.  I weep with these parents.  We lost a child in utero through a miscarriage of our first child.  I understand a little about the pain, but I have never been faced with the knowledge that my child in utero was sick before he or she died.  To hold that information is gut-wrenching.  We have watched Matilda's parents do it, and it is no easy task.  Women and men who have endured this type of pain need our prayers.

We live in a culture that teaches us death is better than hardship.

So, when parents hear their child will struggle or possibly die sooner than one hopes for their child...
When they hear they themselves will struggle with raising someone with this disability...
When they hear that there is going to be real pain involved for their child and for them...

Sometimes they succumb to the death is better option.  Lord, have mercy.

Death is never better, friends.  Matilda is only one person, but she taught me in a really personal way that death is never better. It has been almost four years since my friend Matilda fell asleep in Christ, and her impact remains with me - reminding me of the importance of every tiny life, reminding me of the importance of humble, selfless prayer, reminding me of the importance of treating all people with disabilities with respect and dignity, reminding me of the importance of showing empathy to mothers and fathers who are given the great responsibility of a high risk pregnancy, reminding me of the importance of speaking out for the defenseless.

In your honor, Matilda.  Your life made a difference here.  I look forward to meeting you soon.

Reality: Nine Quiet Years, My Love

It is 8:15 pm on July 21, 2016.  Nine years ago on this day I married the man I can now say I barely knew then.  Standing up at the altar is a much bigger deal than you think it is when you are there.  Years later you look back and think about how you knew so very little about...well, about everything.  The oath I took with my husband means more today than it ever did nine years ago.  Words become action throughout the years when you actually experience the richer and poorer and the sickness and health.

I don't expect my husband to be home for a few hours, as Thursdays are his very long days.  In fact, I haven't seen him much at all today.  This day went on like most others do, serving each other through work at home and away, and serving our neighbors through the daily work we have been given.  I can't speak for him, but my day was full of the regular frustrations and sins - on my part and on the part of our children - and the regular joys and humor - mostly on the part of our silly children.

There was nothing too fantastic about my day.
It was a quiet day as a wife and mother.

In a world that devalues marriage to such a high degree and in such a loud voice, I find our quiet regular day of marriage on our anniversary quite bold.  There is nothing flashy about our life.  We live, we work, we love our neighbors, and we sin against each other.  Man and wife together raising children in a home that is full of laughter (probably not enough of that), yelling (definitely way too much of that), and forgiveness (always overflowing with that).

Sometimes I think I should be doing more to speak out in this world about marriage and family.
Then I remember my boldly quiet life.

Don't for one second ever be ashamed of your quiet, virtually unknown existence.  You are noticed by the ones God has given you in your life, because Christ makes His Light radiate from your very bones. Quiet lives shine boldly in the darkness of the loud world.

The hard work of changing a culture is done one home at a time.
It isn't a work that will garner you awards or praise, and that is quite good, because it isn't a work you do anyway.

When He stood with man and woman at the altar, He knew exactly what He was getting Himself into.  He knew He would watch husband and wife hurt each other, refuse to serve one another, and defy each other's wishes.  He knew He would allow some of the worst tragedies ever imagined to send shock waves through the marriage.  He also knew He would work on hearts through this union.  He would bring husband and wife to repentance toward Him, toward each other, and toward every person touched by this union. He would roll up His sleeves and do the dirty work of changing the culture of sin in that home.

He does it everyday in our home.  Whenever I get a little too proud and think to myself, "Wow, that culture out there is awful," I am gently reminded that He is still working on the culture in my own heart, as well.

And so, our quiet life marches boldly onward.
Happy Anniversary, My Love.
May God bless us with many more quiet years.

Reality: Our Son, Made in the Image of God

Today is six years since the day you were due to be born, our son.  Six years ago God had almost completed the process of growing you in your birthmother's belly and in our hearts.  Two days later, it came time for you to grow in our arms and in her heart.

I love you so deeply that at times it feels as though my heart could burst.  I know the same is true of her love for you.  Whereas our sacrifices in loving you will be vastly different - her in choosing parents for you to run to with open arms and leaps of joy with shouts of "mama and daddy" while she watches from afar, and me in the daily chaos and pains of raising a child with the knowledge that as much as I will be an excellent mother to you, I will fail you more often.  The sacrifices are not the same, but they are sacrifices nonetheless.  Sacrifices mothers make for their children.

In a culture that says life before birth is not worthy of protecting, I relive memories of receiving your ultrasound pictures from the hand of the mother who grew you - the woman who chose life for you.  I trembled as I flipped through them everyday for months, sometimes every hour, as we waited for you.  We would nervously call to check on you, never wanting to intrude on her yet basking in every new feeling and heartbeat check.  We are so thankful for you and for the mother who bore you and for the parents who raised her.

You, our son, have been loved for your whole existence.
A precious gift from God.
In a situation the world would call less than ideal, He made you.

This isn't to say you are some picture perfect poster child for choosing life.  Well, no, actually you are.  You just aren't the only one.  Every single life is that poster child.  What you have already contributed to the world in your short six years is magnificent, not because you are better than any other person, but because you were made uniquely in the image of God, our son. That is why life matters.  Because when God creates, it matters.  

When I look at you, I see a life that matters as a six-year-old boy.  I see a life that mattered as a six-week-old embryo.  I see a life that will matter as a sixty-year-old man, God willing.  You were no accident.  It is in this knowledge that we will raise you to be bold in your confession of life and Who gives it.  No matter how many sacrifices your birthmother or we make for you, it falls flat in comparison to the sacrifice your Jesus made for you.  In His image you were made, and in Him you were redeemed.

As you grow, your physical features will continue to make you look different than we do.  The world may see what it wants and judge how it sees fit.  But you, son, will know that your image is not the one they put on you, but the one Christ put on you in Baptism.  In that way, your image matches perfectly to ours - the One in which we were all made and then redeemed.

We are so thankful God made you, and humbled He chose us to care for you.  May God grant us the patience, gentleness, and steadfastness to see this work through to the Resurrection, when everyone will see the amazing Image in which each life, yours included, was made.

Financial DADisms You Should Know

There are so many directions I could go in a post about my father.  He is a pretty cool dude who spent his early years driving motorcycles far too fast to mention and traded them in to pay for his daughters as they came along.  That makes a pretty great start to a dad, for sure.

The most important fatherly duty of any man is to take his family to church.  My father and mother did that.  But today I am going to talk about the financial dadisms my sister and I were taught in our life.  In a world full of people who spend too much, save too little, and basically run amok with their purse strings, I want to shout from the rooftops about the dad who taught us what's up with money.

Here's to you, Dad.

1. "I never spend a dime!"

You know those 10 gallon jugs of pretzels?  My dad can finish off one of those in two days flat.  Our first daughter thinks the words "PopPop" and "pretzel" are synonymous.  Well, anyway, growing up he would barrel down, finish up a couple hundred pretzels, wipe the plastic container clean, and start his newest collection of dimes.  He literally never spent a single dime he had.  He always says he chose dimes to save because they are small enough to take up very little space and yet add up pretty quickly.  The perfect coin in his mind.  And so his collections marched onward throughout the years.  At first he said he was saving them for each of his daughters, then he met those goals.  So, then he moved onto his grandkids, of which he currently has six.  Each of them have a pretzel jar of dimes, too.  And when he says they add of quick in a small space, he ain't kidding...a few thousand dollars in each of those extremely heavy jugs.  I don't know if I could actually ever cash mine out at this point.  Those jugs have more emotional weight than they do financial weight.  They teach me about the repetitive nature of saving.  They show me that small steps add up.  They scream to me about the love of a father as he dropped a dime in there each day and thought about the future grandkids he would bless with those jugs.  Ain't nothing better than that, folks.

2.  "Got some electrical work to do at that church."

Watching a father give to the church is of unspeakable value to a child's life.  My parents were/are consistent tithers.  My dad does not hide the fact that in the course of our lives, there were times when he and my mother had 13 cents in their checking and savings accounts (plus a hundred bucks in untouchable, dimes, of course).  They were not wealthy people, but they never failed to give monetarily to the church.  But that wasn't the only things they did.  My dad is an electrician, and I cannot count how many nights he spent hanging fans, replacing electrical boxes, putting in new lights, and flipping switches at the church throughout my childhood.  He gave of himself and his talents.  Money first, talents next.  Give to the church.  Give to others.  Be generous.  Even when you are poor.  Be generous.  Even when you barely have a dime.  Be generous.  God has overflowed on you.  Return to Him part of what is His.

3.  "No daughter of mine won't know how to drive a stick shift."

When I was 13 years old, my parents ran across an opportunity to buy a little convertible for cheap.  It was a manual, and my dad said it was the perfect first car for me.  I just had to watch them drive it for a few years first.  My parents weren't of the mindset that we needed to purchase our own vehicles, although I see the merit in that parenting choice, as well.  But they were of the mindset that we didn't need anything fancy or new.  More importantly, they believed we certainly needed to know some basic skills, like how to use a clutch.  It may seem strange that I would include this in a list of financial dadisms, but the point was that his daughters were going to learn to drive from their father.  They were going to learn how to balance a checkbook from their father.  They were going to learn the basics of how to run wires through the walls in a house from their father.  They were going to learn how to fix their bikes from their father.  They were going to learn how to save a barrel of dimes from their father.  Notice a trend?  From their father.  That meant he spent time with us.  He, along with my mom, experienced whiplash when I dropped the transmission one too many times.  A mother and a father together raising two daughters to be self-sufficient, law-abiding citizens who knew how to handle money and a manual transmission.

4. "If you don't have it, you shouldn't have it."

My dad is vehemently against credit cards.  He did have to break down and get one just a couple years ago, because you can't even function in today's society without one as a means of booking certain things.  But rest assured, his balance is at 0, his credit limit at like nothing, and if it is ever used, it is most certainly paid off in 30 days or less.  So, this meant that when we were young, we learned that if we didn't have the money, we didn't get the thing.  Seems like a pretty simple lesson, but our society has trouble with simple lessons.  My parents pay cash for everything, even vehicles.  One time my parents bought a vehicle with...yep, you guessed it, DIMES!  The only loan they ever had was their home loan, and they paid that off 10 years early.  They both recently retired, they own a home, two vehicles, a camper, and they owe no one anything.  And their financial stability is not due to excess wealth.  It is due to knowing that if you don't have it, you shouldn't have it.

5.  "You can't have a job."

There are a lot of parents who insist upon their children working as a means to learning about money and the value of a dollar.  My parents were not one of those sets of parents.  I hated not having a job.  I asked to get a job lots of times, to no avail.  They did allow me to teach oboe and saxophone lessons later in high school, but only because it was a way for me to hone my playing skills while helping others.  They were against me earning money, because they always said, "You already have a job, Kelly.  Your job is to do well in school.  Our job is to pay for you to do that.  You earn scholarships.  That is how you can work."  And work, I did.  In honor of parents who worked so hard for me, I was compelled to hold up my end of the bargain.

6.  "Mmgghh, here!"

No, my father didn't speak a foreign language.  This is my best attempt at spelling a sound he often makes.  It was a bit of a grunt, but in a soft teddy bear sort of way.  It went something like this: "Dad, can I have $10? I want to get pizza with my friends after school." Pause.  Reach for billfold.  "Mmgghh, here!"  Or like this: (As he settles down into the couch after going to the basement for a bowl of ice cream for himself) "Oh, that looks good, Dad!"  Pause.  Put the spoon down.  "Mmgghh, here!"  I am not sure "cheerful giver" would be the right words for this spirit in my dad, but it certainly was "constant giver."  I rarely remember my dad saying no to me.  In today's world, you might think that is the recipe for a spoiled brat who gets anything she wants.  But somehow, that is not the daughters he helped form with this constant giving nature.  He and my mom modeled a life or giving to others and living on less.  So, we didn't think to expect extravagant things, but we knew to expect all they could give.  And that spirit lives on in them to this day.  They inspire those around them to be more giving even in a "Mmgghh, here!" sort of way.

Fathers get a pretty bad name in our culture.  So, to all you dads out there with some "isms" (whether it be financial or any other area of life), thanks for loving the mothers of your children.  Thanks for loving your children.  Us grown-up daughters wouldn't be the same without you.

Thanks, Dad.  I love you.

Reality: One mom's dark place

The past nine months of my life have been the hardest to date.

To go into all the details would be too time-consuming and quite irrelevant to the point of what I am sharing today.  The point is that Satan has been attacking me hard.  Now, I don't know that he is attacking me any harder than any other Christian mother, but this isn't a contest.

I don't need to share the details of my particular burdens for you to just know, because most moms will know.
You know because he has attacked you, too.
He has burdened your conscience.
He has sent life events to drown you.
He has taken births of blessings and turned them into the darkest moments of your lives.
He has looked at your repentance and told you it isn't enough.
He has seen what makes you angry, and he uses it against you.
He has led you into temptation.
He has encouraged you when you start to question why God would do these things to you.

My dark place is ever-going at the moment.  Nine months and going strong.  A constant battle to just choose to try again the next day, with the knowledge that another day of crushing blows is probably coming.  I tend to be a positive person, which actually makes this so much stranger for me.  I still tend toward positive thinking, and yet I can't seem to get that pesky Satan to stop crushing my spirit. He is good at it, because he has tons of practice.  I am sure he is well practiced on you, too, my friend.

Sometimes as a pastor's wife, I say Satan is that much worse, because let's be honest, there is a bullseye on your family's back when your husband faithfully preaches the Law and Gospel to souls.
And then, getting pastoral care from the man who knows your every fault can be intimidating.  I sinfully shun it at times.
But today my pastor husband came home with the letter below.
Thanks be to God for faithful shepherds to soothe a sinner's heart.

I share it here for my own benefit, as I will be able to read it in moments when I need it.
I share it here for your benefit, as you can fill it in with your children and be reminded of Christ's work through you.
I will be honest, though.  It doesn't mean your life will be better.  Satan will keep attacking you.  Life will continue to be hard.  But in that, know that I am praying for you, all Christian mothers, that you may be filled with joy in your blessings, given comfort in your repentance of sins, and strengthened to stand firm against the darts of Satan (while knowing they were already thrown at and destroyed by Jesus for you).


To my wife, the mother of our children:

And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up. (Galatians 6:9)

Those who sow in tears shall reap with shouts of joy! (Psalm 126:5)

The wicked earns deceptive wages, but one who sows righteousness gets a sure reward. (Proverbs 11:18)

It is so very easy to grow weary in doing good, especially because we think we don’t see results.  We too often sow and desire to reap in an hour, a day, or a week.  However, Scripture uses these terms wisely and for our encouragement.  We are called to be patient like a farmer.  As seeds take time to sprout, so the good that we sow to those around often takes time to give testimony.  Sometimes, we won’t see them at all, but that doesn’t make God unfaithful to His Word.

Meanwhile, the devil calls us to impatience and weariness.  He magnifies our sins and judges us harshly.  He weighs us down with despair and unbelief that God could use such a sinner as I to bless others.  While it is indeed a work of the Holy Spirit to convict us of our sin, it is the work of the devil for us to be convinced that God wants to stop there.  We grow in love of others by growing in the knowledge and peace that He first loved us.  We begin to understand what it means that Jesus died for our sins by becoming increasingly aware of how many sins we actually commit in thought, word, and deed.  It seems ironic, but is true, that we are made holy by becoming more sensitive to the depth, not the shallowness, of the accusations of the holy Ten Commands. 

Jesus doesn’t want you to grow weary and become burdened so that you stay weary and burdened.  He calls you to come to Him for rest – true rest of conscience and peace with God and man.  He is gentle with you.  Learn from Him.  He has borne the yoke of your sin and then gives you His yoke – love one another as I have loved you. 

I desire for you to begin to see the love that Christ has shown to our children through you.  Through Him, you have sowed (sometimes in tears!), and in Him there has been true, visible results – a wonderful reaping.  Consider only some of the results shown since your 2015 birthday:

Solomon

Solomon has completed a second year of attending Classical Conversations (and he is only 5 years old!).  He has learned countless (!) songs by heart that have taught and will continue to teach him about God’s gracious hand in history, science, math, and language.  This, his second year, was his first year without you in the room.  He showed respect and love for his teacher – who adores him.  He learned, listened, gave speeches (often without much preparation…let’s be honest!), and showed kindness all on his own. Because you gave him this opportunity to be a student by himself, you also learned that he sometimes sins against his teacher and classmates even when that teacher isn’t his mother and his classmate isn’t his brother.

Solomon has grown in both attitude and aptitude in reading, writing, and math.  He completed his 100^th reading lesson with you.  Can you reflect on the aptitude and attitude of lesson 1 and begin to see that God is faithful to His promises – you sowed in tears and now are reaping with joy, though I’m not discounting that you continue to sow in tears at times!  His desire to read grows stronger every month.  He asks about signs on the road, on walks and parks, and on titles of books. 

He expresses himself better, is more self-controlled, sleeps better, gets dressed quicker, is able to handle small chores, entertains himself longer, and has grown in playing with his brother.  He applies knowledge learned in school, library books read by you, from random play, and watching Daniel Tiger to real life situations.

Most importantly, he has repented of his sins countless times and received absolution both from God and from others.  He prays on his own, knows more of the Bible, has memorized more hymns, more parts of the liturgy, and now freely asks very difficult questions about his God – Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. 

Henry

Henry has completed his first year of Classical Conversations.  He has learned countless (!) songs by heart that have taught and will continue to teach him about God’s gracious hand in history, science, math, and language.  He was introduced to public speaking (at the age of 4!) and at times showed amazing aptitude in it (remember the Christmas program at church?).  Can you begin to see that God is faithful to his promises that those who sow in tears will reap in joy?  He grew in friendship and playing with others.

He was given the greatest gift he never asked for when God gave him another new baby sister.  He loves, laughs, and cares for her so intently partly because he models your love, laughter, and care.  He applies knowledge learned in school, library books read by you, from random play, and watching Daniel Tiger to real life situations.

He is an amazing builder of Lincoln Logs and Tinker Toys – all new from Christmas 2015.  He speaks clearer, counts better, recognizes and creates patterns, knows much of the alphabet and their phonetic sounds and can actually read some whole sentences!  He sleeps better, falls asleep on his own easier, gets dressed on his own, and continues to learn to control his crazy emotions that God gave him through you and me. 

Most importantly, he has repented of his sins countless times and received absolution both from God and from others.  He prays for others, knows more of the Bible, has memorized more hymns, and more parts of the liturgy.

Dorothea

Dorothea has recently exploded in her ability to express herself.  She has an immense vocabulary and realizes that because she is loved by mom and dad, she can speak freely about everything.  She has learned so much simply by being present in situations where teaching, reading, and singing has occurred.  She has learned countless (!) songs by heart that have taught and will continue to teach her about God’s gracious hand in history, science, math, and language.

She now consistently plays by herself and with others.  She has begun to learn what she loves and has been encouraged to grow in that (“Mommy, can I color?”).  She sleeps in a big girl bed, shares a bedroom with her baby sister, and actually sleeps very well.  She wears 3T clothes that were gathered and organized by you (Thank God for the gift of clothes from others and for the countless hours spent by you organizing all of our children’s clothes!).  She eats incredibly well without much complaint. 

Most importantly, she has repented of her sins countless times and received absolution both from God and from others.  She prays, blesses, knows more of the Bible, has memorized more hymns, and more parts of the liturgy.

Josephine

One year ago, Josephine was still being created and formed by her Heavenly Father in your womb.  Josephine has been birthed and also been given the gift of new birth by Water and the Spirit.

She now crawls, laughs, eats solid food, shows love and is receptive of love.  She expects comfort because she has received so much comfort.  She now sleeps in a crib and sleeps relatively well (says I in ignorance!)

Before the age of 1, our little Josephine has heard in her ears and soul countless confessions of sin from her father, mother, and siblings and countless absolutions from God and to each other.  She has heard so many prayers, so many blessings, so much of the Word of God, so many hymns, and so many parts of the liturgy.  She sings, she folds her hands, and she crosses herself.

Conclusion

So, God is faithful to His promises.  You have sown in doing good and because of His grace, you can begin to see the good reaping.  Don’t grow weary.  Keep commending yourself and children to God with the patience of a farmer.  You have received rewards here in time and are promised even greater rewards in eternity.

There is still more love to grow in.  Your faith and hope constantly need to be strengthened by the healing Words and Sacrament of our Savior.  The holy Ten Commands will continually be calling for us to fulfill them, so take heart in this, one of your fathers in the faith – “All God’s commandments are fulfilled when whatever is not done, is forgiven” (St. Augustine).

Love,

Your husband

Reality: A letter to my daughters and daughters-in-law

If a day comes that my daughters or my daughters-in-law are blessed with children, this is the letter I will give them.

My dearest daughters and daughters-in-law,

Everyone has an opinion about your life.  Many will decide to tell you about their opinions through light-hearted jokes or hard-hearted stabs.  Both can seem like arrows to your soul at times.  The weight is heavy as a mom of young children.  You carry with you the guilt of every mistake you will make...and you will make them.  I made them with you, my daughters, everyday.  I made them with my sons, your husbands, everyday.  The world and your own consciences will tell you all the things you do wrong and some things they think you do wrong.  You don't cherish every moment.  You discipline in anger.  You want nothing more in the world than to be alone for an hour and sometimes you despise your children for not allowing you that time.  You don't feed them homemade food for every meal. You don't always want to take them to church.  You feed them too often.  You let them cry too long. You don't do enough.  You do too much.  You have too many kids.  You, my daughters and daughters-in-law, will be judged by the world and by yourself.  The world will tell you being a mom is not enough.  You are smart and educated.  You could be doing so much more.  Your heart will believe these comments sometimes, because there is truth to them.  You are smart.  You are educated.  And you will want to bolt out of your mom role.  It will happen.  And worse, when it happens, you will feel like you can't express those feelings because everyone out in the world was waiting for this moment - the moment when you finally woke up and realized they were right all along... You have too many kids.  You want more than this life.  You can't let yourself say the reality of a hard life with kids because everyone out there seems to hate kids.  How can you, who loves children and the blessings of them, honestly say that sometimes you just want to run away?  The burden is heavy.  You will fail more times than you ever care to tell the world.  You will hurt the ones who love you most and they will hurt you.

But my dearest daughters and daughters-in-law, should you be blessed to have a life like mine, let me tell you want I want to remember for the moment that this pain hits you -

I want to say I understand.  You can be honest with me,and you can be honest with your Jesus.  Because it does not matter what anyone's opinion is about your life.  God gave you this life.  In His infinite mercy and knowledge, He chose you as the mother of these children.  He will fill your heart at times with such great joy that you feel you may burst.  The love He gives you for your children is enormous. But when that joy and that love seems to be seeping out of all the cracks caused by the daily chaos, constant touching, endless needs, and constant interruptions, know that He will restore it, my dears.  He will restore your joy and love.  Everyday is hard - particularly between the hours of six in the morning until six in the morning the next day.  I mean, I get it.  When people make well-meaning comments about your "full hands" or when they seem to stab you with a dagger of hatred about the kids being "all yours?!?!," know that every person, even that person stabbing you, is fighting a different battle in their life.  Do your best to respond in kindness, because their cross is no lighter or heavier than yours.  Maybe your kindness will be a pebble in their shoe to remind them of that one woman who had lots of kids and still seemed joyful.

But more importantly, my dears, when you DON'T respond with kindness (and there will be times you won't), know that your Jesus bore that sin, too.  You don't live a life full of laws from God to keep you perfect.  You don't live a life to earn your way to heaven.  You live a life full of forgiveness that sets you free.  Free to love your children.  Free to love your husbands.  Free to love your neighbors.  Free to love yourself.  The freedom provided from the cross of Christ is the only cure for the crosses you bear in this life.   You will never be enough, but Christ's cross will always be enough.

My dearest daughters, by birth and by marriage, know that I may forget this time in my life by the time you get there.  God will have re-filled my joy and sealed my mom-of-littles cracks.  There will be new cracks, of which I don't know anything about now.  So, be kind to me, too, and help bring back some of these memories so that I may help you bear the burdens in joy.  Find this letter and gently say, "Mom, remember when..."  I will probably smile and say something ridiculous like, "Oh, I miss those times.  Cherish every moment."  Have mercy on my aging soul as I remember a time when I felt fully needed.  I may not always feel that way, and I am certain I will miss that part...someday.

Love,
Mom

Reality: The Identity That Matters

I read this story the other day.
There was a black server who served a black couple their meal at a restaurant.  When the couple filled out their ticket, they did not leave a tip and instead wrote, "Be black" in the tip line.  His actions apparently didn't register as black enough for their tastes.
There are a ton of stories like this one, with all different races of people assuming all sorts of roles on everyone else.

Insert one of my heart's most secret fears.

Our oldest son is five years old.
We knew he was our son when his birthmother was about six months pregnant with him.
He is some beautiful mix of African American and Puerto Rican.
We are white.  (Actually, I tell most people I am translucent because I am so pale you can see all my veins.  You just can't get whiter than I am.)

I look at my precious son, and I fear that he will never be black enough for some people's opinions.
I fear he will never be Puerto Rican enough for some other people's opinions.
I fear he will be too white for some other people's opinions.
Everyone has opinions about these kind of things.

Because versions of it have already happened a number of times, someday I know I will have to explain to him why someone called him "an oreo" (a terrible term for someone who is black on the outside and acts white on the inside, whatever that means...).  Someday I am going to have to hold him when he cries because someone was mean to him because of the color of his skin...or because of the color of my skin.

And when I start "somedaying" my fears, I remember that by the day that someday gets here, I will have already spent our time teaching him that he doesn't need to worry about being black enough or white enough or anything enough.  The only identity that matters is whether he is baptized enough, and that he is, indeed.

The only identity that matters is if God has marked him as His own, and He has.

The reality is he will never be "enough" in this world, because none of us will be.
And when we recognize this, we are able to stand up and say, "No. I am not enough, but Christ is."

My dear son, Christ is.
And your identity will always be in Him.
You were marked as His when you were just 11 days old.
That, my son, is the only identity that matters.
All you have to worry about is being Solomon enough.  Christ has everything handled.

Reality: Merry Christmas from the pastor's family.

As I stand in my living room on Christmas Eve morning, my children are dancing with scarves to Christmas music, and my husband has been gone since before breakfast.  He will join us for lunch and a quick facetime with family from afar, and then be gone until well after bedtime. That is the life of a pastor's family.

Do not get me wrong, here - I would not change any of this for anything.  I am proud of my husband.  I am happy to share him with a world that needs faithful undershepherds.

We all make sacrifices every single day.  It doesn't matter if your husband works in a factory, in an office, or in the church.  Or maybe you don't have a husband.  The fact is, we all sacrifice certain things.  I think it is important for other people to understand about this life, too.  My sacrifices may be very different from yours, but it doesn't mean they are easier or harder.  They are different.

No, we won't be going home for Christmas.
No, we will actually never be going home for Christmas.
Our home is here with our small family, with our church family, and with our iPad for facetiming.

My husband currently has at least four people in the hospital, one person dying in Hospice, and two other members with considerable needs to serve.  Christmas is a joyful time to celebrate our Lord's birth, and yet it brings with it many griefs.  People die.  People get cancer.  People are lonely.  And when the people God gave my husband to shepherd do those things, he suffers next to them and for them.  That is the heart of the pastor.

"Peter, do you love Me?"
"Yes, Lord; You know that I love You."
"Tend My sheep."
(Paraphrased from John 21:15- 16)

Tending sheep involves more than a service on Christmas morning.  It involves much more than preaching a sermon once per week.  I do not remember the last time my husband did not receive at least one phone call while at home from a member who was in need.  And I have no way of counting the number of calls he receives while in the office.

This doesn't mean I want them to stop calling.  Lord, please give them the courage to keep calling when they need him.  He wants them to call.  He is Called to tend and to feed, and therefore, calling him to tell him how he can tend and feed is important.  He has no greater joy in being a pastor than when he is able to tend to sheep in times of need.

God gives great comfort to pastors and their families in this way.
The struggles are real.  The weight is heavy.  The loneliness is dark.

But the peace in Christ is full.  When my husband brings the Word of God to those in need, it also fills him.  When he is full, we are full.

And so this Christmas, be full of peace.
The peace brought to us in the manger and on the cross.
Merry Christmas from one pastor's family.

Reality: When the pew seems more like a trench.

I hear the phrase "being in the trenches" in reference to raising young children.  I have four kids five and under.  I get it.  I know the trench well - it involves lots of mud, bodily fluids, thrown food, blow-outs, and intense screaming.  The trenches are exhausting.

I think that is what makes the Divine Service with children so difficult.  Where God comes to bring comfort, peace, and forgiveness, we bring the trench.  Where I sit to be fed the nourishment to end my hunger, the trench finds a way of distracting the meal.

But the trench needs that comfort, peace, and forgiveness as much as we do.
The trench needs to be fed that nourishment in Word and Sacrament as much as I do.

So, we trudge on and in the midst of it,
we are reminded of our weaknesses,
we are reminded of our own lack of control,
we are reminded that WE are the trench to God.

The trench where He stooped down and took on human flesh.  The mystery of all mysteries.  God became man.

And because He did this, we are free to bring our trench into the Divine Service where it can be molded and fed.

It doesn't mean it will be easy.  My trench is pretty ugly sometimes.  In my four years of sitting in the trench at church without my husband's help, I have experienced all of the following:

- shrieking screams (not me, although I was thinking it in my mind)
- violent body shaking (also not me, but it has been close)
- infant blow-outs (not me, but ON me)
- potty training pee accidents (not me and NOT on me, poor church floor)
- bottlefeeding (including spilled powder formula)
- breastfeeding (including angrily tossed covers or worse - forgotten covers...)
- banged heads, and elbows, and knees, and every other body part (some mine, some theirs)
- temper tantrums (yes, definitely from me, too, I confess)
- dropped approximately 10,000,000,000,000 toys, crayons, books, etc. (anyone know a toy can roll for approximately 10,000 more feet than normal under pews?)
- a toddler who was a runner (and a mother who was quicker than lightening at grabbing shirt collars)
- a pre-schooler who was a clinger (and a mother who prayed for one moment of no touching)
- inappropriate words at loud volumes (I plead the 5th on who those came from)
- broken beaded necklace that made little pings and rolling bead noises all over the church (don't jewelry makers understand that a necklace must be able to hold the weight of a determined toddler swinging from the make believe vines of Mommy Forest?)
- ripped hymnal pages (ugh, just ugh...nothing like the sound of ripping paper as you think, "OH, no, everyone just heard the PKs rip that hymnal...)
- a few appropriately placed "Amen"s and "Lord have mercy"s (AMEN! and most certainly LORD HAVE MERCY!)
- a couple moments of quiet (THANKS BE TO GOD!)
- an open hymnal on a child's lap (SOMEBODY QUICK, GRAB A CAMERA! You know, before he rips it.)

But through all this I have learned a few things.
Here are my words of wisdom for all you trench-dwellers.

*Note - I am no expert.  If you saw me on any given Sunday, you would probably think, "Where does that lady get off giving advice?"  But it never hurts to share some trench tactics.  So, here you go.

The single greatest thing I have learned over the years is that LESS is MORE.  I used to pack my bag full of all sorts of entertaining gadgets, toys, crayons, snacks, and activities.  The more I took, the more there was to manage.  Now, I take three pieces of gum reserved for sermon time, three one dollar bills for the offering time, and each child chooses one book before we leave the house, and they are responsible for it.  Oh, and one carrier/nursing cover for the baby - the only entertainment needed for her at this time.  If I am attending both of my husband's congregations, I bring one snack bag for each kid for the second service.  Two services?  They deserve a reward, amiright?  The days of being a pack-mule for church are over for me.  And it is glorious.  No fighting over all the stuff, no loud toys banging on the floor or pew, and less weight on my shoulders.

The second greatest thing I have learned is to prepare the kids a little in advance.  It doesn't have to be much.  I happened to be married to the pastor, so I can often find out hymn selections in advance.  If you aren't married to the pastor, I can almost place money on the fact that a phone call to him asking the hymn selections for you to practice with kids would be the single greatest call he ever received.  Singing the first verse over the course of the week really helps them recognize it.  They are so joyful when they say, "Mama, we sing this at home!"  If my husband mentions the texts or sermon to me, I try to use some of those words with the kids.  It helps build their theological vocabulary and gives them something to latch onto during the service.

Third, I have hand signals.  We made them up together.  I can say "turn around, bottom on your seat, close your mouth, listen, stand, and hands to yourself" without saying anything (which inevitably ends with actually making more noise).  Build your own sign language.  And practice it.

My last piece of advice is to be prepared with hidden chocolate at home for when all the tactics end in your loss of the battle.  You will need it sometimes.

Eat the chocolate, and then remember that God doesn't depend on you, your actions, or the actions of your children to do what He says He does in the Divine Service.

He feeds you...He forgives you...He teaches you...

Whether or not you can recall even just one line of that sermon.

Trench on, beautiful mamas and papas.  This trench/pew is one worth diving into.

Reality: Your Arguments Just Won't Fly with Me

I live everyday of my life with a person who was not planned by his birthmother.  I raise, love, discipline, and watch one of these people grow every single day of my life.  I have signed my name to court documents saying that I will continue to do this until he is of legal age (and probably much longer).

So, when you sit behind the safety of your computer screen and share edited facts about how "only 3% of Planned Parenthood's work is abortions," you just simply cannot understand me.

Your arguments just won't fly with me.

My son could have easily been part of that 3% (or hundreds of thousands of babies), and your argument would be, "Yeah, that was his birthmother's choice, but she could have chosen an abortion, too."  Some of you follow that up with, "I am glad she didn't, but it was her choice to make."

I don't curse, but if I did, it would be right here...
THAT IS MY SON.

Your arguments just won't fly with me.

I mother this child because of the choice his first mother made.  And that choice was not and should never be one between "kill him or have him," but between "choose to raise him or choose the ones who raise him."

She chose to choose us, and never have I ever been so honored.  Adoption is not all rainbows and butterflies.  There is true hurt involved in all parties, but that hurt is one we feel because we love from every side.  And yes, someday my son will know his entire story and he will feel pain with that, but thanks be to God that he has been given a story to know and learn and feel.

And because he has been given that story, hundreds and probably thousands of others have been positively impacted in just his short five years.

He is not just a number - a single life in the hundreds of thousands that could have been a part of a "little" percentage to be thrown around like it is insignificant.

He is a person.
A life.

One that hurts, and loves, and gives, and takes, and sins, and repents, and obeys, and dishonors, and brings joy, and brings heartache, and laughs, and cries, and lives.

And that is why your arguments just won't ever fly with me.

Reality: On Shots and Pee Cups

Today was Solomon's five year check-up at the doctor.  I failed to mention to him that it was going to result in some shots.  I know there is a debate out there about whether or not to do shots and whether or not you should prepare your kids for said shots should you choose to partake in them.

This post isn't anything about that.  This post is about the most hilarious story in the history of ever. So, prepare yourself...

Nearing the end of the regular appointment, no one had used the "S.H.O.T.S." word, and the doctor was headed out the door and said, "Great to see you today.  Just wait here and a nurse will bring in the...well, you know."

Solomon's eyes got huge and turned to me when the doctor left.  He said, "What?  Who is going to bring what?  What are they bringing in here, Mommy?  Mommy?  Mommy?"

Me: "Well, Solomon, a nurse is going to bring some medicine so that you can stay healthy."
Solomon: "Oh, OK, Great!"

Nailed it.

Except that in walked the nurse carrying an empty cup.  She said, "Actually, we are going to need a urine sample before going on."

I laughed, as this was going to be the S man's first pee-in-a-cup experience.  I hope anyway.  I know he hasn't done it for medical reasons, but he is a boy, so he may have peed in a cup before at some point that I thankfully do not know about...

Anyway.

I said, "Come on, Solomon," grabbed the cup, held his hand, and headed toward the bathroom.  When I closed the door he looked at me and said, "What are we going to do with that cup?"

I said, "Well, you have to pee in it."

INSERT SUDDEN LOOK OF HORROR AND SHOCK.

Solomon: "What? I have to what?"
Me:  "You have to pee in it."

He turned white as a ghost and looked up at me with wide eyes and said, "Mama, is THAT going to be my medicine?"

When I tried to tell this story to the nurse, I couldn't make it through that line.  When I tried to tell this to my mom on the phone on the way home, I couldn't make it through that line.  When I got home and told my husband, I still couldn't make it through that line.  And now typing, I couldn't make it through that line.

"Mama, is THAT going to be my medicine?"

Poor guy.

I had told him the next lady was coming to bring him his medicine, and the next lady brought him that cup.  So, obviously, guys, whatever was going in that cup was clearly his medicine.

The lucky part about the whole thing is that after that, he barely made a peep about his ACTUAL shots.

I mean, things could have clearly been worse than THAT medicine.

Reality: Dear Solomon

Dear Solomon,

Five years ago today marked the day when you were born.  We had lost a child in a complicated adoption world, experienced the death of our first child in utero, and were convinced God was telling us that kids were not a part of His plan for us anytime soon.

Then, there was you.

Many believe your name means "wisdom," and while King Solomon was gifted with wisdom, his name actually means "peace."  Before Solomon was born, King David committed a grievous sin with Bathsheba and bore a child together.  When Nathan confronted King David with the law and his sin, King David repented, but with this sin came the loss of that child.  He mourns this loss greatly and speaks the undeniable and joyous truth of, "I shall go to him, but he will not return to me."  Such great comfort has been given to my soul with those few words from King David's mouth.  For our first biological child will not return to us, but we shall meet again.  Following this tremendous loss in King David and Bathsheba's lives, God gifted them with Solomon.  He gifted them with peace.

This is how you got your name, our son.  And while we know that real peace is only found in Christ, we are thankful for the many and various ways God gives earthly peace to our hearts.  You are that, our son.

So, to you on your fifth birthday, peace, son.  May you always know what your life did in that moment for us and continues to do every day God blesses the world with you.  Being a person who was adopted, there will be trials you will face that others do not.  But never for one moment do I want you or anyone else to think that God didn't have a plan for what your life would do in this world.  You were fearfully and wonderfully made, knitted in your birthmother's womb, and given to us.  You were planned, as every single child is - not in the minds of mere humans but in the eternal knowledge of God.  All this was with purpose and meaning.

Every life, no matter the length, circumstances, or worldly success, has purpose and meaning.  Every life is one for whom Christ died on the cross, bringing real peace to the whole world.  You are one of those lives, son.

You, our son, are a gift from God.  Today we thank Him for the plan He had and has in your short-but-going-too-fast life.

Peace,
Your Mom

Reality: The Loss of our Pew Mom.

Three years ago this week, my husband had just been ordained and installed, and I found myself alone in the pew with two boys under the age of two.  As I walked in that first week after the ordination, the nerves were flowing.  I made my way up to the fourth pew, a close enough seat for the boys to see but still a buffer from their daddy pastor.  I was thinking to myself, "I hope I don't sit in someone's seat that has been here for 55 years...I hope my kids don't scream the whole time and try to run to daddy...I hope I can make it through this and possibly still hear the sermon. Heck, I hope I don't start crying at this very moment."

As I turned into the pew, a woman from across the aisle stood up and came towards me.  She said, "Would you mind if I sit with you?  I thought you might like someone in the pew with you with those little boys.  I wouldn't want you to be alone."

And so my relationship with Miss Betty White began.  She flew in that Sunday morning like an angel sent to sooth the fears of a pastor's wife with littles in the pew.  For the next three years, with barely a failure, she sat there in that pew with us.  She didn't judge me when they threw fits.  She didn't get discouraged when they inevitably were rude to her about something.  She brought them a little snack bag each week.  She held them on her lap.  She acted as a bookend on the pew when all they wanted to do was escape.  She sang the songs of the faith boldly into their ears.  She held them while they slept.  She held their hands while taking Communion.  She welcomed our new daughter and greatly anticipated our upcoming blessing to join us in that crazy pew.

A woman who had spent her whole life in the church chose to leave her pew, even her beloved SIDE of the church, to venture into a territory unknown with small children.  A unmarried woman with no children of her own found value in aiding me, a woman with an abundance of children.  The family of the church is so beautiful.

Last Sunday, the churches threw a surprise ordination anniversary dinner for my husband.  She walked up to me and said, "I know this is for your husband, but I want you to know it is for you, too.  I love you and the kids so much.  We are so happy you are here with us.  You and your husband are two of my favorite people in the world.  And I mean that."  I was so humbled and honored by her words.  The woman who went out of her way for three years to make me feel included and loved would say this to me?  I needed to say it to her.

I couldn't have known and neither could she what those words would mean to me just a few short days later.  Miss Betty, our "pew mom," as the children refer to her, died unexpectedly this week.  The ache in my soul is great.  The empty space in our pew will be vast tomorrow and every Sunday to come.

During our breakfast devotions this morning, we told the kids.  They have never lost a grandparent, and this is the closest they could come to that type of loss.  Since they are all very young, death is still a relatively unclear subject.  Our oldest said, "Miss Betty died?"  We said, "Yes, Honey.  Miss Betty died and is in heaven with Jesus now."  He just stared for a few moments, and we decided to go on with our prayers.  Today's prayers were focused on our extended family.  When I finished listing the prayers, he quietly said, "And we pray that we get to see Miss Betty at Mt. Calvary again."

My heart broke.

But we will see Miss Betty again, my dear son.
And we get that joy because of what happened on the original Mt. Calvary.
Until then, our dearest beloved Miss Betty, we will be missing you, while rejoicing in knowing that with all the company of heaven, including you, Saint Betty, we are joined at Holy Communion.

And I will smile thinking of you holding the hands of our children during so many Sundays of Communion.  You will hold their hands again, my friend.  I love you.  I miss you.

Reality: When the black church burns...

Back in the height of the Civil Rights Movement, our small black church called a pastor into their midst.  This man was white, like many of their pastors over 115 years have been.  Within a few weeks, a cross was burning in the parsonage yard.  The details of what followed are not important and unnecessary for me to share.  

The point is fire and the church means something real to black Christians in the United States.  

It would be ignorant for us to ignore such an historical and violent truth - black churches were burned all over our country because of the color of the skin of those who attended, white people who loved and supported the people in black churches found crosses burning in their front yards simply because they would not comply with the notion that black people were worth less.

In the past couple weeks, there have been eight fires at southern black churches.  None of these fires have been ruled "hate crimes" (whatever that means, as any fire started intentionally by a person is clearly due to some sort of hate...), but all of them are still being investigated.  Many out there in the social media world have a tendency to act as though it makes a difference whether or not the powers that be designate these as acts of racism. 

The fact is that whether or not they are organized acts of racism does not change the impact on the black community and black churches.  

It is impossible to take away the memories of what has transpired over our tumultuous history.  You can't erase it and think it won't impact people later.  This is not some post to talk about the pros and cons of reparations or affirmative action or any other form of trying to make a level playing field or paying back for past hurts.  

The truth is there is no paying it back.  

The point here is to encourage people to see that even if a lightning bolt started the fire, a black congregation cannot watch their church burn without the memories of what that meant to them and their parents and their grandparents.

Can we stop the lightning bolt?  Of course not.  But we can honor the memory and support those who are hurting as they watch their place of worship be destroyed.  And most importantly, we can stop coming up for reasons why this isn't racism.  

"Could be a black person just trying to get people riled up about racism again."  

(Yes, I may have read the comments section under a news story...forgive me.)  

And what if it was a black person?  Perceived racism is just as hurtful to a community as actual racism.  It still creates fear, hatred, animosity, uncertainty, and a need for revenge.  It still divides.

And yet again, for the people watching their house of worship go up in flames, the cause just doesn't matter very much.  Our society is at a perfect storm moment between heightened acts of racism and a general hatred for the church and what it stands for.  Our black brothers and sisters in Christ are hurting.  

Our pastor, who I happened to be married to, has a line he uses in many of his sermons (I am not nearly as eloquent as him, but this is my best shot) - "Sin divides while Christ unifies; where Satan and sin would have us be separated on all levels - from God and from each other, Christ brings us back to the Father and to each other."  

There is no repaying for burned churches.  There is no repaying for past sins.  There is only Christ.  In Him, we are unified.  And because we are unified in Him, we fall to our knees with them as we watch our churches crumble and pray, "Lord, have mercy."

Reality: I am not Black, but I am Christian and a Person

I am not black.  I am not a white person who identifies as black (apparently you can do that these days).  I AM a white woman married to a white man who has been the pastor of a black church for three years.  We are also the white parents of a black child.  We are also all Christians.

Last night, our church was hosting a summer reading program for community youth followed by our regular Wednesday night Bible study and service.  We were gathered around God's Word just like any other Wednesday around here.  Meanwhile, our brothers and sisters in Christ just south of us were gathered around that same Word.  My church family thankfully went home refreshed and filled with the Gospel; while our extended church family was dealing with the aftermath of a horrible crime against them as people, as black people, and as Christians.  I praise God from whom all blessings flow that those who were murdered in such a fashion are now with Christ, but I mourn for the rest of their earthly families and their extended church families across the country.

Given our unique situation in a southern black church, I just felt the need to talk to all of you for a few minutes - to open my heart and mind in an honest fashion.  I can't say that what I am about to write will be beautiful, but I can say that it will be real.  I pray that these words are accepted as they are meant to be - the mournful thoughts of a Christian woman who has learned so much in the past three years in this black church and community and the past five years with our black son.

For the past three years, I would venture to guess that not a single week has gone by that I didn't have a passing thought and fear about my husband being shot.  Now, this may seem pretty common for a policemen's wife or a military spouse, but for a pastor's wife in the U.S.?  How ridiculous are my emotions that stem from my lack of trust in God?

I fear a racist white person who can't believe the ignorance of that white man who hangs out with black people.

I fear a racist black person who can't believe the audacity of a white man to think he can lord it over black people like that.

I fear anyone who can't believe those idiots think they can raise a black child.

I fear.
I don't trust.
I look at the world around us, one so filled with hatred, and I collapse a little inside.

And you know what?  I may not be black or even identify as black, but I can identify with a little of that life fear.  I can't know what it is like to grow up black.  I can't know what it is like to hear about yet another one of my race's members being shot - by someone of my race or another, with just causes or not.

I can't know.
After three years, I can tell you that I know it so much more than I ever did before; and yet the more that I know it, the more I understand I will never know it.  In so many ways, the black community has many reasons to fear this world and be angry at the injustices.

So, where can black Christians turn for solace from such hate?
Where we all need to turn - Jesus Christ alone.
And that is what makes this current crime so unimaginable to my weak and beaten heart.  For when a group of black Christians joined for the healing of God's Word, they were attacked.  Their color was attacked and their Christianity was attacked.  A doubly horrible hate crime.

Many have questioned why we need "black churches" in our country.  Explaining the history of such a deep rooted issue is not the scope of my thoughts today, but I will say that black churches are not different from many other churches.  We are a community of people who are related, live close, and invite those we have connections with in our lives.  In general for our church members, that involves being part of the larger black community.  So, members are black.  And there is great comfort in knowing those around you can understand your life and fears in a deep way.  There is absolutely nothing wrong with that unless it is an exclusive black-only or white-only or whatever-only group that wouldn't allow someone of a different race.  Christianity is for all races and peoples, and our church welcomes all (by seen in the color of their pastor and family).

However, as a regular attender of a black church, I can tell you that the sight of white people is rare and noticeable.  There is an unsaid (and sometimes said) feeling of, "White people don't come back."  This usually holds true, and I don't mean to judge white people for this, either, because as I stated before, there is comfort in fitting in where you worship.  And although I am not privy to any information in the murder of our fellow Christians in South Carolina, and I have no idea if the man who committed this crime had attended before or if he was a stranger, I can tell you that some black Christians throughout the country will be feeling the tinge of fear associated with white strangers for awhile.  Church loses some of its comfort in fear.

But while we can't assure anyone of even a church without racist people, because racism exists in places where you find sinners (in church and not in church), it is the place we find Christ, the One who died for all races.

So, to you, frightened black Christian, know that I may not be the same color as you on the outside, but I do recognize and acknowledge your fears.  They are real on this earth.
Amazingly, what is even more real is Christ's death and resurrection for all sinners, of which I am the chief.

The Church is where you find the forgiveness of sins, the Word, Baptism, the Lord's Supper, and the joy of fellowship of believers.  The Church is where you find those who pray for their enemies - even those who murder us for our beliefs or our skin tone.  The Church is where you find your brothers and sisters in Christ.

And only there, you can still find His solace - a peace which passes all understanding.