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
Tuesday, May 10, 2016
Friday, March 11, 2016
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.
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.
Thursday, December 24, 2015
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.
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.
Sunday, December 13, 2015
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.
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.
Thursday, August 6, 2015
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.
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.
Friday, July 31, 2015
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
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
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.
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
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