I WANT TO SEE YOU BE BRAVE

I don’t have anything smooth and polished to give you this week. It’s been a bit crazy at work and quite frankly, I can echo the words of Bilbo Baggins when he told Frodo, “I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread.”

Busyness isn’t enough to make me feel stretched. I have just seen an inordinate amount of pain in past weeks, and it is weighing heavily on me. I spoke about it in my last post – the loneliness, the sadness. There are a lot of sad people in my world right now. But in the midst of this sadness, I have seen small acts of courage.

The man who is no longer in love with his wife but is willing to try again said, “I will stay with you even though I am almost out of hope.”

The woman who is trying to survive the turbulence of her husband’s mid-life crisis said, “I am confused and hurting too, but I am here for you. I’m not giving up.”

The woman who decided to be open and vulnerable with her new love rather than stony and closed took the risk to say, “I love you even if you don’t love me.”

The man at the end of his rope finally decided to say, “I can’t keep my nose above water anymore, please help.”

These small steps – to connect rather than withdraw and isolate – these take courage. Make no mistake, the risk is huge. I can’t predict what will happen in the lives of these people. They could be crushed for their vulnerability. Or they could find more intimacy than they ever thought possible.

As I was musing about these things this week, a music video dropped into my inbox – Sara Bareilles’ Brave. The sheer lack of perfection, the awkwardness, and the unbridled joy of this video utterly delight me. And, in my personal opinion, the best lines of the song are:

Maybe there’s a way out of the cage where you live

Maybe one of these days you can let the light in

Show me how big your brave is

So, to all the sad people in my life – I see you. I care. I know it’s tough. I’m in your corner. Be brave.

PS – Dude in the library, I want to give you a huge hug. You are my favorite part of this video!

ERYN-FAYE FRANS, Canada's Passion Coach ®

ErynFaye.Com

TO THE OTHER MOTHERS ON MOTHER'S DAY

The week before Mother’s Day and the holiday is officially on. A large display of sappy, overpriced cards in the mall. A coupon in the mail for extravagant flower arrangements. And a messy painting project underway on our back deck, as we corral the littles into creating one-of-a-kind cards for the many moms in our life.

One more made up holiday to fill our life with saccharine rituals and construction paper crafts. It’s a lot of effort (and often expense) in our already busy lives. But it’s all worth it, because Mom doesn’t get to be the star of the show most days.

Most days it’s about everyone, and everything, else. Most days no one says thank you, because no one even notices all the little things that keep life moving. Most days it’s a grind, nothing glamorous or exciting or worth posting in a Facebook status (not that we don’t post it anyway). And most days, we do these selfless, thankless, menial tasks quite happily, because mother-love is the most practical love of all.

So you bet we treasure our gluey crafts and roses-are-red-and-so-is-your-hair poems. We eat Cajun-style toast and undercooked eggs off our laps in bed. And we grab our pink carnation on the way out of church like it’s a badge of honor.

We take our turn in the seat of honor for a change, and it feels good.

But not all mothers are celebrating with us. For a hundred different reasons, there are those who feel the pinch of this holiday. The celebration is like salt in a wound, and every sugary sweet second of it burns.

I remember that.

My first Mother’s Day after giving birth, I went home to an empty house. I was a Mom without a child. And I wondered if it still counted. If, on this day, I counted.

I hadn’t changed any diapers. I hadn’t soothed fussy cries. I hadn’t agonized over cloth or disposable diapers. I hadn’t taken 1,000 pictures of the exact same pose, because it looked like he just “might” be smiling.

I had changed my plans. I had cried myself to sleep. I had agonized over cremation or burial. I had taken pictures of the tree we buried our son under, because I wanted to watch it grow over the years.

That year there were two families in our church who had new babies. That Mother’s Day, our church family called both myself and my friend Cheryl up to the front and gave us each a keepsake in honour of our children. They made sure we knew it counted. That we counted.

This Mother’s Day I wonder how many other women are asking that same kind of question. Is Mother’s Day for me too?

For the women with empty arms. For the women who are waiting, longing, and hoping to be called “Mom.” For the women who did not give birth or sign adoption papers, but pour themselves into the children around them. For the women haunted by a twisted version of motherhood. For the women filled with regrets. For the women who are grieving and hurting and just trying to survive.

I think it is. Maybe especially so. It’s impossible to understand the gift of Motherhood without acknowledging the pain and the struggle. As a child is born, so is a mother. In pain. In giving. In supreme effort.

Not all mothers are born in the labour and delivery ward. Some are born during a long wait, intrusive home studies, and stacks of paperwork. Some do not hold their children in their arms, but in their hearts, with a love that is not diminished by the loss. Some give birth, then give again so their child can have a better life with a grateful family. Some suffer the long wait, wondering when their turn will come, going to extraordinary lengths for their children-to-be. Some instead wear the title “Auntie” or “teacher” or “nanny” or “friend” but give unconditional love, and time, and energy, beyond normal boundaries.

All mothering is done in the same way. In pain. In giving. In supreme effort.

All women who are in the labour pains of being or becoming mothers represent us well. 

Mother’s Day may not be a Happy one for you, but it still counts. You still count.

So here’s some cheesy affirmation and bad poetry, just for you:

So here’s me, so grateful for all my children this Mother’s Day: the ones here with me and the ones in heaven. Also for the other mothers in our life, the foster-mother and birth-mother and birth-grandmothers, who’ve given us so much, at such a high price.

CHRISTIE HOOS

So Here's Us

NO WORDS

It's been awhile since I've been here.  Labor Day to be exact.  Throughout my life I've used words to express my feelings in times of victory, disappointment, surprise, and the mundane every day life.  But, I often feel more compelled to write when tragedy strikes.  In honor of the recent tragedy in Newton, Connecticut, my teacher blog will be silent for the next few days.  But, I feel like I could not go any longer without putting pen to paper, or fingerstrokes to keys.

I've taught for 13 years now and my job has become increasingly more difficult each year.  The number of tasks that the typical teacher completes in any given day is astounding. From receipting field trip money, recording attendence, cleaning up vomit, calling the nurse, making sure a child has clean clothes, lunch money in a student account, one on one instruction, reteaching simple concepts until you can't teach them any longer, drying the tears of a child who has been physically hurt on the playground, or wrapping your arms around the ones who have been emotionally hurt by those they love.

There are many days where the thought of going to the bathroom doesn't even occur until after school and I sit for the very first time of the day.  Once my children arrive in the morning, it is almost like we have entered a time warp and the outside world disappears.  Our classroom becomes our world.

Each year, I am BLESSED with a new crop in my classroom.  With that comes a new crop of parents, a new crop of personalities, challenges, victories, and love.   I haven't been blessed with children of my own, but I have been chosen to care for those of others.

Each morning, parents drop their children off at school thinking they are safe and will remain that way until those little faces return to the warmth of the car or the arms of a parent/grandparent/caretaker. Those children are given to me to nurture, care for, love, and educate.  A pretty tall order.

There are days where life isn't easy in our classroom.  Days where we need to a new start.  And then there are days that are beautiful symphonies of learning.

I spend countless hours planning for learning in my classroom, but more than that, I spend countless hours investing in the future of my students.  I invest in their lives by attending sporting events, sharing their interests, writing them notes - pouring positivity into their little minds in the hopes that when life doesn't work out the way that they had planned in their future, they will remember that there was someone else in their lives who believed in them and LOVED them as if they were her own.

The teachers and staff of Sandy Hook Elementary did the very same thing.

When I stop to think of the innocent children that were hurt yesterday, I cannot help but to think of the 22 beautiful children that I see every day.  The 312 children that I have taught over the last 13 years.  The smiles, the dreams, the excitement of life, the opportunities that are waiting for each of them.  That was all stolen from those at Sandy Hook Elementary.

I've tried to wrap my mind around what happened in Newton, but it is impossible.  I've experienced lockdown drills and mock shootings to "train" me for a reality that I hope I never face.  I hope I'm never faced with a situation where I am unable to protect the children in my care.  I hope I never have to find hiding places or calm students who are very aware of the nightmarish reality that is occurring.

But, I would.  If it meant sacrificing my life for those of my students, there would be no decision to make.  I would make that decision for the children who have parents who love me.  I would make it for the children whose parents disagree with me.  I would make it for those children who misbehave and disrespect and love me.  I would make that decision for each child I've had the opportunity to teach this year and every year before - those in my classroom or outside of it.

There were heroes in yesterday's tragedy.  Those heroes were teachers.  The teachers who read Christmas stories to keep their students calm.  The teachers who held each child's hand.  The teachers who muffled the cries of those huddled in their midst.  The teachers who hid students and then lost their own lives.

When you enter your child's school this week, remember those heroes in each classroom.

NOTHING HURTS LIKE FAMILY

Writing is a funny thing. There are times when it bubbles up pure and fresh, almost effortless. It feels like magic, and the blank page fills with words. A gift, not for readers, but for myself.

There are other times when I squeeze it out, a few recycled words. Predictable. Mundane. And I dress them up with a garnish and a little paper umbrella, pretending that no one was really thirsty after all.

I sat down to write about our family holiday. Something sweet and palatable about lazy beach days and toasting s’mores in the flickering firelight. We had a wonderful vacation! Idyllic moments punctuated by the exhaustion and chaos of our newly expanded family. The past few weeks we have connected with cousins and siblings and parents. We have laughed and reminisced and made several more “remember when” stories for the dinner table.

But no amount of garnish can dress up the bad writing I’ve produced on the topic. I can’t make it work. It’s a cheesy tourism brochure.

The truth is, I am consumed by the turmoil of family politics. Somehow it seems to overshadow all of the Norman Rockwell we’ve experienced. Like the fog that rolled in on our last day at the beach house, obscuring the spectacular view we had already begun to take for granted.

So this post is not what I intended. It is messy and vague and somewhat depressing. But honest.

Nothing hurts like family.

I write this with the sad comfort that I am not singling out any family member or particular conflict. On every side of both our families is a complex web of hurt feelings and disrespect and misunderstanding. I’m beginning to think it is normal, though it feels very unnatural. Most of the time we sit on the periphery and try our best to play peace-maker. But we’ve played a few rounds ourselves lately.

You don’t need the details to know the story. Over and over again in a thousand little ways and in the big ones too: nothing hurts like family.

Normally, I prefer the irritation and necessary pain of honest interaction. My advice to others almost always involves gentle confrontation. It’s not fair to be angry with someone and not tell them. Words. Words. Words.

Yet in reality they aren’t the magic fix I imagine. Some things are more complicated than diplomacy and amateur psychology can address. And let’s face it, the walking wounded make terrible diplomats. In my own life it is absurdly easy to settle for a thin veneer of civility atop a bubbling cesspool of resentment. I hate to admit that. It makes me a terrible hypocrite.

My husband reminds me to let things go, to be kind and forgiving, to do good, even when others don’t. Even when others don’t notice, which is the most annoying of all. For him, the relationship is more important than the fight. He is the master of conflict avoidance. But sometimes this peace feels like a lumpy rug. Eventually we’re bound to trip on all that skillfully concealed debris.

So we vacillate between conflict and cover-up. And I don’t know which is better. And I don’t have any more answers. And I don’t know what to do next.

But I love my family. All of them. Even the ones who hurt me. Even the ones whom I’ve hurt.

I don’t have a great insight about this subject, not yet. No pithy conclusion. No 10 simple steps to fix what ails us. Just a prayer for wisdom and hope that my words, and actions, and inactions will make things better, not worse.

So here’s me, trying to figure out how we imperfect jerks can love each better.

CHRISTIE HOOS

SO HERES US

I WILL CALL HER BLESSING

Wednesdays are busy for me. Pre-school for my 4 year old, early release for my 8 year old, dinner, bible study and AWANA…throw in an errand and we are packed for the day.

Normally, on a day where we are so crunched for time, I would say no to my children begging me to take them to the store because they have money burning a hole in their pocket. Today, for some reason, I said yes.

It was sunny but crisp outside as we turned out of our neighborhood onto the main road, I happened to see a woman on the side of the road, off a ways, near the briar bushes sitting on a duffle bag with her elbow on her knee and her head on her fist. She was in her late 20’s to mid 30’s and had BEAUTIFUL dark skin, a handkerchief covering her hair, a flowing calf length denim skirt, a flannel long sleeved shirt with a warmer coat on top, and one inch platform flip flops. I had seen this before…but not in my community. 

We kept driving and spent a good 45 minutes spending our money. I treated myself to a five bucks (that’s Starbucks to you) which is something I hadn’t done in a long time. With a new pair of jeans and a warm coffee in my hands we set off to drive home.

There she was, still sitting there with her hand on her fist and her elbow on her knee. Something in my heart said STOP. 

I looked at my rear view mirror and hanging there, was the reason why the image of that woman was so familiar to me. She reminded me of South Africa, where it is not uncommon to see someone sitting on the side of the road with a bushel of something to sell, or someone just resting for a minute. It, in fact, is normal there. In South Africa there are so many people on the side of the road…but not here. Again my heart said STOP.

I tried to dismiss it as I pulled into our neighborhood. Rationalizing it by telling myself that I don’t have time, my kids are in the car, I need to make dinner before our evening activities…Louder: TURN AROUND and just ASK her if she needs help.

I looked at that Starbucks cup and was immediately embarrassed for buying it. It was such a luxury. In fact, the last time I got back from South Africa, I didn’t buy a coffee for an entire year to make a statement about the frivolous lifestyle I wanted to leave behind. 

I could not, go and ask to help this girl, with a Starbucks cup in my car. Again: TURN AROUND and ask her if she needs help. 

What if my kids freak out because they want to go home and play with this new trinket they just spent their money on? What if we are late? What if I can’t get dinner done? TURN AROUND!

We pulled into our cul-de-sac and I pulled over before we got to the house. My 8 year old, Ty, asked me what we were doing. This is how the conversation went:

Me: “Ty, did you see that lady over by Laura’s house sitting by the side of the road?”

Ty: “Yes”

Me: “Do you think we should go ask her if she needs help?”

Ty: “Yes, mamma”

I turned the car around and headed back to where the lady was sitting. FEAR came over me and I broke into a sweat. The decision had been made, we were going back! I repeated over and over “I can do all things in Christ who strengthens me.” 

I drove my car to my friends house, who was half a block away from where the woman was sitting, left my kids there and started walking. As I rounded the corner and had her in my sights she was just getting up and grabbing her bag. 

“Excuse me, I saw you sitting here, and I was wondering if you need any help?”

She hadn’t seen me coming, so a little startled she said: “I was walking, and I got tired, so I stopped here to pray, I’ve been here praying about a lot of things, and one thing was for someone to help me.”

Sticking my hand out toward her I said “Well, My name is Adrian and God placed you on my heart to help. What is it that you need help with?”

Assessing the situation, I could tell she was running from something and she had just left. She was clean, I could smell her soap. Her clothes were clean, her bag was clean…She was not strung out on drugs and she looked me in the eye when she talked. I HAD TO KNOW this girls story. 

She was looking for a ride to Tacoma, and after talking to my friend who I left my kids with we decided that giving her some bus money and driving her up to the park and ride would be the best idea.

I cleaned out the front seat of my car and was embarrassed again. I saw that target bag with the jeans in it, a GPS, an ipod dock, and a smart phone…along with that dang Starbucks cup…I looked at her and realized all she had, was all she had with her and there she was…praying on the side of the road in her flip flops on a crisp fall day.

As we drove, I tried to pry and ask questions, she didn’t budge too much. What I did find out was she has family here in Puyallup that “she just needs to get away from.” And she’s looking to get to a truck stop in Tacoma where she will try to make her way to <something tells me not to put the city name in this blog> because the one time she visited there…it was nice. She was hoping to start a new life there. 

I pulled into the mall parking lot near the bus station and asked if I could pray for her before she left the car. She agreed. Then she reached across the car, hugged me, and called me blessing as if it were my name. She got out of the car and I watched her walk away.

By this time, I had 2 text messages from my husband telling me that my friend had called him and told him I was doing something crazy. The other one was telling me to turn the GPS on my phone on. TOO LATE!

I don’t know what she was running from.

I don’t know what she has ahead of her, although I cringe at the thought of her making it to a truck stop.

What I do know is that the Holy Spirit moved me. He asked me to step up and be a part of the plan. I am humbled that I was asked, but ashamed of the process it took for me to say yes. When it comes down to it, I’m a chicken! I obey out of fear not out of excitement. My thought process is this: Would I rather have a little discomfort now or untold pain later?” There will be punishment for disobedience either while we are here on this earth or when we meet Him face to face. 

I have to trust that He has this young lady’s life in His hands and that she will have a great story to tell someday. 

Thank you God for bringing this woman into my life for the hour that you did. She put a mirror in front of me, and I see that there are some things that need to change. I will call her blessing.

Adrian Kashporenko

WE CHOSE LIFE!

This is Part 2 of our story. 

When life and belief collide:My life-altering decision

We were given a priority appointment with the Perinatologist.  Should we continue on in the pregnancy, he would monitor the fluid in our little babe.   We sat in his office surrounded by medical books and volumes of medical data, statistics,  human knowledge and theory. The bookshelves rose high up the walls and the doctor sat some distance from us.  I felt so small and helpless.

The Perinatologist  warmly told us how our child could likely end up in an institution, maybe wheelchair bound for life, if he ever lived at all.  We took notes, asked questions, and scheduled an Amniocentesis.  There was a glimmer of hope the results of the Amniocentesis would tell us the baby had RH Factor: a diagnosis we could actually do something about.

In the meantime, we sat through a lengthy session with the genetic counselor who worked alongside the Perinatologist.  She pulled out one of the thickest, ugliest  books I ever laid my eyes on.  It was filled with pictures of chromosomes and genetic disorders we never knew existed.  Our eyes glazed in fear as she slowly turned and explained many of the pages.  This is not a book you would enjoy reading, let me tell you!

I was amazed when we left the doctor’s office that day.  No one offered us counseling, no one asked us if we had the support of family.  No one asked if we needed clergy.  We were sent home with a burden of knowledge heaped upon our hearts.  I cried all the way home.

My husband was away on business when I finally received the diagnosis by phone call.  The genetic counselor was on the other end of the line.  Her voice was matter-of-fact as she told me our baby not only had Fetal Hydrops, but he also had a cyst on the back of his neck and Trisomy 21 (Down’s Syndrome).   Without taking a breath, without offering empathy or inviting discussion, she told me she would make an appointment for an abortion.

Instantly I told her there would be no abortion.  She reminded me in her ever-so-cold manner, “Your baby will surely die”.

The Mama-bear arose in me for the first of many times as I responded, “We believe the Lord gives and the Lord takes away.  We will bless the Name of the Lord”.  I hung up and fell prostrate across our cold kitchen floor.  My baby-bump pushed me away from the tile, reminding me of the life inside.  I lay there crying, wailing, spread out in humility for help from my Lord.

I clung to the promises of God.  If I ever believed in Him, then I must also believe in His Words.  I sang quietly in surrender,

“Great is Thy Faithfulness, Oh God my Father.

There is no shadow of turning with Thee.

Thou changest not, Thy compassions they fail not

as Thou hast been

Thou forever will be.”

Jesus quietly asked me, “Do you believe this about me, Bonnie?”  I said, “Yes, Lord”  and continued to softly cry and sing,

“Great is Thy Faithfulness

Great is Thy Faithfulness

Morning by morning new mercies I see

All I have needed Thy hand has provided

(Thank you, Jesus.  This is true.)

Great is Thy Faithfulness

(“Will you trust Me, Bonnie?”)

(Yes, Jesus)….Lord unto Me”

My schedule quickly became filled with doctor’s appointments.  We sat before our young O.B. and explained to him the value we place on this life.  A life that was given by God and could only be taken by God.  We needed to confirm his treatment would also place value on our child’s life.   He told us he had never encountered a case like ours or a couple like us, and he would respect and follow our lead.

Due to the labor Fetal Hydrops can put on a baby’s heart, they monitored his heart twice weekly.  God gave me a nurse who was also a believer.  She encouraged me in the faith.  She told me our doctor’s office didn’t know completely how to deal with me, “Why would a couple like that want a baby like that?” was the popular discussion when we left the office each week.

Those kind of comments didn’t really encourage me, they made me feel more alien-like.  But we knew the comment really was based upon watching a young couple trust and believe in God rather than their difficult circumstances.  This was good.

Previously serving as a social worker and volunteering with special needs children, I knew there were more hopeful scenarios then what had been presented to us.  I quickly learned “knowledge is power”, and I began a personal fight to find all of the knowledge I could.  It was difficult to find.  Seventeen years ago I did not have a home computer, access to the Internet, or blogs where I could find someone with a similar story to mine.  I walked the aisles of the bookstores looking for hope from someone who was given a death-sentence for their baby.  I needed to read how someone could still walk through the days of pregnancy.  It was not to be found.

It was crystal clear to me the choice for life was God’s desire for us.    HOW He wanted me to live with this choice was unclear!  I was an emotional mess most days.  One moment I would beg God to take our baby’s life sooner than later.  Moments later I would plead with God to do a miracle and heal our baby.

My husband remained a balanced rock while I called him throughout the day to clear my mind and get perspective.  HOW was I supposed to live each day-the next 6 months of pregnancy-without bonding to my growing baby who would “die”?

I don’t know how long it took me to realize I could ask God that question.  I bent to my knees beside my bed and said, “Jesus, I know what You want me to do.  I just don’t know how I am supposed to do it”.  He reminded me, “So do not worry about tomorrow; for tomorrow will care for itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” (Matthew 6:34)  Do not worry about tomorrow–those things I can’t control.  Don’t create and entertain fears and “what ifs” we may or may not face tomorrow.  Keep my mind on today.

Today–I had a living baby inside me.  Today–he was kicking and moving and growing.  Today–I was pregnant, I was a Mama.  In the midst of any other (normal) pregnancy I would be sewing, strolling through baby departments, knitting.  So I decided I would rejoice in Today!

I went to the fabric store and bought precious baby fabrics for my Anker Josiah.  I began sewing him a baby quilt.  He would play on it one day, or he would be swaddled in the quilt in a baby’s coffin.  Either way, I would make it with all the love and the joy I had for my son.

I bought him the most precious coming home gown I could find.  A Beatrix Potter gown.  It represented life and sweet hope for today.  I hung it from the dresser in our bedroom and I knelt below it often, “Jesus, please fill this gown with our living and breathing baby.  But You know the bigger picture, not my will but Yours be done”.  Sometimes I imagined being the woman touching Jesus’ gown-trusting in the Messiah’s ability to heal.

I began moving on through the hours with enough strength to live for the day.

“Fear not, for I am with you,

 be not dismayed, for I am your God.

 I will strengthen you,

I will help you,

I will uphold you with my Victorious Right Hand!”

Isaiah 41:10

Soon our story would begin to change.

I hope you’ll join me again  for Part 3.

BONNIE CHRISTENSEN

WomanGoneWise.com