07/31/09. 2 months.
14.002 pounds, 24 1/2 inches
(90% percentile for both)
Friday, July 31, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Landmines
Her first patient was a five year old child who had been severely injured by a landmine. While treating her, every time this child spoke, cried, screamed or moved reminded her of her five year old daughter sitting back home, playing with dolls and waiting excitedly until she could Skype and tell her mommy all about her first day in Kindergarten.For six months, she treated the children of Afghanistan, the children who had been shot, stabbed, buried, blown up. She treated children who had the same wide, brown eyes as her daughter. Children who had grown up around violence, who did not have to ask "why?" For six months, every time she closed her eyes, she heard their screams. She fell into a deep depression. She was stuck in a vast wasteland of sand, heat, dead bodies and rubble for buildings. Hell.
This was the story related to me this morning as I dropped Daegan off at preschool. The grandma, who has temporary custody of her granddaughter, told me all about her daughter in Afghanistan. Tears poured down her cheeks as she told me how her granddaughter was putting together care packages for these children and how she is beginning to understand that these children are real people who have been hurt very badly. Tears poured down my cheeks as I listened and hugged Logan even tighter in his sling.
I have never supported this war. Never. However, I understand the matter is complex and the solution cannot be as easy as just pulling out. The humanitarian missions are one major part of these complexities. I felt for these children, not as an American, but as a mother. My heart ached for them, my arms wanted to reach out to them and protect them. My heart ached for the mother acting as a nurse and soldier, seeing the injuries and hearing the cries for help.
I drove home, returning to my comfortable air-conditioned house, scoffing at the dishes and laundry waiting to be done. How can my life be so normal and calm when the lives of others are in a constant battle-zone? The contrast was stark.There is no end to this story, just as the story has no end in Afghanistan. I don't know what my point is. I do know that I have questions that don't have answers. Why is this injustice allowed to occur? Why is it that children are not immune to the terrors the adults of this world create? Does evil have a purpose? If suffering and evil are allowed to exist to challenge the good to grow, then are those who create the suffering and violence then doing God's work? Do I even want to think about that? How do we pull out of a country and end our involvement without leaving those who really need the help abandoned? When does this stop being a matter of business and finance and start being about humans, tears, sweat and blood?
I don't have any answers, but I did want to take you on this journey with me. Maybe you have them. Who knows? It makes me sad, though. I will be snuggling my children a lot today, that is the only thing I know for sure.
Note: The pictures shown are relevant pics taken in Iraq and Afghanistan. They are tame compared to the horrible pictures I found when I searched for them. If you dare to lend emotional weight to this post, click here. Run the cursor over the pics for more info on them.
Monday, July 27, 2009
trigger happy
Gramma holding Logan.
The sunrise sets these flowers on fire.
A morning walk.
A pretty plant
Grammy and Grampa with Logan.
A rare treat for daddy.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Conversation
In a perfect world, I would be sitting with a good friend, coffee in hand, no deadlines or urgent to-do's, and having a nice, long discussion. I crave the other perspective, even if it does not align with mine. I am quite ok with other opinions, as long as they are calmly, and respectfully articulated.
Thoughts of the day(s)?
Weight: How weight is interpreted in different philosophies- Christian v. Feminist v. Marketing, are we allowed to "take up space?" When the average woman is a size 14, why is that interpreted as "fat?"
Modesty: How far does modesty go? When is something considered vanity? At what point has vanity reached a point when it is immoral? Can I be both modest and belly dance?
Rights of body: Considering that article where the child was taken from the mother after she refused a c-section, and considering the pending legalization of partial-birth abortions, at what point does a mother have control over bodily integrity? At what point does a child have rights (considering the two above-cited cases both contradict each other)?
Living green: Fostering community through sharing programs, reusing durable goods, and how that reflects on class.
"You think too much": I hear this at least three times a day, from several people. They don't mean harm. However, what does this mean? Who is allowed to think? What thoughts are appropriate? Would this ever be said to a man? Would this ever be said to me if I worked in an office? An academic environment? I.e. the social implications of the idea that one can think too much.
Evangelism: Upon getting deeper and deeper into the OT, I am becoming convinced that our responsibility in evangelism is to tell the story, and that GOD decides who hears it and who takes it to heart. What does the Bible say about evangelism? What does it look like in your life?
And so much more...
I have been considering writing blogs about each of these topics, but have restrained for several reasons. First, what I really want is a discussion. Someone to bounce ideas off of, to offer another perspective, to listen to me fully articulate what I am piecing together. Second, talk about work. I could write 20 page dissertations on each of these issues. Who wants to read that? Who wants to write that?
What I need? A well-read, knowledgeable friend, some coffee (mocha, preferably), and a few childless hours to really get into a discussion about one of these topics... or another yet to be thought up... get them out of my head, you know?
Really missing college right now- hours upon hours spent discussing the topic du jour...
Thoughts of the day(s)?
Weight: How weight is interpreted in different philosophies- Christian v. Feminist v. Marketing, are we allowed to "take up space?" When the average woman is a size 14, why is that interpreted as "fat?"
Modesty: How far does modesty go? When is something considered vanity? At what point has vanity reached a point when it is immoral? Can I be both modest and belly dance?
Rights of body: Considering that article where the child was taken from the mother after she refused a c-section, and considering the pending legalization of partial-birth abortions, at what point does a mother have control over bodily integrity? At what point does a child have rights (considering the two above-cited cases both contradict each other)?
Living green: Fostering community through sharing programs, reusing durable goods, and how that reflects on class.
"You think too much": I hear this at least three times a day, from several people. They don't mean harm. However, what does this mean? Who is allowed to think? What thoughts are appropriate? Would this ever be said to a man? Would this ever be said to me if I worked in an office? An academic environment? I.e. the social implications of the idea that one can think too much.
Evangelism: Upon getting deeper and deeper into the OT, I am becoming convinced that our responsibility in evangelism is to tell the story, and that GOD decides who hears it and who takes it to heart. What does the Bible say about evangelism? What does it look like in your life?
And so much more...
I have been considering writing blogs about each of these topics, but have restrained for several reasons. First, what I really want is a discussion. Someone to bounce ideas off of, to offer another perspective, to listen to me fully articulate what I am piecing together. Second, talk about work. I could write 20 page dissertations on each of these issues. Who wants to read that? Who wants to write that?
What I need? A well-read, knowledgeable friend, some coffee (mocha, preferably), and a few childless hours to really get into a discussion about one of these topics... or another yet to be thought up... get them out of my head, you know?
Really missing college right now- hours upon hours spent discussing the topic du jour...
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Murder in The Half Blood Prince
"Severus... please..."
Snape raised his wand and pointed it directly at Dumbledore.
"Avada Kedavra!"
-JK Rowling, Harry Potter and The Half Blood Prince
A universal chill ran down the backs of audiences worldwide as we read the words ending Dumbledore's long participation in the fight against evil. With Dumbledore as one of the primary protagonists in the story, how could it be possible that Rowling just killed him? (Indeed, in my mind, the murderer was Rowling, and not Snape.) Did that really just happen? In fact, it HAD to happen. The murder of Dumbledore was not a crime of passion, but rather one of necessity.
In Harry's magical world, there exists a distinct duality: good and evil. Rowling addresses that there is no clear division between the two- Sirius tells Harry, "The world is not divided into good people and Death Eaters." A quick look at the supporting cast will illustrate this point. The klepto Mundungus was in the Order, and Umbridge was NOT a Death Eater. Adults target children as the intended victims of their violent and sadistic crimes, authority figures fail to uphold their duties, and what was once black and white starts to muddle into various shades of grey.
However, despite this, there was a very definite duality of good and evil. The leader of the antagonists was, of course, Mr. Tom Riddle, aka Voldemort. Taking the lead for the protagonists was Dumbledore. Due to the position and role that Dumbledore assumed in the story (politically, socially, emotionally), it was absolutely unavoidable for him to die.
He served as a placeholder for the real central protagonist, Harry, while Harry was too young, unskilled and unknowledgable to assume the position himself. While there is no doubt that Dumbledore was long aware of this empty position (as he was the only other person to know the full prophesy concerning Harry and Tom), Harry had to earn it, be traumatized into it. There was no easy way to remove Dumbledore and place Harry in the center of a very adult, very serious conflict without Dumbledore's death.
Ultimately, the place HAD to be filled by Harry. If Harry was the only one that could kill Voldemort, then Harry HAD to be the central protagonist in the story. It is literary symmetry. Harry vs. Voldemort. The equation would have been imbalanced if it had been Harry and Dumbledore vs. Voldemort. Imbalanced equations are never resolved.
Dumbledore's death benefited Harry- giving him the conviction, strength, information and position to separate from the quickly stagnating efforts of the Order and take the lead on a new pursuit- the horcruxs. In spirit, Dumbledore later gives Harry further assistance that could not have been lent in a living state.
For a moment, though, Rowling did allow some ambiguity to fester in the story when the resolution of the imbalance may have taken another path. Throughout the stories, the rivalry between Malfoy and Harry was not understated. At the climax of this development, when Malfoy held his wand in Dumbledore's face, the true villain of the story was being chosen. If Malfoy had killed Dumbledore, then he and Voldemort would have been the mirroring of the Harry-Dumbledore partnership, equal and opposite. As it were, though, he failed to live up to his calling, fading instead out of significance in the conflict. Malfoy never again poses as a significant player in the story.
Snape was always the really ambiguous character- the question of his allegiance constantly on the reader's mind. It is Snape's role in the story that keeps it from being a clear-cut, easily decipherable and predictable duality. If Voldemort and Dumbledore (and later, in his place, Harry) were the balance, then Snape was the imbalance. He is the enabler of the story, keeping it from falling into predictable and boring patterns. Snape, while annoying, slippery and generally malicious in thoughts and motivations, was critical for keeping the books readable.
As true as it is that Dumbledore HAD to die, it is also true that it HAD to be Snape who killed him.
So, to all those Harry Potter fans who will attend the recent release of The Half-Blood Prince on the big screen, don't walk away disconcerted to watch one of the greatest and strongest protagonists fall. Don't walk away resentful that Dumbledore dies- remember that he HAD to die for Harry to take the place of central hero and ultimately to the ruin of Tom.
Happy viewing!
Friday, July 17, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Guardian Angels
The guardian angels appointed to little boys must get paid double-time.
8:00am
Today, I was running late to drop Daegan off at preschool. I arrived just as another mama was leaving, pulling up to her red 4-door sedan just as she was getting in. I put Logan in the ring sling first. I always get Logan first, for safety, so that Daegan is not hanging out in a parking lot while my hands are full.
Then, I go around and open the door on Daegan's side. I was so close to this other mama's car that I could open the door about 90% of the way without hitting her, but not all the way.
I unbuckle Daegan. He climbs out of his car seat. I offer him my hand, to help him to the ground.
"No, Daegan do."
He jumps out, while I watched, but this time something went wrong. I am not sure if he landed wrong, or fell forward when he tried to straighten up, but he ended up rolling under the other mama's car, just behind the back wheel. He was completely under her car, knee and toes touching the middle of her tire.
It was almost like slow-motion. I see the car rock as she disengages her brake. I grab Daegan's hand, and yank him out of the wheel's way while she presses on the gas and backs up. Split seconds, that is all we had.
The whole ordeal, from Daegan's refusal of my hand, to having him back on my hip, maybe, maybe took 2.5 seconds. That is all.
The other mama, who did nothing wrong (she could not see under her car), was unaware that anything had happened until I told her when we came back to pick the kids up from school. She was horrified.
She told me that she had hesitated just a second after the brake was let off, because she had a feeling that something was amiss, that she was forgetting something. Then, when she failed to think of anything, she had gone.
I honestly believe that Daegan must have some bad-ass guardian angels out there, because he really, really needed them today.
Seeing my tiny toddler crumpled underneath a large, running, moving car was horrifying. So much so that I was emotionally exhausted from it- the same feeling as when you cry really hard for hours... we all know that feeling.
Well, the story does not end there. The angels got a second shift.
10:30 am
We went home, changed diapers, made lunch. Daegan was sitting beside the bed, playing with his Magnadoodle. I was laying on the bed, nursing Logan. I look over, and Daegan has this disgusted look on his face. I notice he is covered in what I thought was drool. I knew something was not right.
I run over to him, and see that he had a giant bottle of Purell sitting next to him. Having heard stories that toddlers have died from ingesting Purell, I try desperately to wipe his mouth out and have him spit into the toilet. I call Poison Control.
They tell me to watch for vomiting, but that he should be ok. I had to watch, though, for any abnormal behaviors or symptoms and call right away if I saw any.
Third Shift: 10:45am
We were both still hanging out in my room. I finally get Logan to sleep- his nap having been delayed due to the Poison Control incident- and I get up and lay him in his crib. After turning on his heart-sounds bear, I gently close the gate behind me and walk back into the room. I was gone 20 seconds, max. Daegan is not in there.
I look in the kitchen, and see that he has pulled a chair up to the counter and was playing with a Sharpie in one hand (yikes!) and my only sharp pair of scissors in the other (are you f*ing kidding me?!? How much trouble can you get into in one day?!?)
I decided that it was time for him to go to sleep. I am pretty sure that even if he does not need a nap, his Guardian Angels do.
***
Thank you so much, Jesus, for looking out for my son. He seems hell-bent on seeing you a lot sooner than I would like him to. Please, give those angels something special on our behalf. They really are working their wings off for our little guy.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Grace
Today is one of those days when I just hear Robyn in my head. "Grace, Kristi. Give yourself some grace."
Yeah, duly noted.
No need for a back story, just a simple equation:
Toddler + Infant + Crappy night's sleep + 100 degrees + Clothes shopping = FAIL.
I was REALLY frustrated. I wanted to do something for ME. Not much. I was just looking for a $10-20 cotton dress to wear on my date on Saturday, and Daegan seemed hell-bent on destroying that dream. I won't have time to look again before our date, so I guess I have to go wearing maternity wear. Sexy.
Oh well. I guess that is just another sacrifice I have to make. Not one I wanted to make, though. Not happy about that.
:(
Yeah, duly noted.
No need for a back story, just a simple equation:
Toddler + Infant + Crappy night's sleep + 100 degrees + Clothes shopping = FAIL.
I was REALLY frustrated. I wanted to do something for ME. Not much. I was just looking for a $10-20 cotton dress to wear on my date on Saturday, and Daegan seemed hell-bent on destroying that dream. I won't have time to look again before our date, so I guess I have to go wearing maternity wear. Sexy.
Oh well. I guess that is just another sacrifice I have to make. Not one I wanted to make, though. Not happy about that.
:(
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Life with a 2 year old teenager.
A typical day for Daegan in our house.
5:30 am: Daegan crawls into bed with me, and wakes me up by playing with my hair. Sweet moment.
5:40 am: Daegan gets out of bed, takes off his diaper, puts it in the trash, gets a pair of big-boy undies, puts them on.
5:45 am: Daegan walks into the kitchen, opens the fridge, gets his milk (comes in boxes like juice boxes), brings it to me. "Open please." Goes back into the kitchen, gets me a Monster Energy Drink. "Wake up, mommy." Sits down, watches Barney. Drinks milk.
6:00 am: Daegan goes into the kitchen, gets step stool, takes it to the fridge, climbs up, gets waffle out of freezer, climbs down. I intervene before he gets to the toaster- toasters are NOT for little hands! "No touch, Daegan. Hot. Ask for help." "No. Daegan do."
6:30 am: Daegan takes his breakfast plate into the kitchen, puts it in the sink (ugh. it is paper!) Comes back. Watches more Barney. Plays quietly while I take a shower.
7:00 am: Daegan goes to his drawer, gets a shirt and pair of shorts. Puts them on bed. Gets shoes. Puts them by shorts. "School, mama! Play friends!"
7:10 am: Daegan has an accident. Takes off wet undies, sits on potty, dumps potty, puts on clean undies. "Hip Hip Hooray! It's a good potty day!!"
7:15ish am: Daegan tries to put on his shirt. It ends up inside out and backward. He won't let me fix it. Daegan puts on his own shorts and shoes.
7:45 am: Leave for school. He tells me which way to go. "That way, mama!" "Look mama, look out window! Ducks! Duck pond!"
8:00 am: We walk into school. He hangs up his backpack and sits at his desk. Doesn't even say goodbye. Ok, kiddo- see you in a few hours!
8:10 am- 9:45 am: Grocery shop, nurse, change diapers, clean, blog...
10:00 am: Pick up Daegan from school. Yawn. Yup, it is about that time! Drive home. I try to talk to him about school, he tries to talk me into going to McDonald's. "Cheeseburger, mama! French fry!" Not today, sweetie.
10:15 am: Daegan walks in, takes off his shoes, climbs up on cabinet, grabs fishie crackers. Takes them to his room to munch on.
11:00 am: Lunch time! I make lunch, he tries to help. "Hungry, mama! Hungry! Hurry!"
11:10 am: I hand him his lunch. He says, "No!" Walks away. Apparently, he was not dying of starvation after all... he plays quietly in his room.
11:30 am: I hear yelling coming from his room. Maya is sitting on his head. (No joke). Shouldn't have been bullying her, now should you have?
11:40 am: More yelling. Yet another argument with his giant stuffed whale. He had an accident, but failed to notice it... must be nearing nap time!
12:00pm: It is too quiet. I check on him to find him sleeping on his bed, in some position indicating that he fell asleep mid-play. I move him to his pillow, turn off the tv and lights. Night Night.
Quiet....
2:30-3:00pm: Daegan does not tell me he is awake. Instead, he goes to the fridge, opens it, gets out the cheese, unwraps it, throws the wrapper away, turns his tv back on and lays down to watch the show of the day while munching on his cheese.
3:30pm: He uses the potty, empties it, and celebrates to a lone rendition of "Hip Hip Hooray! It's a good potty day!!"
4:00 pm: Daddy is home! I hear squeals of delight as Daegan rushes to hug his daddy as he comes through the door.
4:30pm: "Hip Hip Hooray! It's a good potty day!!" Oh, my. I hope he didn't poop. I run in there... he did. Problem? I cannot find it.
4:30-4:40pm: Game: Find the missing poop.
4:45 - 5:00pm: Dinner!
5:00-7:30: Mixed assortment of screaming, crying, snuggling, kisses and free play. Witching hour.
8:00pm: bath! He gets in, turn on the water, pours the soap, plays, gets out, gets his own towel, dries off, gets a diaper and pjs, puts them on, snuggles up next to us.
8:30pm: Lights out!
******
I am seriously amazed lately at how much he takes care of himself without prompting or help! He just goes about his business. When he is hungry, he gets himself something to eat. Tired? Takes a nap. Has to potty? Well, he tries to use it, but if he misses he cleans it up. It is like living with a really short, really stubborn teenager. Seriously. I have always tried to enable him, but am just amazed at how capable a 2yo really is.
5:30 am: Daegan crawls into bed with me, and wakes me up by playing with my hair. Sweet moment.
5:40 am: Daegan gets out of bed, takes off his diaper, puts it in the trash, gets a pair of big-boy undies, puts them on.
5:45 am: Daegan walks into the kitchen, opens the fridge, gets his milk (comes in boxes like juice boxes), brings it to me. "Open please." Goes back into the kitchen, gets me a Monster Energy Drink. "Wake up, mommy." Sits down, watches Barney. Drinks milk.
6:00 am: Daegan goes into the kitchen, gets step stool, takes it to the fridge, climbs up, gets waffle out of freezer, climbs down. I intervene before he gets to the toaster- toasters are NOT for little hands! "No touch, Daegan. Hot. Ask for help." "No. Daegan do."
6:30 am: Daegan takes his breakfast plate into the kitchen, puts it in the sink (ugh. it is paper!) Comes back. Watches more Barney. Plays quietly while I take a shower.
7:00 am: Daegan goes to his drawer, gets a shirt and pair of shorts. Puts them on bed. Gets shoes. Puts them by shorts. "School, mama! Play friends!"
7:10 am: Daegan has an accident. Takes off wet undies, sits on potty, dumps potty, puts on clean undies. "Hip Hip Hooray! It's a good potty day!!"
7:15ish am: Daegan tries to put on his shirt. It ends up inside out and backward. He won't let me fix it. Daegan puts on his own shorts and shoes.
7:45 am: Leave for school. He tells me which way to go. "That way, mama!" "Look mama, look out window! Ducks! Duck pond!"
8:00 am: We walk into school. He hangs up his backpack and sits at his desk. Doesn't even say goodbye. Ok, kiddo- see you in a few hours!
8:10 am- 9:45 am: Grocery shop, nurse, change diapers, clean, blog...
10:00 am: Pick up Daegan from school. Yawn. Yup, it is about that time! Drive home. I try to talk to him about school, he tries to talk me into going to McDonald's. "Cheeseburger, mama! French fry!" Not today, sweetie.
10:15 am: Daegan walks in, takes off his shoes, climbs up on cabinet, grabs fishie crackers. Takes them to his room to munch on.
11:00 am: Lunch time! I make lunch, he tries to help. "Hungry, mama! Hungry! Hurry!"
11:10 am: I hand him his lunch. He says, "No!" Walks away. Apparently, he was not dying of starvation after all... he plays quietly in his room.
11:30 am: I hear yelling coming from his room. Maya is sitting on his head. (No joke). Shouldn't have been bullying her, now should you have?
11:40 am: More yelling. Yet another argument with his giant stuffed whale. He had an accident, but failed to notice it... must be nearing nap time!
12:00pm: It is too quiet. I check on him to find him sleeping on his bed, in some position indicating that he fell asleep mid-play. I move him to his pillow, turn off the tv and lights. Night Night.
Quiet....
2:30-3:00pm: Daegan does not tell me he is awake. Instead, he goes to the fridge, opens it, gets out the cheese, unwraps it, throws the wrapper away, turns his tv back on and lays down to watch the show of the day while munching on his cheese.
3:30pm: He uses the potty, empties it, and celebrates to a lone rendition of "Hip Hip Hooray! It's a good potty day!!"
4:00 pm: Daddy is home! I hear squeals of delight as Daegan rushes to hug his daddy as he comes through the door.
4:30pm: "Hip Hip Hooray! It's a good potty day!!" Oh, my. I hope he didn't poop. I run in there... he did. Problem? I cannot find it.
4:30-4:40pm: Game: Find the missing poop.
4:45 - 5:00pm: Dinner!
5:00-7:30: Mixed assortment of screaming, crying, snuggling, kisses and free play. Witching hour.
8:00pm: bath! He gets in, turn on the water, pours the soap, plays, gets out, gets his own towel, dries off, gets a diaper and pjs, puts them on, snuggles up next to us.
8:30pm: Lights out!
******
I am seriously amazed lately at how much he takes care of himself without prompting or help! He just goes about his business. When he is hungry, he gets himself something to eat. Tired? Takes a nap. Has to potty? Well, he tries to use it, but if he misses he cleans it up. It is like living with a really short, really stubborn teenager. Seriously. I have always tried to enable him, but am just amazed at how capable a 2yo really is.
Tadpoles
Daegan got some tadpoles. They are tons of fun! Their little legs just sprouted, too!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fMdHVoCowt0
Also, just for fun, here is some video of Logan.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JaMSLriREOo
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fMdHVoCowt0
Also, just for fun, here is some video of Logan.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JaMSLriREOo
Monday, July 13, 2009
Drawing
Daegan drew this today. His drawings have been more complex, and have relationships with each other. This is a family of spiders. Note the vertical lines for legs, the spacial arrangement of the items in perspective to each other, the placement of the eyes. He will explain the pictures to me, too. He should not be able to do this yet! According to child development, these skills should not have been demonstrated for at least another year. He is 2 years, 4 months right now. All children develop differently, and so I don't assume he is a prodigy, but I am simultaneously amazed and proud of the little guy!
Check out this chart:
Punctuation
Woman, without her man, is nothing.
Woman: without her, man is nothing.
Sometimes it is not the words that make a difference, but what you make of them.
Woman: without her, man is nothing.
Sometimes it is not the words that make a difference, but what you make of them.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Sea Glass
I thought this was moving and thought provoking.
Here is a direct link to the article.
Who doesn't have a few pieces of sea glass tucked in their pockets?
***
"Parents with a Past"
I looked into the antique jar full of seashells my family and I had gathered on our vacations, and tried to ignore the nudging I felt from God. I held in my hand pieces of sea glass my children, my husband, and I had collected on our recent visit to Glass Beach. Nearly a century ago, this rocky shore served as the city dump. But today, herds of people comb the sand and rocks for sea glass. After much refinement in the ocean, these broken pieces of old glass garbage have become sought-after stones that sparkle like jewels in the surf.
As I placed this onetime trash into the jar, I felt God speaking to me about the "garbage" of my life—my past sins.
"I can use those transgressions now," he seemed to tell me. "Just as the sea has refined this glass, I've shaped and refined your mistakes into valuable gems for you to share with other people."
Specifically, I felt the Lord prompting me to tell my teenage daughters about the costly blunders I'd made when I was their age.
But the suggestion wasn't appealing to me. I didn't want to confess my past to them.
What I Was Hiding
My adolescence—and my husband's—was dark and dangerous compared to my children's coming-of-age years. My girls planned to be virgins on their wedding nights. They wore purity rings and at their youth groups had signed contracts with God not to have sex before marriage. While I knew my kids might not be able to hold to such ideal aspirations, I prayed they would. And so far, they were untainted by promiscuity, alcohol and drugs, or raunchy movies.
In contrast, my husband and I had watched every vulgar movie Hollywood made. During our teens we went to parties, got drunk, tried drugs. Because we weren't Christians, we never thought we were doing anything bad.
I'd been somewhat open with our kids about that period of our lives, so they already knew their proper Christian mother had a past. But they didn't know details. They didn't know that I had friends who'd died in drunk-driving accidents. That I'd driven drunk many times myself. My daughters didn't know that I'd taken friends to get abortions. Or that their grandpa had kicked me out of his house when I was 18 because he'd caught me sleeping with my boyfriend—their dad.
The lessons from those years were painful. I'd learned boyfriends love girls less after they put out, not more as the boys promise. That drunken bashes leave the partygoer feeling sick and empty the next morning. That drugs harm the body, but not nearly as much as they harm the soul.
Of course, I didn't want my daughters to suffer the scars of such sinful choices. But since my girls showed no signs of such perilous behavior, why would I need to share my old sins?
Redeeming Revelations
Then a talk I heard at a Christian conference years ago came back to me. The speaker shared that her 12-year-old daughter had been flipping through television channels when she stopped on a talk show about women who'd had abortions. "Those women must be awful," her Christian daughter said scornfully. "How could anyone kill a baby like that?"
At that moment, the speaker said she knew she had to tell her daughter about her own dark past. She offered a silent prayer, then burst into her story.
"Those women aren't necessarily awful," the woman began. "Sometimes they're simply trapped. Not everyone's dad and mom are Christians who love their kids and bring them up as protected as you are. Not everyone has the gift of growing up in a godly home."
Then the woman finally confessed her secret to her daughter: "I had an abortion when I was a teenager. I was young and scared, and I thought abortion was my only option. Eventually I met and married your awesome dad, and God blessed us with you."
"My daughter was crushed," the speaker shared. "She cried like a baby about my past. I felt terrible, but I knew I was right to tell her. I couldn't let her go on being judgmental toward women who've had abortions."
As I thought of this woman's words, suddenly God's point became crystal clear to me: Cleaned and polished by Christ's love and forgiveness, my past sins had become lessons in redemption for other people. "Look at your sins, your wounds," I once heard a pastor preach. "Wherever Jesus has delivered and healed you, the Lord has ordained you to help and comfort other people in those same difficult places."
My past could teach my daughters compassion for people who choose sin over the safety of God's unpolluted path. "Just be honest," Jesus seemed to say to me. "Tell your girls the truth."
With eyes wide and stunned, they listened quietly and didn't ask any questions.
I tried to explain why I'd gone down such a sinful path. "I didn't know the Lord when I was a teenager. My family drank. My friends drank. I thought everyone drank alcohol. I wasn't raised in a church like our family's. Nobody read the Bible to me when I was a kid."
I began to cry.
"It's OK, Mom. You aren't like that now," one of my daughters gently offered.
"We still love you, Mom," said my other daughter. "And Jesus loves and forgives you, too."
I could tell by my daughters' faces that this conversation was as hard for them as it was for me. But their compassionate replies were encouraging.
"Like me," I said, "many kids grow up in homes where nobody knows the Lord. Where people sin and think bad behavior is normal. These people need our prayers and our love."
Washed Clean
After I told my daughters of my past, I kept thinking about a tiny piece of red sea glass I'd found.
A serious sea glass hunter once told me red glass is the most valuable kind. And it's nearly impossible to find now after years of people picking over the beach.
This little shard looked like a drop of blood. It reminded me of the blood of the babies my friends aborted with my help. But the red glass also reminded me of the blood of my Savior. For when I placed the piece in my antique jar, the red glass disappeared into the white shells. In the same way, Christ's blood, when poured upon my sins, turned me white as those sun-bleached seashells.
And now I can use those old sins, soft and refined like the sea glass, to teach others—and my children—about Christ's amazing love.
Jodi Washington is a pseudonym. Names and details have been changed.
Copyright © 2008 by the author or Christianity Today International/Today's Christian Woman magazine.
Who doesn't have a few pieces of sea glass tucked in their pockets?
***
"Parents with a Past"
I looked into the antique jar full of seashells my family and I had gathered on our vacations, and tried to ignore the nudging I felt from God. I held in my hand pieces of sea glass my children, my husband, and I had collected on our recent visit to Glass Beach. Nearly a century ago, this rocky shore served as the city dump. But today, herds of people comb the sand and rocks for sea glass. After much refinement in the ocean, these broken pieces of old glass garbage have become sought-after stones that sparkle like jewels in the surf.
As I placed this onetime trash into the jar, I felt God speaking to me about the "garbage" of my life—my past sins.
"I can use those transgressions now," he seemed to tell me. "Just as the sea has refined this glass, I've shaped and refined your mistakes into valuable gems for you to share with other people."
Specifically, I felt the Lord prompting me to tell my teenage daughters about the costly blunders I'd made when I was their age.
But the suggestion wasn't appealing to me. I didn't want to confess my past to them.
What I Was Hiding
My adolescence—and my husband's—was dark and dangerous compared to my children's coming-of-age years. My girls planned to be virgins on their wedding nights. They wore purity rings and at their youth groups had signed contracts with God not to have sex before marriage. While I knew my kids might not be able to hold to such ideal aspirations, I prayed they would. And so far, they were untainted by promiscuity, alcohol and drugs, or raunchy movies.
In contrast, my husband and I had watched every vulgar movie Hollywood made. During our teens we went to parties, got drunk, tried drugs. Because we weren't Christians, we never thought we were doing anything bad.
I'd been somewhat open with our kids about that period of our lives, so they already knew their proper Christian mother had a past. But they didn't know details. They didn't know that I had friends who'd died in drunk-driving accidents. That I'd driven drunk many times myself. My daughters didn't know that I'd taken friends to get abortions. Or that their grandpa had kicked me out of his house when I was 18 because he'd caught me sleeping with my boyfriend—their dad.
The lessons from those years were painful. I'd learned boyfriends love girls less after they put out, not more as the boys promise. That drunken bashes leave the partygoer feeling sick and empty the next morning. That drugs harm the body, but not nearly as much as they harm the soul.
Of course, I didn't want my daughters to suffer the scars of such sinful choices. But since my girls showed no signs of such perilous behavior, why would I need to share my old sins?
Redeeming Revelations
Then a talk I heard at a Christian conference years ago came back to me. The speaker shared that her 12-year-old daughter had been flipping through television channels when she stopped on a talk show about women who'd had abortions. "Those women must be awful," her Christian daughter said scornfully. "How could anyone kill a baby like that?"
At that moment, the speaker said she knew she had to tell her daughter about her own dark past. She offered a silent prayer, then burst into her story.
"Those women aren't necessarily awful," the woman began. "Sometimes they're simply trapped. Not everyone's dad and mom are Christians who love their kids and bring them up as protected as you are. Not everyone has the gift of growing up in a godly home."
Then the woman finally confessed her secret to her daughter: "I had an abortion when I was a teenager. I was young and scared, and I thought abortion was my only option. Eventually I met and married your awesome dad, and God blessed us with you."
"My daughter was crushed," the speaker shared. "She cried like a baby about my past. I felt terrible, but I knew I was right to tell her. I couldn't let her go on being judgmental toward women who've had abortions."
As I thought of this woman's words, suddenly God's point became crystal clear to me: Cleaned and polished by Christ's love and forgiveness, my past sins had become lessons in redemption for other people. "Look at your sins, your wounds," I once heard a pastor preach. "Wherever Jesus has delivered and healed you, the Lord has ordained you to help and comfort other people in those same difficult places."
My past could teach my daughters compassion for people who choose sin over the safety of God's unpolluted path. "Just be honest," Jesus seemed to say to me. "Tell your girls the truth."
With eyes wide and stunned, they listened quietly and didn't ask any questions.
I tried to explain why I'd gone down such a sinful path. "I didn't know the Lord when I was a teenager. My family drank. My friends drank. I thought everyone drank alcohol. I wasn't raised in a church like our family's. Nobody read the Bible to me when I was a kid."
I began to cry.
"It's OK, Mom. You aren't like that now," one of my daughters gently offered.
"We still love you, Mom," said my other daughter. "And Jesus loves and forgives you, too."
I could tell by my daughters' faces that this conversation was as hard for them as it was for me. But their compassionate replies were encouraging.
"Like me," I said, "many kids grow up in homes where nobody knows the Lord. Where people sin and think bad behavior is normal. These people need our prayers and our love."
Washed Clean
After I told my daughters of my past, I kept thinking about a tiny piece of red sea glass I'd found.
A serious sea glass hunter once told me red glass is the most valuable kind. And it's nearly impossible to find now after years of people picking over the beach.
This little shard looked like a drop of blood. It reminded me of the blood of the babies my friends aborted with my help. But the red glass also reminded me of the blood of my Savior. For when I placed the piece in my antique jar, the red glass disappeared into the white shells. In the same way, Christ's blood, when poured upon my sins, turned me white as those sun-bleached seashells.
And now I can use those old sins, soft and refined like the sea glass, to teach others—and my children—about Christ's amazing love.
Jodi Washington is a pseudonym. Names and details have been changed.
Copyright © 2008 by the author or Christianity Today International/Today's Christian Woman magazine.
Friday, July 10, 2009
A Parable
Two people were given the assignment of building a temple. It was to be the most beautiful, most elaborate temple in the land- a house of worship, knowledge, and all things good.
One was a brick maker. One was an architect and mason.
The brick maker was a specialist- only he knew how to make the special bricks required for the temple. It was a long process, taking a full day to make a single brick. Beyond his brick making duties, his job was to support and encourage the architect and mason.
The architect and mason had a difficult job- it was her job to design the temple, and then to lay each brick in place, until the last piece of brick was used and the temple was complete.
It was hard, backbreaking work, but they both knew it was worth their effort.
When the brick maker tried to help lay the brick or design the temple, it would slow things down to a tedious crawl.
When the architect and mason tried to help with the bricks, she only got in the way.
They often would argue about whose job was more difficult or more important.
The brick maker claimed that his job was most valuable, because without his bricks, the temple could not exist.
The architect would argue that her job was indispensable because without her, all they would have is a pile of bricks and again the temple would not exist.
They argued so much that after many years, the very foundation had still not been completed.
One day, the priest came down and asked them why his temple was not finished.
The architect blamed the brick maker for not doing anything more than making stupid bricks- her job clearly was more labor intensive and required much more sacrifice. Why would the brick maker not pitch in a little on the bricklaying? she asked.
The brick maker blamed the architect- Couldn't she see how nothing can happen without him? Or how much labor went into those bricks that she took for granted?
After listening to their strained and hateful arguments, the priest started laughing.
"Can't you see? The temple requires BOTH of you! A temple cannot be built without bricks, and bricks cannot become a temple without a design. Moreover, the temple would only be a building without the love and commitment it takes to build it. Only by working together can you really make this the temple it is meant to be."
The brick maker and the architect heard the priest's wisdom, and finished the temple. Whenever they would quarrel, they would remember his words, and take time to remember the importance of each role.
Only through real partnerships can truly beautiful temples be built. The question is, though: Are you the brickmaker or the architect?
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Babywearing: Torso Carry in a Ring Sling
This is my Gypsy Mama Baby Bali Freya, which has been turned into a ring sling by Jan at Sleeping Baby Productions. Freya is one of my favorite girls- I love to see her used in another way! :)
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
change?
Every July, I start to wonder about my sanity. As the temps top 110 and the sun has us held prisoner in our air-conditioned safety for the xxth day in a row, I start to wonder... what else is out there?
I longingly watch the weather channel, realizing that there are people out there who don't risk frying like a runny egg when they take out the garbage. There are people out there who can pour water on the ground and have it absorb... not run off, repelled by the too-dry sand. They are, in fact, enjoying 76 degree summers and never have to turn on their air conditioning. I heard a rumor that there are people out there who don't even have air conditioning. Imagine that.
My home has been amidst the sequoias and the barrel cactus since I was born. I am a desert dweller. The monsoon, gentle cricket and cicada harmonies on star-lit nights and casual nightmares of scorpions and diamondbacks have been part of my life's rhythm since conception. Talk to me in the winter or deep into a summer night, long after the sun has ceased its reign of terror, and I would tell you I love the desert.
Talk to me at noon, as I try to get two small children into the car without them incurring third-degree burns from the metal buckles in the car seats, and I will tell you a different story. Let's chat about a sunburn after walking down to the mailbox, or being unable to do anything outside for nine months of the year. I feel like a prisoner in my own home, and it is a cell that I pay dearly for. $400. That was our last energy bill. $400 freaking dollars.
I guess I am just starting to wonder if it is time to finally stop complaining about it and move somewhere where the term "God's Green Earth" has literal meaning?
On one hand, I have been blessed here in this forsaken desert. I am surrounded by an amazing community of family, friends, church family, and all of the grandparents/aunts/uncles/cousins can see the boys any time they want to. I would be leaving all of that behind. Comfort in the known.
On the other hand, there is always Skype, Facebook and email. I can find a new church, make new friends, get Daegan into a new preschool. Who is to say that we won't be more comfortable up north, where people tend to be a tad crunchier?
I wonder if I would miss it? I wonder if I could possibly miss the blinding sunlight and bone-penetrating heat?
I don't know. It can't happen now anyway, but we need to make a decision soon so that we can save up for the move and relocation. Please, pray with me that God leads me to where He wants me to be, and that he discourages my heart on this change if it is not what He wants.
I longingly watch the weather channel, realizing that there are people out there who don't risk frying like a runny egg when they take out the garbage. There are people out there who can pour water on the ground and have it absorb... not run off, repelled by the too-dry sand. They are, in fact, enjoying 76 degree summers and never have to turn on their air conditioning. I heard a rumor that there are people out there who don't even have air conditioning. Imagine that.
My home has been amidst the sequoias and the barrel cactus since I was born. I am a desert dweller. The monsoon, gentle cricket and cicada harmonies on star-lit nights and casual nightmares of scorpions and diamondbacks have been part of my life's rhythm since conception. Talk to me in the winter or deep into a summer night, long after the sun has ceased its reign of terror, and I would tell you I love the desert.
Talk to me at noon, as I try to get two small children into the car without them incurring third-degree burns from the metal buckles in the car seats, and I will tell you a different story. Let's chat about a sunburn after walking down to the mailbox, or being unable to do anything outside for nine months of the year. I feel like a prisoner in my own home, and it is a cell that I pay dearly for. $400. That was our last energy bill. $400 freaking dollars.
I guess I am just starting to wonder if it is time to finally stop complaining about it and move somewhere where the term "God's Green Earth" has literal meaning?
On one hand, I have been blessed here in this forsaken desert. I am surrounded by an amazing community of family, friends, church family, and all of the grandparents/aunts/uncles/cousins can see the boys any time they want to. I would be leaving all of that behind. Comfort in the known.
On the other hand, there is always Skype, Facebook and email. I can find a new church, make new friends, get Daegan into a new preschool. Who is to say that we won't be more comfortable up north, where people tend to be a tad crunchier?
I wonder if I would miss it? I wonder if I could possibly miss the blinding sunlight and bone-penetrating heat?
I don't know. It can't happen now anyway, but we need to make a decision soon so that we can save up for the move and relocation. Please, pray with me that God leads me to where He wants me to be, and that he discourages my heart on this change if it is not what He wants.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
need, want, deserve
A ten foot by ten foot tent, bare earth floor. A small hole in the ground for a stove, a piece of leather for a table. Skins rolled and neatly stacked for beds at night. The oppressive desert heat beating down from above, temps averaging around 120 degrees.
See yourself there.
Personally, it sounds like a nightmare- my air conditioning goes on when the temps top eighty degrees. I chafe, sometimes, at only having 2500 square feet.
Women raised large families in settings like this for millenia. Sometimes it was a tent, sometimes a small, adobe house. The dimensions were about equivalent. This was not "torture" to them. This was their life. They baked bread from scratch, slaughtered and prepared their own livestock, wove their own fabric... basically had few conveniences.
The next time you think to yourself, "I need this," "I really want this," or "I deserve this," think about how much you already have compared to people on the other side of the world who live on less than $2 a day. Their lives are not much different than those of the Old Testament women.
Are you worth more then them? Is your life more valuable? Your comfort more important? Do they somehow "deserve" to live in a region of famine, disease and war, and we somehow "deserve" to live where our major concerns are whether to buy this season's wardrobe or make last season's stretch a little longer?
Be careful with self-entitlement. Buy what you will. Just be careful when you find yourself excusing it with the words need, want and deserve. These words take credit away from the amazing blessings we already have.
***
This is a topic I have thought a LOT about over the last few years. It all started when I was talking to my super-awesome big brother on the phone (it must have been about seven years ago now...). I was complaining about my life, frustrated at being an early 20-something just starting out- stating vehnemently that I "deserved" a nice house, in a nice suburban neighborhood, a decent job and the life that I wanted. I honestly believed that.
He, being nine years my senior, was appalled. He told me that these things are not "deserved." No one "deserves" to have a certain quality of life. He reprimanded me about using the word "deserve" so callously and easily. I was certainly a materialistic, self-involved and self-entitled child.
After seven years of trials, growth and maturing (it takes time to move from a young adult to full adulthood... still, I am not sure that I am quite there yet,) I know what he meant now. I cringe when I hear people use these words.
No one "deserves" anything. We are given blessings and opportunities by a God who loves us. We don't "earn" anything, nothing is "ours."
I sincerely hope that I can manage to instill this idea in my boys, to teach them to recognize their blessings instead of whining for more.
I write this more as a reminder to myself right now, to keep my priorities straight. Stay humble, dear readers. Humility and love, gentleness and passion- more people would like an honest ear to talk to and a sincere smile and hug so much more than a monetary or material gift. Give them often. :)
See yourself there.
Personally, it sounds like a nightmare- my air conditioning goes on when the temps top eighty degrees. I chafe, sometimes, at only having 2500 square feet.
Women raised large families in settings like this for millenia. Sometimes it was a tent, sometimes a small, adobe house. The dimensions were about equivalent. This was not "torture" to them. This was their life. They baked bread from scratch, slaughtered and prepared their own livestock, wove their own fabric... basically had few conveniences.
The next time you think to yourself, "I need this," "I really want this," or "I deserve this," think about how much you already have compared to people on the other side of the world who live on less than $2 a day. Their lives are not much different than those of the Old Testament women.
Are you worth more then them? Is your life more valuable? Your comfort more important? Do they somehow "deserve" to live in a region of famine, disease and war, and we somehow "deserve" to live where our major concerns are whether to buy this season's wardrobe or make last season's stretch a little longer?
Be careful with self-entitlement. Buy what you will. Just be careful when you find yourself excusing it with the words need, want and deserve. These words take credit away from the amazing blessings we already have.
***
This is a topic I have thought a LOT about over the last few years. It all started when I was talking to my super-awesome big brother on the phone (it must have been about seven years ago now...). I was complaining about my life, frustrated at being an early 20-something just starting out- stating vehnemently that I "deserved" a nice house, in a nice suburban neighborhood, a decent job and the life that I wanted. I honestly believed that.
He, being nine years my senior, was appalled. He told me that these things are not "deserved." No one "deserves" to have a certain quality of life. He reprimanded me about using the word "deserve" so callously and easily. I was certainly a materialistic, self-involved and self-entitled child.
After seven years of trials, growth and maturing (it takes time to move from a young adult to full adulthood... still, I am not sure that I am quite there yet,) I know what he meant now. I cringe when I hear people use these words.
No one "deserves" anything. We are given blessings and opportunities by a God who loves us. We don't "earn" anything, nothing is "ours."
I sincerely hope that I can manage to instill this idea in my boys, to teach them to recognize their blessings instead of whining for more.
I write this more as a reminder to myself right now, to keep my priorities straight. Stay humble, dear readers. Humility and love, gentleness and passion- more people would like an honest ear to talk to and a sincere smile and hug so much more than a monetary or material gift. Give them often. :)
Friday, July 3, 2009
pics from today...
Just realizing how tired I look on a day-to-day basis...
nursing pics, soooo sweet
Daegan kisses
mmmm.... boobies!
lucky for me, this one takes a bottle, too!
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
thought repetition
Isaiah 55:8-9:
For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the LORD. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.
I once had a very wise teacher who told me that when she repeated something, I needed to pay attention. In fact, she elaborated, whenever something seems to be a reoccurring subject, it may be time to open my ears and be vigilant.
There are many times in my life when that advice has come in handy, most of which have been outside of the classroom.
One repeating theme I have been seeing lately is in a discussion on the psychology of God. It has come up twice, in the two books of the Bible I struggled through the most (besides, of course, Numbers and Deuteronomy, which were both admittedly agonizing to read).
The first of these two books was Job, the second was Isaiah.
The entire book of Job is basically a cataloguing of every question one can ask about the nature of God.
If God is a good, loving and endearing creator, then why do good people suffer? Why do evil people prosper? Why do children die? Why does illness afflict and why do wars break out?
The answer to every question that one may have when trying to conceptualize how it can be true that God both loves us unconditionally and causes/allows us to suffer is summed up in the passage quoted above.
HE does not think like we think. In fact, I suspect heavily that asking GOD to explain his logic to me would be like Daegan asking me to explain mine to him. I simply don't possess the necessary tools to understand it- not the physiology, the intellect, nor the vocabulary- I am no where near equipped to receive and understand such a message.
So, just as Daegan may at times have to be upset and angry, maybe even deeply hurt, by my actions as a parent, I will struggle with questions of justice and equity when I try to understand the things that are allowed to occur in our world.
I have found it deeply, deeply reassuring to remember that passage whenever I start to question "why," or whenever I try to put this complex world into some neat little package of understanding.
I do, however, have a strong and enduring faith that even though I cannot begin to understand it, all things happen for a greater purpose, and that all of our experiences as the children of Christ are like delicate threads in a tapestry, all weaving together to form one glorious design.
These things bring me amazing peace. I hope it does the same for you.
For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the LORD. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.
I once had a very wise teacher who told me that when she repeated something, I needed to pay attention. In fact, she elaborated, whenever something seems to be a reoccurring subject, it may be time to open my ears and be vigilant.
There are many times in my life when that advice has come in handy, most of which have been outside of the classroom.
One repeating theme I have been seeing lately is in a discussion on the psychology of God. It has come up twice, in the two books of the Bible I struggled through the most (besides, of course, Numbers and Deuteronomy, which were both admittedly agonizing to read).
The first of these two books was Job, the second was Isaiah.
The entire book of Job is basically a cataloguing of every question one can ask about the nature of God.
If God is a good, loving and endearing creator, then why do good people suffer? Why do evil people prosper? Why do children die? Why does illness afflict and why do wars break out?
The answer to every question that one may have when trying to conceptualize how it can be true that God both loves us unconditionally and causes/allows us to suffer is summed up in the passage quoted above.
HE does not think like we think. In fact, I suspect heavily that asking GOD to explain his logic to me would be like Daegan asking me to explain mine to him. I simply don't possess the necessary tools to understand it- not the physiology, the intellect, nor the vocabulary- I am no where near equipped to receive and understand such a message.
So, just as Daegan may at times have to be upset and angry, maybe even deeply hurt, by my actions as a parent, I will struggle with questions of justice and equity when I try to understand the things that are allowed to occur in our world.
I have found it deeply, deeply reassuring to remember that passage whenever I start to question "why," or whenever I try to put this complex world into some neat little package of understanding.
I do, however, have a strong and enduring faith that even though I cannot begin to understand it, all things happen for a greater purpose, and that all of our experiences as the children of Christ are like delicate threads in a tapestry, all weaving together to form one glorious design.
These things bring me amazing peace. I hope it does the same for you.
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