This past weekend, just a few days before Christmas - a day set aside to celebrate life and renewal and salvation - we headed from our little Texas neighborhood across 4 state lines into Georgia to honor my step-father and lay him to rest. Not exactly the holiday I had in mind.
I don't want to eulogize him. I know my attempts would be feeble and couldn't really capture the magnitude of his love and compassion. But I want to share a quality about him that I find especially endearing: he chose to love me, when he certainly didn't have to. I was an adult when Loran, my step-dad, came into the picture. In fact, I met him for the first time at my own high school graduation. I was a little perturbed that my mom would choose that exact moment to announce her new romance, but it wasn't exactly unlike her to upstage me. At any rate, Loran was under no obligation to give me the time of day. He loved my mother, deeply and purely. And I think he tried to make my brother and I feel comfortable and pleased with him. But he never seemed to be pretending to enjoy us in order to meet that end. I believe he genuinely liked our company. We were a bit foreign to him, having grown up in Southern California and he in middle Georgia. But I think we were equally fascinated with his strange accent and quiet, gentle style of conversation. He was jolly and smiled a lot, a quality I was immediately suspicious of, but then grew to love. He served in Vietnam, though he didn't really ever talk about it. He always humbly declined his VA benefits, saying that there was another veteran somewhere who needed it more. He never spoke ill of anyone, even when he had every right to. He always found that elusive silver lining. He was hardly critical, even when the occasion called for it. He was just genuine, and kind, and giving. And here I was, an 18-year-old girl who thought, as most teenagers do, that I knew everything. He forgive me time and time again for my attitude, without ever telling me that my attitude was foul. He just simply let me do what I was going to do, and allowing me some pity when my plans backfired. He gave me a room in his home, asking little from me in return except a few chores and consideration in the late evening. He helped me buy a car. He helped me get a job. He helped me navigate the choppy waters of my strained relationship with my mother. And never once said a cross word or raised his voice in protest. He loved me. He genuinely loved me. And my husband. And my children. He called my children his grandchildren, and referred to me as his daughter. Not in a pushy way, or in a way that forces my biological father, a man I remain very close to, out of the picture. But in a I'll-be-here-if-you-need-me kind of way. And he was. He gave me away at my wedding. He witnessed the birth of my oldest child. And he held me lovingly the day we laid my mother to rest. No, none of this was required of him. But he gladly chose of his own free will to love me. And I can never express enough my appreciation. If I were to eulogize him, I believe I could sum it up: He served courageously. He gave generously. He lived richly. And he loved passionately.
During the visitation, several people came up to hug me or shake my hand. "You're Vicki's daughter! I would recognize you anywhere!" They would say, but I wouldn't have any idea who they were. Mostly friends of my parents. They would say, "it's so terrible about your mom and Loran. They were such wonderful people." And I would smile, reply politely, and think for a moment... yes, they were. Everyone loved them. Maybe for reasons I couldn't always understand. But it was lovely to think, in my moment of grief, that people missed my parents because they truly felt that they had spent so much time with them, getting to know them, and loving them for who they were. It was an investment with increasing dividends. They had built a family, a network of sorts, with these amazing relationships that had such an impact. And now, in the same chapel where we held visitation for my mother, we were seeing the same faces, and some new ones, expressing their sincere sadness that such an incredible man was gone.
I visited the grave site the day following the funeral to pay one last tribute to Loran, and give my mom a kiss. Her grave site was covered up to allow for Loran's funeral. Seeing them, side by side once again, brought emotions up in me that I couldn't quite explain. Tears welled up in my eyes, and just when I thought I was cried out. I half smiled, half moaned at the sight of the two of them, once again reunited. Both turned back to the dust from which mankind was brought forth. I stared at the flowers left over from the service, and the few fresh ones placed on Mom's headstone. It became clear to me that we all meet the same fate. Regardless of your faith, religion, or other beliefs. No one escapes this life alive. For some, this comes tragically quick, and for others, painfully slow. Hopefully there are enough memories, experiences, and relationships in between the day you breathe your first breath and the day you breathe your last to satisfy our human need and primal urge to live. And hopefully, you don't die alone.
My mom was surrounded by family when she passed. Loran was with his boys. He was loved by many, even if they were not physically present. Seeing the tearful faces at his service, and hearing the stories of so many touched by his joyful spirit, I know that he was special, and not just to me.
These relationships, however strange their beginning, are so vital to us. Oh the lengths Loran went to for my mother, my brothers, and myself! For our children. For his family. We loved him, and we can be sure he adored us. But when I think of the almost 20 years I spent learning about him, getting to know him, loving him, and being ministered to by him, in his own special, quiet way... it just seems wrong that I have to say good-bye to him.
You see, the cruel trick of humanity is that one day, you have to let go of a love you spent so much time and effort maintaining.
Rest peacefully, Loran... you've earned it.
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
I Heart Berlin
guten Morgen aus Berlin! (Good morning from Berlin!)
As I write this, I am staring out my 24th story window, looking out at a bustling city below foggy, drizzly clouds. Streets are full of Mercedes cars, electric trains, bicyclists and pedestrians, despite the damp, cold weather (highs only in the 40s (F)). Being the explorer that I am, I would normally be out on the pavement also. But yesterday I think I logged 15 miles on foot, and my calves are aching. I decided that today would be a good day to rest.
From my viewpoint here in Alexanderplatz, I can see quite a distance when the fog and clouds are away. Today, the visibility is limited, though a few distant church steeples peek through the clouds.
Berlin as a whole is an incredible city, rich with history and yet bustling with new growth. Alexanderplatz, a fairly modern section of the city, is busy with construction and renovation - from my seat I can see at least 6 operating cranes. People here take a great deal of pride in their constant improvement, yet cling to the incredible history of this place.
I want to take a moment to talk about the history of Berlin. I think that as Americans, it is easy to look at Berlin, or even Germany as a whole, and come up with a laundry list of wrongs committed by the people of this region. Yes, Germany can leave a bad taste in the mouths of anyone born during the times when Germany was a vicious dictatorship, ruled by selfish, evil intent. World War I and World War II gave westerners a bitter taste for Germany, and with good reason. Oppression, fascism, communism, persecution, and despotism are very real parts of the history of this country and it's people. People here of a certain age can still remember the aftermath of the war, the political and economic repercussions, and they endured them through the Cold War era, and on into modern times. People here haven't forgotten their history. They aren't proud of the blemishes in their history, but they are nothing if not penitent. Every corner seems to commemorate those lost in various battles, skirmishes, and confrontations.
Last night, we walked along the remaining sections of the Berlin wall. We touched both sides of the wall, feeling for ourselves the cold concrete that would likely have been the barrier between freedom and suppression. But the wall no longer serves as a reminder that freedom is an unobtainable dream. Now the wall serves as a gallery for art. Each section of the wall is painted like an individual mural, some with political or socially-motivated messages. Some serve simply as a beautiful bandaid over a big black eye. Unfortunately, several of the pieces have been vandalized over time. However, the message remains.
We passed several memorials, commemorating the over 100 people who lost their lives trying to climb, claw, and crawl their way to freedom on the other side of this tall, cold wall. Some memorials were state-sponsored, and featured plaques like the one below. Some of them were created with private money or artists, and featured individual names and dates.
We put our hands on the columns at Brandenburg Gate, and held broken pieces of the wall in our hands. In a moment of overwhelming sorrow, I offered a simple prayer. Lord, let me understand these people. Don't let my negative information about this place crowd out the good here. Don't let me view these people through the lens of their past, but with the understanding of their future. As a held that rock in my hands, I began to understand. I began to see less of the painful history, and more of the effort to move forward. Berliners know that they will never escape the past that defines their city. But they are a progressive people. They move forward. They are constantly improving. They don't dismiss or hide the past, but they don't live in it. They have acknowledged their past sins, and they seem to be truly remorseful.
Near Humboldt University, there is a beautiful unmarked building - it looks regal and Roman in stature. Upon approach, a plaque describes that it was once a watchtower, now turned war memorial. A simple statue sits inside, surrounded by official wreaths. Not far from there is the official Holocaust Memorial, a chilling and difficult-to-understand commemoration of the Jews, Roma, and other victims of the Holocaust.
There are approximately 4 and a half acres of concrete stones, varying in height, representing Holocaust victims. The museum itself lies underground. The memorial is open at all hours, and is immediately adjacent to the US Embassy.
While no known concentration camps or prisoner stations were here in Berlin, several important buildings remain here, despite heavy shelling from Allied Forces. We visited the Reichstag Building, where Hitler and his cabinet would've met. We stood at the place where the Chancellor's Palace once stood, until it was destroyed by war. We took pictures at Lustgarten, a location of several Nazi rallies, where the Fuehrer himself stood and roared the crowd into frenzied applause amidst a backdrop of Nazi banners and soldiers. And in every one of these places, plaques with information regarding its history shows pictures with swastikas and salutes, famous names and symbols. Berlin does not shy away from what has given Germany a bad name. But she has made great strides to advance in light of her past.
Berlin is a democratic society. People here do not tolerate well the neo-Nazi movement. They embrace foreign culture. People here have been very kind to us, and have seemed patient and tolerant. In the US, we say things like, "you're in America now, so speak English!" Here, nearly every restaurant offers a menu with Italian, French, Spanish, Cyrillic, and English translations. Nearly every person we've spoken to - be it on the train, in a restaurant, at various memorials, and on the street - seems to speak English, and joyfully so, though they carry on casual conversations amongst themselves in German. Most signs are in German and English. People here don't seem to be impatient about having to speak English to us, and they giggle at our "accent." During our self-led sightseeing tour yesterday, we saw people from all over the globe. People in Berlin seem to embrace those not of itself.
Another beautiful thing about Berlin is that it is clean. Anyone who knows me well knows that I have issues with cleanliness. I don't deal well with trash, litter, and general sloppiness. And don't get me started on restrooms! But let me tell you that Berlin is clean. You'll be hard pressed to find litter on the streets here. There are garbage cans within reach at nearly any time. And beside the garbage cans you are likely to find recycle receptacles, labeled for paper, plastic, and glass. While you do have to pay 50 cents to use public toilets (and I have not ventured to use these as of yet), the restrooms that are available to paying customers at restaurants and in the airport are very clean. And modern. I approve. Parks and green spaces here are full of people at all hours of the day, even though it has been cold and damp. And still, no litter. Berliners are not wasteful people, either. All the toilets are low-flow, and the sinks and shower heads are restricted. They have signs everywhere about turning lights off when they're not in use, and they even require you to indicate that you wish to open the train door so they don't waste energy opening and closing doors, and allowing heat to escape from the cars. Big trucks here do not spew black smoke, and every car we have seen thus far is new and emission-certified. Even the buses run cleanly. The majority of Berliners seem to take a combination of bicycle, train, and bus. The train system here is kind of confusing, but covers a great deal of the city, with connections to buses at nearly major intersection. Germany appears to be the 'efficiency machine' with no time or space wasted.
I came here unsure about what I would see. What I knew of Germany was a harsh, guttural-sounding language, blond hair, and a blemished past that nearly cost my granddaddy his life during WWII. What I found is a culture that recognizes its past, embraces its future, and accepts and adapts to changes. Modern yet historic, cozy yet efficient. Berlin is many things to many people. But I have become very fond of it very quickly.
I could see myself a Berliner.
...if I could figure out this map...
As I write this, I am staring out my 24th story window, looking out at a bustling city below foggy, drizzly clouds. Streets are full of Mercedes cars, electric trains, bicyclists and pedestrians, despite the damp, cold weather (highs only in the 40s (F)). Being the explorer that I am, I would normally be out on the pavement also. But yesterday I think I logged 15 miles on foot, and my calves are aching. I decided that today would be a good day to rest.
From my viewpoint here in Alexanderplatz, I can see quite a distance when the fog and clouds are away. Today, the visibility is limited, though a few distant church steeples peek through the clouds.
Berlin as a whole is an incredible city, rich with history and yet bustling with new growth. Alexanderplatz, a fairly modern section of the city, is busy with construction and renovation - from my seat I can see at least 6 operating cranes. People here take a great deal of pride in their constant improvement, yet cling to the incredible history of this place.
I want to take a moment to talk about the history of Berlin. I think that as Americans, it is easy to look at Berlin, or even Germany as a whole, and come up with a laundry list of wrongs committed by the people of this region. Yes, Germany can leave a bad taste in the mouths of anyone born during the times when Germany was a vicious dictatorship, ruled by selfish, evil intent. World War I and World War II gave westerners a bitter taste for Germany, and with good reason. Oppression, fascism, communism, persecution, and despotism are very real parts of the history of this country and it's people. People here of a certain age can still remember the aftermath of the war, the political and economic repercussions, and they endured them through the Cold War era, and on into modern times. People here haven't forgotten their history. They aren't proud of the blemishes in their history, but they are nothing if not penitent. Every corner seems to commemorate those lost in various battles, skirmishes, and confrontations.
Last night, we walked along the remaining sections of the Berlin wall. We touched both sides of the wall, feeling for ourselves the cold concrete that would likely have been the barrier between freedom and suppression. But the wall no longer serves as a reminder that freedom is an unobtainable dream. Now the wall serves as a gallery for art. Each section of the wall is painted like an individual mural, some with political or socially-motivated messages. Some serve simply as a beautiful bandaid over a big black eye. Unfortunately, several of the pieces have been vandalized over time. However, the message remains.
Near Humboldt University, there is a beautiful unmarked building - it looks regal and Roman in stature. Upon approach, a plaque describes that it was once a watchtower, now turned war memorial. A simple statue sits inside, surrounded by official wreaths. Not far from there is the official Holocaust Memorial, a chilling and difficult-to-understand commemoration of the Jews, Roma, and other victims of the Holocaust.
While no known concentration camps or prisoner stations were here in Berlin, several important buildings remain here, despite heavy shelling from Allied Forces. We visited the Reichstag Building, where Hitler and his cabinet would've met. We stood at the place where the Chancellor's Palace once stood, until it was destroyed by war. We took pictures at Lustgarten, a location of several Nazi rallies, where the Fuehrer himself stood and roared the crowd into frenzied applause amidst a backdrop of Nazi banners and soldiers. And in every one of these places, plaques with information regarding its history shows pictures with swastikas and salutes, famous names and symbols. Berlin does not shy away from what has given Germany a bad name. But she has made great strides to advance in light of her past.
Berlin is a democratic society. People here do not tolerate well the neo-Nazi movement. They embrace foreign culture. People here have been very kind to us, and have seemed patient and tolerant. In the US, we say things like, "you're in America now, so speak English!" Here, nearly every restaurant offers a menu with Italian, French, Spanish, Cyrillic, and English translations. Nearly every person we've spoken to - be it on the train, in a restaurant, at various memorials, and on the street - seems to speak English, and joyfully so, though they carry on casual conversations amongst themselves in German. Most signs are in German and English. People here don't seem to be impatient about having to speak English to us, and they giggle at our "accent." During our self-led sightseeing tour yesterday, we saw people from all over the globe. People in Berlin seem to embrace those not of itself.
Another beautiful thing about Berlin is that it is clean. Anyone who knows me well knows that I have issues with cleanliness. I don't deal well with trash, litter, and general sloppiness. And don't get me started on restrooms! But let me tell you that Berlin is clean. You'll be hard pressed to find litter on the streets here. There are garbage cans within reach at nearly any time. And beside the garbage cans you are likely to find recycle receptacles, labeled for paper, plastic, and glass. While you do have to pay 50 cents to use public toilets (and I have not ventured to use these as of yet), the restrooms that are available to paying customers at restaurants and in the airport are very clean. And modern. I approve. Parks and green spaces here are full of people at all hours of the day, even though it has been cold and damp. And still, no litter. Berliners are not wasteful people, either. All the toilets are low-flow, and the sinks and shower heads are restricted. They have signs everywhere about turning lights off when they're not in use, and they even require you to indicate that you wish to open the train door so they don't waste energy opening and closing doors, and allowing heat to escape from the cars. Big trucks here do not spew black smoke, and every car we have seen thus far is new and emission-certified. Even the buses run cleanly. The majority of Berliners seem to take a combination of bicycle, train, and bus. The train system here is kind of confusing, but covers a great deal of the city, with connections to buses at nearly major intersection. Germany appears to be the 'efficiency machine' with no time or space wasted.
I came here unsure about what I would see. What I knew of Germany was a harsh, guttural-sounding language, blond hair, and a blemished past that nearly cost my granddaddy his life during WWII. What I found is a culture that recognizes its past, embraces its future, and accepts and adapts to changes. Modern yet historic, cozy yet efficient. Berlin is many things to many people. But I have become very fond of it very quickly.
I could see myself a Berliner.
...if I could figure out this map...
Monday, October 13, 2014
Why SEC football has a special place in my heart
I first learned to love football as a child. I would sit on the couch, either in my dad's lap or close by, wearing a jersey at least 6 sizes too big, and every Saturday I would practice making O and U shapes with my hands, yelling "Boomer Sooner!" at the console TV set in our living room. I grew up watching Barry Switzer coach up guys like Troy Aikman and Keith Jackson and Brian Bosworth. My dad taught me the rules of the game. I learned how to armchair quarterback through our special Saturday sessions. And I learned that sometimes, no matter how many times you yell "run!" they just won't budge. And sometimes I taught him things like alternate swear words, and how to keep from throwing a shoe at the refs through the TV set. Valuable lessons were learned every Saturday, and I still think so fondly on those times.
But where I first learned to fully appreciate college football was in a small house in a small city in middle Georgia, many years later. After I graduated from high school, I moved to Georgia. It was here that I found a new love for the sport. Surrounded by University of Georgia fans, I soon found a different side to the game. Georgia, being a part of the Southeastern Conference, was a different style of football than the Big Eight style play of the 1980s. I became interested in the rough-and-rugged play in Georgia, and began watching teams like Alabama, Auburn, Tennessee, Ole Miss, LSU, and South Carolina. They played physical, aggressive ball. They were defense-heavy, light on passing, and ran with fury and fervor. No sir, these boys were not playing a little two-hand-touch yard ball. They were running, full speed, right at their opponent. And only the bone-cracking crunch of helmets and shoulder pads would stop them. They were tough, they were mean, they were strong. And deep down, they were still just boys being boys.
I quickly fell in love with SEC football. I was, at first, a fan of Tennessee, watching a young Peyton Manning take the field on Saturdays. He was quick and nimble, and he was accurate. But he was also unafraid - a quality that I now find very attractive in a QB. But Tennessee did not completely win my heart. I loved all SEC teams. They trained hard, they played hard, and they were hungry for victory.
I married an Ole Miss fan. No, I married a rabid Ole Miss fan. To the core. And I love him for it. We are a Rebel family. We bleed red and blue. We live and die for every Saturday, and we sweat for our team. We travel when we can, but we watch every week. The sacrifices we make for the love of our team are not that different from the sacrifices we make for our family - sacrifices of our time, money, effort, and energy... yes, we love our Rebels. And this season we have so much to love! Our Rebels, known for giving us a mediocre showing, and play up only for key games, are currently ranked #3 in both the Coaches and AP Polls (and yes, I actually do check on those every week). They are playing hard and tough, knocking out Top 10 opponents left and right. We have a lot to be proud of!
But I think what makes me feel most proud is the valuable spiritual, moral, ethical, and general life lessons SEC football (and the Rebels, specifically) continue to teach me.
First of all, football gives people hope. There are boys on that field who are experiencing success in their sport at a level they might never have dreamed of. They are gaining national attention and are being put in the spotlight for achievement beyond their wildest imagination. On top of that, they are getting a shot at a great education. That dream might have been beyond their reach, too, had it not been for an athletic scholarship and an opportunity. And I truly cannot think of a school within the SEC that I would not want for my boys to go to. Yes, even LSU, although the smell of corn dogs makes me sick.
SEC football is so full of tradition and pageantry. Nowhere else in college football, with maybe the exception of the Notre Dame gold helmets, do you find so many amazing traditions and fun customs as you do on any given Saturday in the SEC. Playing Arkansas this week? Roast a pig. Mississippi State is coming to town? Bring your earplugs because they bring cowbells. Playing in Death Valley at night? Bring security (I'm only half joking). Tailgating in The Grove? Oh my - it's so beautiful, I don't even know where to start! But expect to see lots of beautiful girls all dolled up in red and blue. Between the Hedges this week? It's gonna be fun! My son's first full sentence was "Go dawgs, sic 'em!" Our wedding vows ended with "Hotty Toddy" but I've also heard "Roll Tide" and "Go Gators" at the end of "I do," and of course these weddings didn't happen during the fall because that would interfere with the game schedule. Don't be afraid of the loud rooster crow if you're at Williams-Brice Stadium in South Carolina. And don't forget how to "anchor down" at Vandy. I love the traditions! I really do! They're so much fun. Even when you're the visiting team. When in Rome, right?
SEC players and fans learn about victory and defeat in a way that, perhaps, the rest of the world can't understand. This week you are #1, but there is never ever a guarantee of holding that spot week to week. SEC folk know that you have to play every down in every quarter in every game in every season as if it will be your last, because things change awfully quick in a fast, defensive, strong, physical conference like this one. #1 today, unranked tomorrow - it happens, my friends. And when you can win with grace, and lose with dignity, you live to play another week. Nothing is uglier than a team that makes terrible excuses for a loss, or a team that boasts to the point of obnoxiousness (I won't mention any names, but you know who you are). Especially when you know that any given Saturday can make you or break you. Case(s) in point: where is Tim Tebow now? Commenting on a game he won't be playing. Whatever became of JaMarcus Russell? Dropped by the Raiders. How about David Greene? Practice squad. Tim Couch? Danny Wuerffel? Remember Pat Sullivan? These guys were something special in the SEC, and it never really translated to NFL success. Their few glorious years playing college ball was about all they had in them. But some of those NFL busts have had other careers doing other things, and are respected for it because they learned the valuable lessons of winning and losing. Others, not so much.
At the end of the day, what I find most endearing about SEC football is that it really is a family affair. Yes, we get together at Thanksgiving and we are truly a house divided - we've got Alabama fans, Auburn fans, Ole Miss fans, Mississippi State fans, and a few Georgia fans all under one roof. There's trash talk and jawing. But at the end of it all, there's one thing that unites us: love of each other, and love of the game. We love to see our team succeed, but we also love to see our conference succeed. If the National Championship comes down to an SEC rival and a Big 10 powerhouse, we'll root for our most-hated SEC nemesis any day of the week, because we know that we have love for our conference above the hatred for our rival. We cheer for the ones who will represent the greatest conference in college football before we will succumb to the ridiculous notion that our in-state rival has out-ranked us again. We know that one game, one season, does not an SEC-powerhouse make, and that every season brings new hope.
Things are really shaking up in the SEC this season. And it's AWESOME. If you're not a fan yet, you probably just haven't really watched...
But where I first learned to fully appreciate college football was in a small house in a small city in middle Georgia, many years later. After I graduated from high school, I moved to Georgia. It was here that I found a new love for the sport. Surrounded by University of Georgia fans, I soon found a different side to the game. Georgia, being a part of the Southeastern Conference, was a different style of football than the Big Eight style play of the 1980s. I became interested in the rough-and-rugged play in Georgia, and began watching teams like Alabama, Auburn, Tennessee, Ole Miss, LSU, and South Carolina. They played physical, aggressive ball. They were defense-heavy, light on passing, and ran with fury and fervor. No sir, these boys were not playing a little two-hand-touch yard ball. They were running, full speed, right at their opponent. And only the bone-cracking crunch of helmets and shoulder pads would stop them. They were tough, they were mean, they were strong. And deep down, they were still just boys being boys.
I quickly fell in love with SEC football. I was, at first, a fan of Tennessee, watching a young Peyton Manning take the field on Saturdays. He was quick and nimble, and he was accurate. But he was also unafraid - a quality that I now find very attractive in a QB. But Tennessee did not completely win my heart. I loved all SEC teams. They trained hard, they played hard, and they were hungry for victory.
I married an Ole Miss fan. No, I married a rabid Ole Miss fan. To the core. And I love him for it. We are a Rebel family. We bleed red and blue. We live and die for every Saturday, and we sweat for our team. We travel when we can, but we watch every week. The sacrifices we make for the love of our team are not that different from the sacrifices we make for our family - sacrifices of our time, money, effort, and energy... yes, we love our Rebels. And this season we have so much to love! Our Rebels, known for giving us a mediocre showing, and play up only for key games, are currently ranked #3 in both the Coaches and AP Polls (and yes, I actually do check on those every week). They are playing hard and tough, knocking out Top 10 opponents left and right. We have a lot to be proud of!
But I think what makes me feel most proud is the valuable spiritual, moral, ethical, and general life lessons SEC football (and the Rebels, specifically) continue to teach me.
First of all, football gives people hope. There are boys on that field who are experiencing success in their sport at a level they might never have dreamed of. They are gaining national attention and are being put in the spotlight for achievement beyond their wildest imagination. On top of that, they are getting a shot at a great education. That dream might have been beyond their reach, too, had it not been for an athletic scholarship and an opportunity. And I truly cannot think of a school within the SEC that I would not want for my boys to go to. Yes, even LSU, although the smell of corn dogs makes me sick.
SEC football is so full of tradition and pageantry. Nowhere else in college football, with maybe the exception of the Notre Dame gold helmets, do you find so many amazing traditions and fun customs as you do on any given Saturday in the SEC. Playing Arkansas this week? Roast a pig. Mississippi State is coming to town? Bring your earplugs because they bring cowbells. Playing in Death Valley at night? Bring security (I'm only half joking). Tailgating in The Grove? Oh my - it's so beautiful, I don't even know where to start! But expect to see lots of beautiful girls all dolled up in red and blue. Between the Hedges this week? It's gonna be fun! My son's first full sentence was "Go dawgs, sic 'em!" Our wedding vows ended with "Hotty Toddy" but I've also heard "Roll Tide" and "Go Gators" at the end of "I do," and of course these weddings didn't happen during the fall because that would interfere with the game schedule. Don't be afraid of the loud rooster crow if you're at Williams-Brice Stadium in South Carolina. And don't forget how to "anchor down" at Vandy. I love the traditions! I really do! They're so much fun. Even when you're the visiting team. When in Rome, right?
SEC players and fans learn about victory and defeat in a way that, perhaps, the rest of the world can't understand. This week you are #1, but there is never ever a guarantee of holding that spot week to week. SEC folk know that you have to play every down in every quarter in every game in every season as if it will be your last, because things change awfully quick in a fast, defensive, strong, physical conference like this one. #1 today, unranked tomorrow - it happens, my friends. And when you can win with grace, and lose with dignity, you live to play another week. Nothing is uglier than a team that makes terrible excuses for a loss, or a team that boasts to the point of obnoxiousness (I won't mention any names, but you know who you are). Especially when you know that any given Saturday can make you or break you. Case(s) in point: where is Tim Tebow now? Commenting on a game he won't be playing. Whatever became of JaMarcus Russell? Dropped by the Raiders. How about David Greene? Practice squad. Tim Couch? Danny Wuerffel? Remember Pat Sullivan? These guys were something special in the SEC, and it never really translated to NFL success. Their few glorious years playing college ball was about all they had in them. But some of those NFL busts have had other careers doing other things, and are respected for it because they learned the valuable lessons of winning and losing. Others, not so much.
At the end of the day, what I find most endearing about SEC football is that it really is a family affair. Yes, we get together at Thanksgiving and we are truly a house divided - we've got Alabama fans, Auburn fans, Ole Miss fans, Mississippi State fans, and a few Georgia fans all under one roof. There's trash talk and jawing. But at the end of it all, there's one thing that unites us: love of each other, and love of the game. We love to see our team succeed, but we also love to see our conference succeed. If the National Championship comes down to an SEC rival and a Big 10 powerhouse, we'll root for our most-hated SEC nemesis any day of the week, because we know that we have love for our conference above the hatred for our rival. We cheer for the ones who will represent the greatest conference in college football before we will succumb to the ridiculous notion that our in-state rival has out-ranked us again. We know that one game, one season, does not an SEC-powerhouse make, and that every season brings new hope.
Things are really shaking up in the SEC this season. And it's AWESOME. If you're not a fan yet, you probably just haven't really watched...
Friday, October 3, 2014
Cancer is the Devil
Another funeral this week. I'm running out of dresses appropriate for these kinds of events.
It's always so hard to see people hurting, mourning, and missing someone they love. And perhaps it's also a feeling of absolute helplessness when you approach a mourning widow or child and say, simply, "I'm so sorry for your loss." You know your words do little to end their suffering or ease their pain, but what else can you really do?
This funeral is different. Another of my husband's co-worker friends, but this time he is a victim of cancer at the young age of 42. And when I tell the widow and children that I'm sorry for their loss, I will be able to fully relate. I lost my mother to cancer nearly 6 years ago.
I've been thinking about cancer. I can't help but think about it. I know so many people who either have cancer, had cancer before, or are trying to find out if they have it. I know so many broken hearts because the reality of those dreaded words, "you have cancer," means a tough road ahead. A road that, quite frankly, may terminate before taking a turn back towards health and life. And when I think of cancer, the only thing that really makes sense is that the devil himself comes in the form of cancer.
Isn't that what cancer does? It looks for healthy cells to destroy. Cancer is non-discriminatory. It will take over any part of your body, regardless of your gender or race, your financial status, your ethnicity, your religion. Cancer prays on healthy cells and devours them, spreading rapidly from cell to cell, leaving destruction in it's wake. Think of a lion on the prowl in a National Geographic video. He lurks quietly behind the brush, waiting for an innocent gazelle to pass by. And before you can change the channel or look away, he's sunk his giant teeth into that gazelle's flesh and destroyed it. And just that fast the gazelle is gone, reduced to a few bones and scraps for the gnats and ants to feast on.
Cancer is a thief. It steals it's victim's future. It steals the joy and happiness of it's victims. It steals their hope. It causes them to believe that the future is gone, or at least fading. They begin to feel hopeless, helpless, and worthless. It not only kills their physical being, one cell at a time, but it kills their emotional life. Relationships begin to suffer, and families do their best to stay strong. But cancer has a way of finding a weakness, exploiting it, and increasing it. Stress levels rise as the cost of treatment increases. Savings accounts are left empty. Suffering takes on so many forms. It destroys families, and leaves behind painful memories of illness and disease. Cancer patients have a "look" - maybe it's the lack of hair, combined with the grayish skin color following chemo. Seeing my mom look so pale, so sick, made me think of something like a zombie apocalypse. Destruction. Devastation.
Cancer kills. That's just how it is. Sometimes people are fortunate in that they survive cancer. But even those that survive must endure surgeries, chemotherapy, radiation... sometimes the treatment feels worse than the disease. I watched my mom sick at her stomach, lose her hair, and grow weak to the point that she couldn't stand on her own two feet. At one point, she wished for death. The treatment was painful. It stole her appetite, which led to malnutrition. She was sick. She was weak and tired. And she hated to look in the mirror. Eventually the treatments proved to be ineffective. The cancer was spreading faster than the chemo could kill it. Cancer killed her, just like it did Matt's friend.
Satan is our adversary. And so is cancer. We can envision one as the other pretty easily. Just as cancer spreads rapidly within us, filling our bodies with distorted, unhealthy cells, and robbing us of our health and vitality, Satan can rapidly spread throughout our lives. He can replace the loving, healthy relationships, thoughts, and feelings, with negative visions and catastrophic choices. He can steal bright futures and replace them with paths of destruction. And he can do this without us even realizing it is happening, much like cancer. By the time we realize that our bodies have been ravaged by the constant division and replication of mutilated DNA, the prognosis can be bleak. And so it is with Satan - oh how he loves to see us head down roads full of heartache and grief and surrender ourselves to his power of death! So quickly he can destroy our lives, and take us to depths we never envisioned we would be, and we wake up with Stage 4 Sin.
We may not yet have the cure for cancer, though I pray it is coming soon. But thankfully, we do have the cure for the eventual outcome Satan brings. Our Heavenly Father offers us a cure that comes with no painful side effects, no risk of further disease or infection, and no clinical trial needed. He sent us Jesus. God is not in the life-taking business, but rather the life-giving business. He wants to see us healthy - physically, emotionally, relationally, spiritually. He wants us not just living, but thriving. He wants us building a lifetime of loving memories and happiness. What He wants for us is everything that cancer, and it's author, is not.
I think it is important to address that God is not the author of cancer. He does not cause that we should have cancer. He does not want us to have cancer. But cancer is the result of living in a fallen, broken, generally jacked-up world. And cancer does not care who it infects. It is an equal-opportunity destroyer, much like Satan. I do not mean to imply that sinners get cancer. If that logic were true, we would all have cancer. We will not all have cancer, but we will all have sin. And if we are not careful, that sin can lead us down a dangerous road. A road that Satan wants us to walk down. And because of that, I feel certain that Satan is the creator of cancer, and rejoices in the suffering it causes.
As we say good-bye to another cancer victim, I can't help but think that his struggle with cancer is such a parable for the human struggle with Satan. While we will all eventually meet the same fate, and that all must die in the flesh, I know that my soul has been "vaccinated" with the precious blood of Jesus.
It's always so hard to see people hurting, mourning, and missing someone they love. And perhaps it's also a feeling of absolute helplessness when you approach a mourning widow or child and say, simply, "I'm so sorry for your loss." You know your words do little to end their suffering or ease their pain, but what else can you really do?
This funeral is different. Another of my husband's co-worker friends, but this time he is a victim of cancer at the young age of 42. And when I tell the widow and children that I'm sorry for their loss, I will be able to fully relate. I lost my mother to cancer nearly 6 years ago.
I've been thinking about cancer. I can't help but think about it. I know so many people who either have cancer, had cancer before, or are trying to find out if they have it. I know so many broken hearts because the reality of those dreaded words, "you have cancer," means a tough road ahead. A road that, quite frankly, may terminate before taking a turn back towards health and life. And when I think of cancer, the only thing that really makes sense is that the devil himself comes in the form of cancer.
Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.
1 Peter 5:8
Isn't that what cancer does? It looks for healthy cells to destroy. Cancer is non-discriminatory. It will take over any part of your body, regardless of your gender or race, your financial status, your ethnicity, your religion. Cancer prays on healthy cells and devours them, spreading rapidly from cell to cell, leaving destruction in it's wake. Think of a lion on the prowl in a National Geographic video. He lurks quietly behind the brush, waiting for an innocent gazelle to pass by. And before you can change the channel or look away, he's sunk his giant teeth into that gazelle's flesh and destroyed it. And just that fast the gazelle is gone, reduced to a few bones and scraps for the gnats and ants to feast on.
The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy
John 10:10
Cancer is a thief. It steals it's victim's future. It steals the joy and happiness of it's victims. It steals their hope. It causes them to believe that the future is gone, or at least fading. They begin to feel hopeless, helpless, and worthless. It not only kills their physical being, one cell at a time, but it kills their emotional life. Relationships begin to suffer, and families do their best to stay strong. But cancer has a way of finding a weakness, exploiting it, and increasing it. Stress levels rise as the cost of treatment increases. Savings accounts are left empty. Suffering takes on so many forms. It destroys families, and leaves behind painful memories of illness and disease. Cancer patients have a "look" - maybe it's the lack of hair, combined with the grayish skin color following chemo. Seeing my mom look so pale, so sick, made me think of something like a zombie apocalypse. Destruction. Devastation.
He was a murderer from the beginning...
John 8:44
...him that had the power of death, that is, the devil...
Hebrews 2:14
Cancer kills. That's just how it is. Sometimes people are fortunate in that they survive cancer. But even those that survive must endure surgeries, chemotherapy, radiation... sometimes the treatment feels worse than the disease. I watched my mom sick at her stomach, lose her hair, and grow weak to the point that she couldn't stand on her own two feet. At one point, she wished for death. The treatment was painful. It stole her appetite, which led to malnutrition. She was sick. She was weak and tired. And she hated to look in the mirror. Eventually the treatments proved to be ineffective. The cancer was spreading faster than the chemo could kill it. Cancer killed her, just like it did Matt's friend.
Satan is our adversary. And so is cancer. We can envision one as the other pretty easily. Just as cancer spreads rapidly within us, filling our bodies with distorted, unhealthy cells, and robbing us of our health and vitality, Satan can rapidly spread throughout our lives. He can replace the loving, healthy relationships, thoughts, and feelings, with negative visions and catastrophic choices. He can steal bright futures and replace them with paths of destruction. And he can do this without us even realizing it is happening, much like cancer. By the time we realize that our bodies have been ravaged by the constant division and replication of mutilated DNA, the prognosis can be bleak. And so it is with Satan - oh how he loves to see us head down roads full of heartache and grief and surrender ourselves to his power of death! So quickly he can destroy our lives, and take us to depths we never envisioned we would be, and we wake up with Stage 4 Sin.
We may not yet have the cure for cancer, though I pray it is coming soon. But thankfully, we do have the cure for the eventual outcome Satan brings. Our Heavenly Father offers us a cure that comes with no painful side effects, no risk of further disease or infection, and no clinical trial needed. He sent us Jesus. God is not in the life-taking business, but rather the life-giving business. He wants to see us healthy - physically, emotionally, relationally, spiritually. He wants us not just living, but thriving. He wants us building a lifetime of loving memories and happiness. What He wants for us is everything that cancer, and it's author, is not.
I think it is important to address that God is not the author of cancer. He does not cause that we should have cancer. He does not want us to have cancer. But cancer is the result of living in a fallen, broken, generally jacked-up world. And cancer does not care who it infects. It is an equal-opportunity destroyer, much like Satan. I do not mean to imply that sinners get cancer. If that logic were true, we would all have cancer. We will not all have cancer, but we will all have sin. And if we are not careful, that sin can lead us down a dangerous road. A road that Satan wants us to walk down. And because of that, I feel certain that Satan is the creator of cancer, and rejoices in the suffering it causes.
As we say good-bye to another cancer victim, I can't help but think that his struggle with cancer is such a parable for the human struggle with Satan. While we will all eventually meet the same fate, and that all must die in the flesh, I know that my soul has been "vaccinated" with the precious blood of Jesus.
Saturday, September 27, 2014
When Miracles Are Not Enough
This past week has been as close to a nightmare as I could have imagined. In fact, a lot of it was spent actually having nightmares. It hasn't been the kind of thing you'd choose to experience, that much I can be sure of.
Without reliving it, or giving too many details, I had the unfortunate experience of discovering a friend's body after he took his own life. It was ugly. I can't remember a lot of details about the entire experience, but the image of that man has been difficult to leave my eyes. I couldn't sleep because the darkness of my bedroom provided the perfect canvas for the image to resurface. And if I was lucky enough to fall asleep, it was broken sleep, littered with horrific nightmares where I would rediscover the scene, often with different people as the victim. I lay down to bed at night with a light on, because the dark frightens me. I can't stand the door to my closet open, and I turn the light on and crane my neck to peep inside before I'll walk in. I don't really eat much. Everything makes me cry. And I've had two panic attacks. Like I said, it's been a nightmare. And all of this anxiety has caused me a great deal of anger.
Yesterday was the memorial service. I thought I would fall apart. I thought the kind words that people would speak would only fuel the rage I felt inside for someone who had selfishly thrust me into depression with him, and caused me to carry this unthinkable burden. I thought that I would be overcome with emotion, grieving for his three young daughters and the family and friends he left behind. But the truth is that I was completely spent. I felt nothing. Maybe less than nothing. An emotional vacuum. I didn't cry. I didn't even feel all that angry. Blank. Until I hugged the neck of the widow. And we both cried.
The shortest passage of The Bible. But it carries a huge impact. Two short words. But think about the message: Jesus, the Son of God, a man who could turn water into wine, give the dead breath, and save all of humanity with his blood, he wept.
Let's get some context. I'm going to shorthand this, because we could be here all day breaking down this whole event. Mary was the girl from the Bible who poured perfumed oil on Jesus' feet, then used her hair to wash his feet. And her brother, Lazarus, was the one who lay dying. Jesus was called to go see him. Scripture says that Mary and Martha sent word to Jesus, "Lord, the one you love is sick." (John 11:3) Obviously, Jesus had a very close relationship to Lazarus. And being that Jesus is fully God as well as fully man, he understand that Lazarus would die. After his death, Jesus headed to the town where Lazarus was now buried. The Bible says, "When Jesus saw [Mary] weeping, and the Jews who had come along with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled." (John 11:33) In this exact moment, seeing the pain and grief in Mary, Jesus had the power to snap his fingers and raise Lazarus to life. He could end all suffering in a matter of milliseconds. But he didn't. Instead, Jesus wept.
Jesus showed a very human side there. He was sympathetic and empathetic. He gave us all an example of love. He didn't just know how Mary was hurting; he hurt, too. He invested fully in her emotion and felt it with her. He carried the weight of the grief with his friend. What an amazing act of love and compassion!
So often we feel the need to fix stuff. We hear of someone's grief or their struggle, and we instantly begin to offer solutions. That can be helpful. But so can just holding someone in their pain and acknowledging that this season they are walking through is painful, difficult, stressful, and uncomfortable. In those moments where we stop trying to raise the dead, and stop trying to make all things new again, we have opportunities to gain trust, to strengthen relationships, and to love one another the way Jesus did - with grace, poise, and dignity. His actions that day spoke volumes. He said to Mary and to the world, "If anyone ever understood the pain of death, the feelings of loss, and the ugliness of sin, it was me. And you can lean on me during any and all of it. I understand it all." And what a gift that is!
After Jesus wept, he did raise Lazarus to life. I would encourage everyone to read from John 11 to get the whole story, because it is a beautiful and amazing story of love, compassion, grace, and mercy. But, spoiler alert: I will just tell you that Jesus knew what he was doing the whole time. He knew Lazarus had died. He knew Mary was hurting. He knew Mary needed comfort. And he knew that he would raise Lazarus from the dead to glorify the one who sent him. But even still, he took the time to comfort a friend.
Let's bring this all full circle. See, I know that God will help ease my nightmares, and give me the gift of restful sleep again. I know God will allow me to walk past the closet without an increase in heart rate. I know that God will help the three daughters move through their stages of grief and teach them to love and trust again. I know that God will provide healing for the widow. I know that it is so. But God is not ready to raise us right now. He's still holding us all, weeping with us. And when the time is right, we will be released from our tombs so that we may be able to glorify the God of the universe. And after all, that's the reason Jesus raised Lazarus at all - so that all who were there may know that it was on God's authority that Jesus performed the miracle in the first place. John 11:42 says that Jesus did this "for the benefit of the people standing here, that they may believe that you sent me." It was for the glory of God.
And I know that the first step in releasing the anger I was holding onto for having been pulled into this ugly situation is to realize that I've got Jesus weeping with me. He knows it hurts. It hurts him too. And our Heavenly Father is not the author of this. When we are grieving and aching, He is, too. Because this was not the plan He had for any of us, either. So thrust your grief and your hurt and your heartache on the one who is big enough, strong enough, and compassionate enough to take it all on. Let Him weep with you, and for you. And then, friends, be willing to be the physical manifestation of that to someone else. Be Jesus to a friend who may not feel his presence. Be those loving arms that say, "I understand that you are hurting. I can't give you a miracle right now, but I can love you through it." Sometimes, it's the best thing you can do. Sometimes, it's the only thing you can do. But it speaks volumes. And it sounds an awful lot like my Jesus.
I thought about hugging that widow yesterday. If I could've snapped my fingers and gone back in time a week, I would have changed every single thing about it. What my eyes beheld wouldn't have been seen. It wouldn't have happened. We would all be sitting in our homes enjoying a typical Sunday afternoon. I would've been watching football on TV, my kids would've been playing it in the yard, and we would be talking about the morning's sermon. Normal. Average. Boring. And yes, I would choose that every time over what happened last Sunday. But I know that God works all things for good to them that love Him (Romans 8:28). And He will use this experience in all of our lives to help us a) understand loss; b) learn how to mourn; and the one that has left the biggest impression on me: c) learn to weep like Jesus. So, without many words, I put my arms around her. And I wept. She wept. We didn't know what to say to each other, but I felt the Father speak loud and clear to my heart: your time will come, like Lazarus, and you will be released from the tomb.
Be Jesus to someone who is hurting. Sometimes a miracle isn't what their heart really needs. Sometimes they just need to know someone acknowledges their pain. And then they can heal, become stronger, and grow closer to the Father... for His glory.
Without reliving it, or giving too many details, I had the unfortunate experience of discovering a friend's body after he took his own life. It was ugly. I can't remember a lot of details about the entire experience, but the image of that man has been difficult to leave my eyes. I couldn't sleep because the darkness of my bedroom provided the perfect canvas for the image to resurface. And if I was lucky enough to fall asleep, it was broken sleep, littered with horrific nightmares where I would rediscover the scene, often with different people as the victim. I lay down to bed at night with a light on, because the dark frightens me. I can't stand the door to my closet open, and I turn the light on and crane my neck to peep inside before I'll walk in. I don't really eat much. Everything makes me cry. And I've had two panic attacks. Like I said, it's been a nightmare. And all of this anxiety has caused me a great deal of anger.
Yesterday was the memorial service. I thought I would fall apart. I thought the kind words that people would speak would only fuel the rage I felt inside for someone who had selfishly thrust me into depression with him, and caused me to carry this unthinkable burden. I thought that I would be overcome with emotion, grieving for his three young daughters and the family and friends he left behind. But the truth is that I was completely spent. I felt nothing. Maybe less than nothing. An emotional vacuum. I didn't cry. I didn't even feel all that angry. Blank. Until I hugged the neck of the widow. And we both cried.
Jesus wept.
John 11:35
The shortest passage of The Bible. But it carries a huge impact. Two short words. But think about the message: Jesus, the Son of God, a man who could turn water into wine, give the dead breath, and save all of humanity with his blood, he wept.
Let's get some context. I'm going to shorthand this, because we could be here all day breaking down this whole event. Mary was the girl from the Bible who poured perfumed oil on Jesus' feet, then used her hair to wash his feet. And her brother, Lazarus, was the one who lay dying. Jesus was called to go see him. Scripture says that Mary and Martha sent word to Jesus, "Lord, the one you love is sick." (John 11:3) Obviously, Jesus had a very close relationship to Lazarus. And being that Jesus is fully God as well as fully man, he understand that Lazarus would die. After his death, Jesus headed to the town where Lazarus was now buried. The Bible says, "When Jesus saw [Mary] weeping, and the Jews who had come along with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled." (John 11:33) In this exact moment, seeing the pain and grief in Mary, Jesus had the power to snap his fingers and raise Lazarus to life. He could end all suffering in a matter of milliseconds. But he didn't. Instead, Jesus wept.
Jesus showed a very human side there. He was sympathetic and empathetic. He gave us all an example of love. He didn't just know how Mary was hurting; he hurt, too. He invested fully in her emotion and felt it with her. He carried the weight of the grief with his friend. What an amazing act of love and compassion!
So often we feel the need to fix stuff. We hear of someone's grief or their struggle, and we instantly begin to offer solutions. That can be helpful. But so can just holding someone in their pain and acknowledging that this season they are walking through is painful, difficult, stressful, and uncomfortable. In those moments where we stop trying to raise the dead, and stop trying to make all things new again, we have opportunities to gain trust, to strengthen relationships, and to love one another the way Jesus did - with grace, poise, and dignity. His actions that day spoke volumes. He said to Mary and to the world, "If anyone ever understood the pain of death, the feelings of loss, and the ugliness of sin, it was me. And you can lean on me during any and all of it. I understand it all." And what a gift that is!
After Jesus wept, he did raise Lazarus to life. I would encourage everyone to read from John 11 to get the whole story, because it is a beautiful and amazing story of love, compassion, grace, and mercy. But, spoiler alert: I will just tell you that Jesus knew what he was doing the whole time. He knew Lazarus had died. He knew Mary was hurting. He knew Mary needed comfort. And he knew that he would raise Lazarus from the dead to glorify the one who sent him. But even still, he took the time to comfort a friend.
Let's bring this all full circle. See, I know that God will help ease my nightmares, and give me the gift of restful sleep again. I know God will allow me to walk past the closet without an increase in heart rate. I know that God will help the three daughters move through their stages of grief and teach them to love and trust again. I know that God will provide healing for the widow. I know that it is so. But God is not ready to raise us right now. He's still holding us all, weeping with us. And when the time is right, we will be released from our tombs so that we may be able to glorify the God of the universe. And after all, that's the reason Jesus raised Lazarus at all - so that all who were there may know that it was on God's authority that Jesus performed the miracle in the first place. John 11:42 says that Jesus did this "for the benefit of the people standing here, that they may believe that you sent me." It was for the glory of God.
And I know that the first step in releasing the anger I was holding onto for having been pulled into this ugly situation is to realize that I've got Jesus weeping with me. He knows it hurts. It hurts him too. And our Heavenly Father is not the author of this. When we are grieving and aching, He is, too. Because this was not the plan He had for any of us, either. So thrust your grief and your hurt and your heartache on the one who is big enough, strong enough, and compassionate enough to take it all on. Let Him weep with you, and for you. And then, friends, be willing to be the physical manifestation of that to someone else. Be Jesus to a friend who may not feel his presence. Be those loving arms that say, "I understand that you are hurting. I can't give you a miracle right now, but I can love you through it." Sometimes, it's the best thing you can do. Sometimes, it's the only thing you can do. But it speaks volumes. And it sounds an awful lot like my Jesus.
I thought about hugging that widow yesterday. If I could've snapped my fingers and gone back in time a week, I would have changed every single thing about it. What my eyes beheld wouldn't have been seen. It wouldn't have happened. We would all be sitting in our homes enjoying a typical Sunday afternoon. I would've been watching football on TV, my kids would've been playing it in the yard, and we would be talking about the morning's sermon. Normal. Average. Boring. And yes, I would choose that every time over what happened last Sunday. But I know that God works all things for good to them that love Him (Romans 8:28). And He will use this experience in all of our lives to help us a) understand loss; b) learn how to mourn; and the one that has left the biggest impression on me: c) learn to weep like Jesus. So, without many words, I put my arms around her. And I wept. She wept. We didn't know what to say to each other, but I felt the Father speak loud and clear to my heart: your time will come, like Lazarus, and you will be released from the tomb.
Be Jesus to someone who is hurting. Sometimes a miracle isn't what their heart really needs. Sometimes they just need to know someone acknowledges their pain. And then they can heal, become stronger, and grow closer to the Father... for His glory.
Sunday, February 9, 2014
Equal but Different...
There is a new Olympic sport introduced this year: women's ski jumping. We've watched men race down the slope and take flight into the crisp winter air for decades. This year it's our turn, ladies. Indeed it is a proud time for the female species. But amidst our great strides and advances, we have lost sight of the beautiful differences between men and women. We were created to be equal, but different.
I have a teenage son. He's preparing himself for the wonderful world of teenage dating. It's a complicated, ugly place. Yes, it's a dirty job, but someone's gotta do it. And so, like millions of other boys shaking in their boots, he will go out into the world of teenage girls and find one suitable for a date. And then he will go and find a social setting that they will both feel comfortable in and find an agreeable activity and try to get to know each other better, and eventually decide if another date is in order. It seems like a simple enough task. But we all know that dating is something like walking blindfolded into a mine field. Danger is at every turn... if you don't know what you're doing.
My husband and I had not just "the talk" but several "talks" with our son about dating. We want him to be informed, certainly. But we also want him to be aware of the fact that he is entering into what is, for him, uncharted territory. Girls are no longer the same as they were in years past - equal in every way. No, now they are creatures unknown to boys his age. They are growing more and more complex with each passing season. The rules that once governed the playground no longer apply to girls. Now they are precious pieces of artwork to be cherished in every way. Equal, yes. But the same... no.
I liken women to tableware. Everyone knows the difference between your everyday plates and fine china. You see, both are capable of holding food at the dinner table. Both can be broken. And both keep us from a lap full of spaghetti. But there are differences. Perhaps the fine china was picked out for your wedding. It was carefully selected. It matches perfectly. It's packed up neatly, hand-washed, and returned to a special place where it won't get chipped or broken. It's special. Your everyday dishes are used, well... every day. They go in the dishwasher, bang against one another in the cabinet, and tend to get broken now and then. They may be colored to match your kitchen, but chances are you do not give them the same level of care as you do the fine china.
Women are like fine china. You should care for them. You should show them an extra level of respect. They need to handled differently. You bring out the fine china for a special occasion because it's special. It doesn't get banged around, mistreated, or beat up. It's not easily replaceable. It has value to you. Our china was handed down to me by my mother. I don't know if it was expensive or not, but I certainly do know that she treasured it. It's white with a gold trim. Simple, elegant, and beautiful. She had each piece wrapped and packed away to protect it. We only used it on Thanksgiving and Christmas. It was displayed in a cabinet in our formal dining room. She loved it. And when I got married and received it from her, I understood the value of that gift. She gave me something that she treasured, in the hopes that I would also treasure it. We've moved several times over the years, but that china has remained intact. It's special to me, and I treat it that way. I value it because it means something to me. It's delicate, it's beautiful, and it's treasured.
I can hear the collective eye-roll now. Please don't misunderstand me. In no way am I putting women above men. I'm a strong woman and I can hold my own, too. Before I was married I had my own apartment where the burden of those everyday kinds of things fell solely on me. I've had to repair a toilet, change a tire, and climb a ladder. I've moved furniture on my own. I'm a good shot with a .45 pistol. And I have unclogged my fair share of garbage disposals. But I love the fact that I don't have to do those things because my husband treats me like fine china. He opens doors for me, brings the car to me in a rain storm, and pumps my gas. He knows that I am perfectly capable of these things on my own, but he also knows that fine china isn't subjected to the kinds of everyday wear and tear that our regular dinner plates are.
So we talk with our son. I hope he gets it. Girls his age are strong, too. They are athletic, smart, and capable of all the same things he is. They can open their own doors, and pay for their own meals... but that doesn't mean they have to. They should be treated like the precious jewels that God made them to be. I hope I never hear of him speaking harshly or unkindly to a girl. I hope he opens every door, pulls out every chair, and pays for every meal. I hope he is respectful to her parents, and is worthy of the trust they place in him. I hope I never hear him curse in front of girls. I hope he never pressures them. I hope he treats them like fine china and makes them feel special and beautiful and treasured.
I think that over the past 15 years, my husband has been an example of that to our sons. I haven't had to pump my own gas in quite a while. I never have to carry anything heavy or bulky. Walk to the car in the rain? Nope. Kill a bug? Not if he's around. Climb in the attic? Not happening. And it's not because these things are beyond my ability. It's because these things are not fit for fine china.
I thank my mother-in-law for teaching her son the difference between china and everyday dinner plates. She should be proud. She put into motion a movement for new generations to know how to treat women.
Next talk: the difference between fine china, everyday dinner plates, and disposable styrofoam trays...
I have a teenage son. He's preparing himself for the wonderful world of teenage dating. It's a complicated, ugly place. Yes, it's a dirty job, but someone's gotta do it. And so, like millions of other boys shaking in their boots, he will go out into the world of teenage girls and find one suitable for a date. And then he will go and find a social setting that they will both feel comfortable in and find an agreeable activity and try to get to know each other better, and eventually decide if another date is in order. It seems like a simple enough task. But we all know that dating is something like walking blindfolded into a mine field. Danger is at every turn... if you don't know what you're doing.
My husband and I had not just "the talk" but several "talks" with our son about dating. We want him to be informed, certainly. But we also want him to be aware of the fact that he is entering into what is, for him, uncharted territory. Girls are no longer the same as they were in years past - equal in every way. No, now they are creatures unknown to boys his age. They are growing more and more complex with each passing season. The rules that once governed the playground no longer apply to girls. Now they are precious pieces of artwork to be cherished in every way. Equal, yes. But the same... no.
I liken women to tableware. Everyone knows the difference between your everyday plates and fine china. You see, both are capable of holding food at the dinner table. Both can be broken. And both keep us from a lap full of spaghetti. But there are differences. Perhaps the fine china was picked out for your wedding. It was carefully selected. It matches perfectly. It's packed up neatly, hand-washed, and returned to a special place where it won't get chipped or broken. It's special. Your everyday dishes are used, well... every day. They go in the dishwasher, bang against one another in the cabinet, and tend to get broken now and then. They may be colored to match your kitchen, but chances are you do not give them the same level of care as you do the fine china.
Women are like fine china. You should care for them. You should show them an extra level of respect. They need to handled differently. You bring out the fine china for a special occasion because it's special. It doesn't get banged around, mistreated, or beat up. It's not easily replaceable. It has value to you. Our china was handed down to me by my mother. I don't know if it was expensive or not, but I certainly do know that she treasured it. It's white with a gold trim. Simple, elegant, and beautiful. She had each piece wrapped and packed away to protect it. We only used it on Thanksgiving and Christmas. It was displayed in a cabinet in our formal dining room. She loved it. And when I got married and received it from her, I understood the value of that gift. She gave me something that she treasured, in the hopes that I would also treasure it. We've moved several times over the years, but that china has remained intact. It's special to me, and I treat it that way. I value it because it means something to me. It's delicate, it's beautiful, and it's treasured.
I can hear the collective eye-roll now. Please don't misunderstand me. In no way am I putting women above men. I'm a strong woman and I can hold my own, too. Before I was married I had my own apartment where the burden of those everyday kinds of things fell solely on me. I've had to repair a toilet, change a tire, and climb a ladder. I've moved furniture on my own. I'm a good shot with a .45 pistol. And I have unclogged my fair share of garbage disposals. But I love the fact that I don't have to do those things because my husband treats me like fine china. He opens doors for me, brings the car to me in a rain storm, and pumps my gas. He knows that I am perfectly capable of these things on my own, but he also knows that fine china isn't subjected to the kinds of everyday wear and tear that our regular dinner plates are.
So we talk with our son. I hope he gets it. Girls his age are strong, too. They are athletic, smart, and capable of all the same things he is. They can open their own doors, and pay for their own meals... but that doesn't mean they have to. They should be treated like the precious jewels that God made them to be. I hope I never hear of him speaking harshly or unkindly to a girl. I hope he opens every door, pulls out every chair, and pays for every meal. I hope he is respectful to her parents, and is worthy of the trust they place in him. I hope I never hear him curse in front of girls. I hope he never pressures them. I hope he treats them like fine china and makes them feel special and beautiful and treasured.
I think that over the past 15 years, my husband has been an example of that to our sons. I haven't had to pump my own gas in quite a while. I never have to carry anything heavy or bulky. Walk to the car in the rain? Nope. Kill a bug? Not if he's around. Climb in the attic? Not happening. And it's not because these things are beyond my ability. It's because these things are not fit for fine china.
I thank my mother-in-law for teaching her son the difference between china and everyday dinner plates. She should be proud. She put into motion a movement for new generations to know how to treat women.
Next talk: the difference between fine china, everyday dinner plates, and disposable styrofoam trays...
Friday, January 10, 2014
Still Grieving
A calendar year has passed since my last post. I realized today that my last post was January of 2013. Do you know how much has changed in my life in the last 365 days?!? A few important things come to mind... I got a new job, I lost 25 lbs., I went to Guatemala, I had surgery, I buried a grandparent, I had some dental work done, I bought a car, I went to Mexico, and I covered up a few more gray hairs. There's so much more to talk about, but I don't think I have the energy to relive an entire year full of events - some mundane, and some super exciting. But today, the 5th anniversary of my mother's passing, makes me think about how many of those life events I would have shared with my mom... except that she isn't alive to hear it.
I guess the sweetest part of the relationship I had with my mom is that we were excellent at communicating with one another. She was never afraid to say what she thought, and I felt like sharing a great deal of my life with her. We talked at least once a week over the phone. And we visited each other frequently, even though we didn't always live in the same state. She was a wonderful grandmother to my children, and a great mother-in-law for my husband. She was supportive, non-judgmental, and would listen to me tell her about some of the most ridiculously boring aspects of my life - from how many diapers I had changed that day, to what I intended to serve for dinner that night. She would listen, patiently, knowing that I was desperate for someone to tell these mundane details to.
I miss that the most. I miss being able to pick up the phone and tell her things like her oldest grandson is now a freshman in high school. Or that her granddaughter makes jewelry with her Rainbow Loom at an insane pace. Or that her grandson is an honor roll student. I miss being able to tell her about the new job I got, the new car I bought, or the vacation I'm going to take. I miss being able to tell her about how I feel, what I think, and what I'm doing. I miss hearing about the new project she's taking on, the new recipe she just discovered, or the new website she's shopping on. I miss Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Mother's Day. I miss having her to rely on. I just miss her.
I look back on 2013, and I think, Mom would be so interested to know that. But I'll never know. And that's painful...
I guess the sweetest part of the relationship I had with my mom is that we were excellent at communicating with one another. She was never afraid to say what she thought, and I felt like sharing a great deal of my life with her. We talked at least once a week over the phone. And we visited each other frequently, even though we didn't always live in the same state. She was a wonderful grandmother to my children, and a great mother-in-law for my husband. She was supportive, non-judgmental, and would listen to me tell her about some of the most ridiculously boring aspects of my life - from how many diapers I had changed that day, to what I intended to serve for dinner that night. She would listen, patiently, knowing that I was desperate for someone to tell these mundane details to.
I miss that the most. I miss being able to pick up the phone and tell her things like her oldest grandson is now a freshman in high school. Or that her granddaughter makes jewelry with her Rainbow Loom at an insane pace. Or that her grandson is an honor roll student. I miss being able to tell her about the new job I got, the new car I bought, or the vacation I'm going to take. I miss being able to tell her about how I feel, what I think, and what I'm doing. I miss hearing about the new project she's taking on, the new recipe she just discovered, or the new website she's shopping on. I miss Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Mother's Day. I miss having her to rely on. I just miss her.
I look back on 2013, and I think, Mom would be so interested to know that. But I'll never know. And that's painful...
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