I see God when the wind rustles a million blades of grass and I know that to Him, each one is unique. I see God when my heart aches as I say goodbye to dear friends. I see God when someone tells me they've prayed for the first time in a long time. I see God when I long for my little girl to have a dad. I see God in her tiny teardrops when she gets hurt and I can hold her close. I see God when someone tells me they're on day twenty one without cigarettes. I see God in His promises to me..
Show me your ways, O Lord,
teach me your paths;
Guide me in your truth and teach me,
for you are God my Savior,
and my hope is in you all day long.
Sunday, August 25, 2013
A's First Police Car Ride
January 18, 2013
I pushed A's stroller over the mounds of snow, feeling stupid for missing my bus. I had left my house that morning feeling especially triumphant. I was independently (and stylishly, I might add) taking my baby and I to Plato's Closet, and not only that, but taking TWO buses to get there. Riding the bus gives me a lot of anxiety, so this would be a significant achievement. I don't know if any of you have ever experienced the Spokane Transit System, but it is always an interesting and intimidating experience. There is usually a smell which dominates your riding experience and lingers even after the passenger has exited. The most common is the smell of the bus is someone who has failed to realize that cleanliness is next to godliness. Second is the wonderful smell of someone who bathes in alcohol or is storing marijuana in their clothing. When I was a pregnant bus rider, I would always look around at the first detected whiff in shock. Why is no one screaming and running off the bus? Oh, that's just me and my overactive nose.
Anyways, here was me, my four month old baby, my diaper bag, car seat, and stroller, walking in below freezing weather next to a busy road on a sidewalk that no one wanted to shovel. Well, I thought, I will lift my stroller over the largest snow clumps and push through. Out of nowhere, a police car pulled over next to me. The windows rolled down, in slow motion, as police car windows always do. "Ma'am," said the serious, respectable officer within, "Is there a baby in there?" A host of sarcastic responses crossed my mind.
"I think so, but I'm not sure. There was one yesterday." or "No, I haul my cans of Budweiser around in here." Instead I responded with a nervous "yes". Thanks, Mr. Policeman, for making me feel like a terrible, careless mother, letting my baby freeze. "Where do you live?" he asks. I replied, and he thinks. "I'll take you." This is obviously not an offer, it is a command. "Will my stroller fit?" I squeaked. The last time I was this close to a police officer was under very different circumstances. "Yes." He opened the back of his car, and I nervously push it down on some police gear. "There's no seatbelt!" I squeaked again. He looked at me. "It's okay." We get in. "Music?" "Yes." I told him my favorite radio station. "Christian?" "Yes." "What were you doing?" "Shopping!" "Where's dad?" "He's in Idaho." I then proceeded to tell him about Life Services, which he had never heard of. "It has changed my life and how I used to be." "What did you used to be?" Um..I did not anticipate this question. "Um, I used to party and not take life seriously. And now, I am going to go to SCHOOL." (this is always a safe things to tell older people in authority.) Home, sweet home! I exploded from the back of the police car and assemble carseat, stroller, diaper bag in record time. My druggie neighbors arrived home at the same time as we did, and were staring while shuffling quickly into their house.
I pushed A's stroller over the mounds of snow, feeling stupid for missing my bus. I had left my house that morning feeling especially triumphant. I was independently (and stylishly, I might add) taking my baby and I to Plato's Closet, and not only that, but taking TWO buses to get there. Riding the bus gives me a lot of anxiety, so this would be a significant achievement. I don't know if any of you have ever experienced the Spokane Transit System, but it is always an interesting and intimidating experience. There is usually a smell which dominates your riding experience and lingers even after the passenger has exited. The most common is the smell of the bus is someone who has failed to realize that cleanliness is next to godliness. Second is the wonderful smell of someone who bathes in alcohol or is storing marijuana in their clothing. When I was a pregnant bus rider, I would always look around at the first detected whiff in shock. Why is no one screaming and running off the bus? Oh, that's just me and my overactive nose.
Anyways, here was me, my four month old baby, my diaper bag, car seat, and stroller, walking in below freezing weather next to a busy road on a sidewalk that no one wanted to shovel. Well, I thought, I will lift my stroller over the largest snow clumps and push through. Out of nowhere, a police car pulled over next to me. The windows rolled down, in slow motion, as police car windows always do. "Ma'am," said the serious, respectable officer within, "Is there a baby in there?" A host of sarcastic responses crossed my mind.
"I think so, but I'm not sure. There was one yesterday." or "No, I haul my cans of Budweiser around in here." Instead I responded with a nervous "yes". Thanks, Mr. Policeman, for making me feel like a terrible, careless mother, letting my baby freeze. "Where do you live?" he asks. I replied, and he thinks. "I'll take you." This is obviously not an offer, it is a command. "Will my stroller fit?" I squeaked. The last time I was this close to a police officer was under very different circumstances. "Yes." He opened the back of his car, and I nervously push it down on some police gear. "There's no seatbelt!" I squeaked again. He looked at me. "It's okay." We get in. "Music?" "Yes." I told him my favorite radio station. "Christian?" "Yes." "What were you doing?" "Shopping!" "Where's dad?" "He's in Idaho." I then proceeded to tell him about Life Services, which he had never heard of. "It has changed my life and how I used to be." "What did you used to be?" Um..I did not anticipate this question. "Um, I used to party and not take life seriously. And now, I am going to go to SCHOOL." (this is always a safe things to tell older people in authority.) Home, sweet home! I exploded from the back of the police car and assemble carseat, stroller, diaper bag in record time. My druggie neighbors arrived home at the same time as we did, and were staring while shuffling quickly into their house.
Friday, July 19, 2013
You and I (Shame Interrupted)
The fear of me is as big as the fear of the monsters under the bed you worried about as a child. You waited and waited to use the bathroom till with a yelp and a great fling of the covers, you burst forth like an anxious rodeo bull from his cage and sprinted to the bathroom. It was always cold and quiet, a no-man zone. You couldn't stay there forever, but you couldn't go back to bed. Once finished there, you faced the terrible fear of the dark bedroom and imagined the monster claws reaching and grabbing as you made the great leap into bed. Your heartbeat would be so loud in your ears and you would gasp for breath as you ran as fast as you could. Under the covers you would go, trembling, adrenaline pumping; with a great sigh of relief to be in bed.
But I, Shame, am a monster who will follow you everywhere. I will remind you of your greatest weaknesses in the safest places you know. I will whisper thoughts as you lie on your pillow, sit in church, or hug your family members.
It's funny to me that once you let that whisper in, my work is nearly done because you continue to think about it. You invite me to come back to help you rehearse the lies. You spend hours agonizing over past choices and sins and failures. You remember that tiny thing you did that embarrassed you to no end. It is magnified the more you tell yourself the story. You remind yourself that you aren't good enough for anyone and you're still dirty. Adding to that, you don't dress as nicely as some people, and you don't pray as well, have as many friends, or have as much fun.
You can't tell anyone about this, because they would look down on you for struggling with such petty things, and they're so much more advanced in their walk with God. Remember, you're the only one you can talk to.
Oh, and you can't tell anyone about what you've done and what's been done to you, because they would be disgusted with you and probably look at you differently. Just stay at home tomorrow, and don't read your Bible. Don't even try to break out of this, because that would be too hard.
Tonight, you are still. You're waiting for me to come and you are wearing a suit of armor. I can hear your thoughts, and they are terrifying. You are tightly gripping the Sword of Truth. Worst of all, you are washed. Your old, dirty clothes are lying on the floor.
I flee.
Friday, July 5, 2013
Daughter
Discombobulate: to throw in a state of confusion.
How many times has this happened this year? (Forgive me today if my writing is as tired and rambling as I am). I have found that if I do not pray for a constant stream of peace, wisdom, and clarity of mind, one following right after the other, I am lost in a sea of unhappiness and forgetfulness of all I have to be thankful for. Even as I breathe and the first words of this prayer for help are spoken, I am reminded by my own request what a weak creature I am.
"Do not be afraid, O worm Jacob, O little Israel."
My first thought, when reading this a few weeks ago, was to be kind of offended at being called a worm. When I see worms dying slow deaths on the sidewalk I am filled with disgust, which changes to pity, and then a peculiar frustration that I can't save them all.
Think of all the worms living peaceful, worm lives in their warm, earthy homes, when suddenly the rain begins. It pours endlessly into their homes, and their familiar, safe, worm lives are flooded with horrible wetness. They are forced to move upwards, where they miserably lie stretched out to their full length, drowning on the sidewalk; they are studied by toddlers, nipped by dogs, squashed by walkers, devoured by birds, and eventually, crisped and toasted by the sun. But, I think, God smiles as he calls us a worm. We are his tiny, little, unhappy worms. Everything feels SO big, but we are so,so small and pathetic. This is why I want to see outside myself these days.
One of these things is trusting that my daughter will be provided for. What a struggle this is. Sometimes, my eyes involuntarily fill with tears when I see a good dad playing with his kids. Sometimes, they are happy tears for those children. I love that their little cups are being filled. Sometimes, they are tears that come from a dark, empty place that I've been hiding away from the Lord's maintenance and repair.
The nagging worries that she will be "that girl"; the one you see all the time nowadays. I really don't even need to give specific details, because she is at every store in the mall and waiting at each stop light. Innocence, no, life, has been robbed early and she is twelve and has learned to flirt. She is a broken toy. She is always searching and seeking for love and security, and she will never find it.
I would like to share how this image of my future daughter has come to a crashing halt and has now been banished from my mind in a journal entry I wrote on July 1st. "It says about a million times in the Bible that God is a father to the fatherless. If she doesn't have a physically present dad now, or even later, I refuse to believe that she will be neglected or needy in any way. I refuse to believe that she will be a daughter starving for attention when she is older. Jesus, be her everything. God, be her Father. Holy Spirit, be her helper and her comforter. I refuse to be overwhelmed, pressured, inadequate, anymore. I am never alone. The Lord covers my failures with His grace, His power made perfect in my weakness. Holy Spirit, be my guide. I will praise Your name, Oh Lord my God!"
"A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling. God sets the lonely in families, he leads forth the prisoners with singing; but the rebellious live in a sun-scorched land."
Psalm 68:5
Love you all. Thanks for reading. Pray for July 16th.
How many times has this happened this year? (Forgive me today if my writing is as tired and rambling as I am). I have found that if I do not pray for a constant stream of peace, wisdom, and clarity of mind, one following right after the other, I am lost in a sea of unhappiness and forgetfulness of all I have to be thankful for. Even as I breathe and the first words of this prayer for help are spoken, I am reminded by my own request what a weak creature I am.
"Do not be afraid, O worm Jacob, O little Israel."
My first thought, when reading this a few weeks ago, was to be kind of offended at being called a worm. When I see worms dying slow deaths on the sidewalk I am filled with disgust, which changes to pity, and then a peculiar frustration that I can't save them all.
Think of all the worms living peaceful, worm lives in their warm, earthy homes, when suddenly the rain begins. It pours endlessly into their homes, and their familiar, safe, worm lives are flooded with horrible wetness. They are forced to move upwards, where they miserably lie stretched out to their full length, drowning on the sidewalk; they are studied by toddlers, nipped by dogs, squashed by walkers, devoured by birds, and eventually, crisped and toasted by the sun. But, I think, God smiles as he calls us a worm. We are his tiny, little, unhappy worms. Everything feels SO big, but we are so,so small and pathetic. This is why I want to see outside myself these days.
One of these things is trusting that my daughter will be provided for. What a struggle this is. Sometimes, my eyes involuntarily fill with tears when I see a good dad playing with his kids. Sometimes, they are happy tears for those children. I love that their little cups are being filled. Sometimes, they are tears that come from a dark, empty place that I've been hiding away from the Lord's maintenance and repair.
The nagging worries that she will be "that girl"; the one you see all the time nowadays. I really don't even need to give specific details, because she is at every store in the mall and waiting at each stop light. Innocence, no, life, has been robbed early and she is twelve and has learned to flirt. She is a broken toy. She is always searching and seeking for love and security, and she will never find it.
I would like to share how this image of my future daughter has come to a crashing halt and has now been banished from my mind in a journal entry I wrote on July 1st. "It says about a million times in the Bible that God is a father to the fatherless. If she doesn't have a physically present dad now, or even later, I refuse to believe that she will be neglected or needy in any way. I refuse to believe that she will be a daughter starving for attention when she is older. Jesus, be her everything. God, be her Father. Holy Spirit, be her helper and her comforter. I refuse to be overwhelmed, pressured, inadequate, anymore. I am never alone. The Lord covers my failures with His grace, His power made perfect in my weakness. Holy Spirit, be my guide. I will praise Your name, Oh Lord my God!"
"A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling. God sets the lonely in families, he leads forth the prisoners with singing; but the rebellious live in a sun-scorched land."
Psalm 68:5
Love you all. Thanks for reading. Pray for July 16th.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Spider
Dear family (and maybe friends one day too),
Upon much urging from my dear brother throughout the years, I, too, have decided to become a blogger once again. I started this blog before Avalon was born, so the strange name (based on a favorite old song which is no longer a favorite, or meaningful) may change in due time. I'm keeping my first post about being five weeks pregnant, because it is a blend of embarrassment, nostalgia, and a testimony of the goodness of God and the distance I have come with His grace!
I love to write, and I have so many ideas that come to me abruptly at all times. I know you all will understand if there are any grammatical errors, or inform me gently and with great kindness, as the case may be. I wrote this tonight from lovely Moscow. I am in that state of exhaustion where I could sleep for days, but knowing I will be getting up in a few hours to nourish a young olive plant makes me want to just stay awake and get things done. Not much thought has gone in to this entry, but I can assure you that much thought has gone into other, future blog entries, which I have been saving and writing in my journal.
I took some of Christy's "famous" flour-less chocolate cake over to Grandma and Grandpa's tonight. I was grateful that I did, because when Grandpa thought I was out of earshot, he remarked indignantly, to say the least, "I thought she said she was bringing chocolate cake tonight", to which Grandma patiently replied, "It's in the fridge." Avalon sat on the floor between their two chairs and looked back and forth lovingly at them, making delightful squealing noises to let them both know how glad she was that they loved her.
I went outside to water the flowers, after a subtle hint from dear Grandma ("Your dad didn't come with you? It's too bad he isn't here to water the flowers..") Carrying a big, old watering can and refreshing little plants, which are cared about by my dear, sweet grandmother, is one of the most satisfying things to do in the summer. I spotted one of those nasty, hateful garden spiders. I hurriedly turned on the hose in full force, then instantly felt guilty for his imminent death. Why do I want to drown an innocent arachnid? He isn't on my bathroom floor ready to attack; he is enjoying a nice life in a garden outside. A fact came into my head, out of nowhere (well, from the third grade perhaps); spiders are actually beneficial to gardens and eat bad bugs. I felt relieved as I watched it flee the disastrous torrent. Not today, spider, not today.
I must go and pick up my dear child. In the process of mother's writing, her legs have become wedged under the couch, so she paws frantically at the things around her; then, once rescued, has been banging her head and tiny arms upon the floor and making swimming motions (I assume that she dreams this air-swimming will lead to actually moving somewhere, but with no effort on her part), nursing intently with wide open eyes, as if she may never eat again, and is now scolding me with squawks of anger for looking away for so long.
Love you all. Thanks for reading. It will be a process.
Upon much urging from my dear brother throughout the years, I, too, have decided to become a blogger once again. I started this blog before Avalon was born, so the strange name (based on a favorite old song which is no longer a favorite, or meaningful) may change in due time. I'm keeping my first post about being five weeks pregnant, because it is a blend of embarrassment, nostalgia, and a testimony of the goodness of God and the distance I have come with His grace!
I love to write, and I have so many ideas that come to me abruptly at all times. I know you all will understand if there are any grammatical errors, or inform me gently and with great kindness, as the case may be. I wrote this tonight from lovely Moscow. I am in that state of exhaustion where I could sleep for days, but knowing I will be getting up in a few hours to nourish a young olive plant makes me want to just stay awake and get things done. Not much thought has gone in to this entry, but I can assure you that much thought has gone into other, future blog entries, which I have been saving and writing in my journal.
I took some of Christy's "famous" flour-less chocolate cake over to Grandma and Grandpa's tonight. I was grateful that I did, because when Grandpa thought I was out of earshot, he remarked indignantly, to say the least, "I thought she said she was bringing chocolate cake tonight", to which Grandma patiently replied, "It's in the fridge." Avalon sat on the floor between their two chairs and looked back and forth lovingly at them, making delightful squealing noises to let them both know how glad she was that they loved her.
I went outside to water the flowers, after a subtle hint from dear Grandma ("Your dad didn't come with you? It's too bad he isn't here to water the flowers..") Carrying a big, old watering can and refreshing little plants, which are cared about by my dear, sweet grandmother, is one of the most satisfying things to do in the summer. I spotted one of those nasty, hateful garden spiders. I hurriedly turned on the hose in full force, then instantly felt guilty for his imminent death. Why do I want to drown an innocent arachnid? He isn't on my bathroom floor ready to attack; he is enjoying a nice life in a garden outside. A fact came into my head, out of nowhere (well, from the third grade perhaps); spiders are actually beneficial to gardens and eat bad bugs. I felt relieved as I watched it flee the disastrous torrent. Not today, spider, not today.
I must go and pick up my dear child. In the process of mother's writing, her legs have become wedged under the couch, so she paws frantically at the things around her; then, once rescued, has been banging her head and tiny arms upon the floor and making swimming motions (I assume that she dreams this air-swimming will lead to actually moving somewhere, but with no effort on her part), nursing intently with wide open eyes, as if she may never eat again, and is now scolding me with squawks of anger for looking away for so long.
Love you all. Thanks for reading. It will be a process.
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