I’m at home getting sick baby snuggles and so arrives
a new naptime narrative as my drowsy darlings snooze their sneezes away.
Three babies in three years … If I were younger, I’d
keep going until I had a little football team and a little cheerleading squad
all under one roof. Not really, but I do love my time at home with my little
ones. They are fresh, innocent, fragile, tough, loving, playful, unique and
fun, fun, fun.
We wanted children. Our marriage was full of so much
love. We prayed for babies. Kevin wanted three; I wanted two. God had a plan
for our lives so we didn’t sweat the small stuff – number of babies. We joked
about it and tried to be patient. Kevin was more relaxed about it than I was.
Did we get what we want? I honestly have no idea. I do
believe with all of my heart that we have what our Heavenly Daddy wanted us to
have – even if I can’t define it. Some moments
I let people assume we have two children. Most often I say we have one in
heaven and two hanging out with us and that we’re thankful for them all. I’m Ok
with my lack of understanding of the “whys” of life. I don’t ask why. I trust and obey. I know He
always answers when I call. I know He comforts me when I’m scared and meets me
at the door – every time I knock, or whisper, or pass out from exhaustion. He
forgives me before I realize what I did wrong. He loves me SO BIG as we say all
the time in our house these days.
Our Heavenly Daddy was and is in every detail – the wanting,
the waiting, our imperfectly perfectly designed babies. God made room. We had
no idea our oldest would worship at Jesus’ feet from his Day One on earth or
that our second and third would light up our lives the way they have. You never
know – that’s why it’s called hindsight. And hindsight may be 20/20 but only if
you slow down enough to focus on it. Otherwise we speed up – rushing to the
next step, the next accomplishment, the next earthly success.
The Christmas season is the perfect time to slow
down because our culture and sin mindset try to make us prepare so much for
every part of Christmas – except worshiping Christ.
Christmas is just days away. Gifts? Trees? Parties?
Budgets? Time? Santa? Rudolph? No. Christ. The third of the Trinity made human
– born a baby, adored by kings, conceived by The Holy Ghost. Why would anyone
make up a story like that? Why would the people who hung out with Jesus the
most die before they would say the resurrection wasn’t real? Maybe because they
experienced it. Maybe because it happened. Maybe because they were changed. (Passive
voice because it happened to them. They didn’t do it. It happened to them.)
Gabriel changed me. It happened to me. I’m his mama. See what I mean?
I’ve been on the right side of arguments many times
– especially back when I was a newspaper editor upholding the responsibility of
freedom of speech – but I wouldn’t have knowingly
died for that principle. If my life was on the line and I knew it, I would’ve agreed to disagree and moved on knowing I
was right but not caring that the other guys also thought they were right. Not
so for those guys who hung out with JC. He’s a game changer. And we have his
rulebook. And we – we meaning people who live after his death and resurrection
– we – get stressed over tinsel and toys and time management. Please. Lord
Jesus come quickly. Thank you for forgiving us of the sneaky sins that steal
our hearts and heads away from you.
Back to reality. Oh, there goes gravity. (What? I
had access to a radio – at least a dozen years ago anyway.)
A lot has happened since I last gathered my
scattered thoughts. We had a wonderful visit with the Bonus Parents, and
together celebrated my 40th birthday, enjoyed Thanksgiving, baptized
Charlie and ate lots of good food. Oh, and I busted my pelvic joint somehow –
reread three babies in three years—and have a condition called SPD, which may
as well stand for Serious Pain Downthere even though the medical community calls
it symphysis pubic dysfunction. I’m down with SPD – yeah you know me. (Second
and final bad rap song reference).
Everyone has a pelvic bone. You don’t appreciate how
it holds your legs and hips in place until you make it mad. Mine was mad – like
rabid dog mad. Like The Godfather mad. Like some of you normally sane people in
real life who can’t resist making political comments on Facebook mad. We’re talking
lightning strike intensity, a jumbo jet of pressure on a tiny bone that has
just moved aside to let a watermelon of love (baby) eject nearby. So the morning after delivering Charlie I
told my doctor, “It hurts to lie on my side.” He said, “Don’t lie on your side.
You just had a baby.” I said, “Wow, you drink a lot of Red Bull.” He said, “Are
we doing the circumcision today or tomorrow?” I said, “Today. Let’s get outta
here.” We left the hospital about six
hours later making our stay 24 hours or less.
While this is not a particularly interesting conversation
to relate, it is important because it was the first of MANY times over the next
three months that I failed to accurately describe, explain, acknowledge,
discuss, admit, reveal – clearly communicate – my pain to anyone in the medical
profession. In fact, it took Kevin having beer with an out of town friend who
happens to be in physical therapy before I even saw someone who could remotely
help me address this pain. Pelvic floors: men have them; women have them. If
you don’t know you have one, you don’t have a problem with yours. Nuff said.
Eventually, here’s what I learned: SPD is what
happens when the joints that hold your pelvic bone in place – seriously?!!! –
loosen during delivery to the point where they don’t tighten back after
delivery. This causes “instability” and “pain” in the pelvic joint. Ya think?
Ya think having your hip bone connected to your leg bone connected to your
pelvic bone which is now just floating along under your intestines and above
your pelvic floor would cause “instability.” Thank you Google. This is why we
no longer talk.
Also, if you remember the song you learned in
preschool about all those bones being connected, you’ll know the song ends
with, “Now hear the word of the Lord”. There is a reason for this. The author
of that song no doubt was a woman who had lots of babies and had a rubber band
or two of joints fail her causing her to praise the Lord for the human body’s
miraculous nature. Not really; I jest. In
truth, the 1928 Delta Rhythm Boys song was a reference to Ezekiel 37: 1-14 when
the prophet, well, prophesies that
the dead will one day rise again at the command of the Lord. “Them bones,
them bones, them dry bones … gonna walk around.”
God was begging me to
rest, and I was begging to differ.
Two weeks after delivering Charlie I started pulling
weeds in the back flower beds. Those weeds had taunted me throughout my
pregnancy and finally I could destroy them properly. Roots and all. My favorite
kind of exercise is exercise hidden inside a tangible accomplishment. And
adding fresh air, screened windows, and sleeping babies in 2.5 hour stretches
and I could get a lot done. I wanted to
return to my pre-pregnancy persona ASAP. I had Charlie’s schedule in harmony
with Dorothy’s, so I planned feats of real estate genius and physical
accomplishments in record time. All for selfish reasons. Vanity. Pride. Delusion.
Pick a sin, I was ready to roll around in it like when my lab Sammy finds a
really good stinky spot for wallowing. But instead….
Heavenly Daddy drew me closer to Him. Lean on me,
Lee. Slow down. Don’t rush this time. It’s
not about you or your body or your job. I ignored His plea and pushed onward,
hurting (literally) myself more when I tried to do more than my body would
withstand. He raised His voice to a calm but steady command. I ignored Him
again. Soon I was unable to lift Charlie’s car seat, push a stroller, walk up
stairs, or hold a gallon of milk in front of me – the pressure of holding
anything that tilted my floating bones forward was virtually unbearable. My
physical therapist said I was among the top 5 or 6 worst patients – wait no, I
mean patient with the worst condition – that she had seen. The one who was the
very worst was in a car accident and a metal object shattered her pelvic joint
causing trauma. She was the worst. I have a freakishly high pain threshold so I
was confused, physically tired, and unable to really communicate clearly
because the pain was so distracting. My savior was not confused. He wanted me
to be a Mary not a Martha. (Luke 10:38). I eventually “got it.” Today, just shy
of four months after Charlie was born, I am through physical therapy –
something you can start at 6 weeks post partum by the way – and I wear a belt
holding my hips in place if I’m not horizontal. I’m so so so so so so so much
better.
I say all of this not for a “woe is me” moment. I
say it because you never know what people are dealing with on the inside –
literally and figuratively. The pain
spiked the very worst the weekend we baptized Charlie, appropriately the Sunday
after Thanksgiving. Boy, are we thankful. No literally – for this boy we are SO THANKFUL.
I’ll elaborate because who’s going to stop me?
At Charlie’s baptism, we stood up in front of our
church congregation and looked like normal people. I was wearing a medical belt
to try to stabilize my skeletal frame and I was in flats because my PT said
wearing heels would’ve put me in a wheelchair. I picked up Dorothy and held her
while Kevin held Charlie. We looked normal. That was among the only 10 minutes
I stood up that day. I left with the kids before the sermon began. Also not
strange because two under 2 are wiggly and wild and not necessarily front row fit.
The night before Charlie’s baptism, we got news that
broke our hearts. The six-year-old daughter of a Memphis family was now in
Jesus’ arms. She had been battling a fatal brain disease. She left behind one
healthy sister and one sister who also has the same disease. She left behind a
family that believes in God before and after the diagnosis.
Kevin and I – about 2:30 am that morning – prayed
for peace in their suffering. We surrendered our children to the Lord (again).
We surrendered ourselves (again). We surrendered our finances (again). We
surrendered all the things we hold dear that are of this world. We cried. We
thanked Him for the hard things. Then we prayed specifically for the friends
we’ve made since becoming Kee. They have sick children; they have failing
marriages; they are sexual abuse survivors; they are addicted to bad things;
they are addicted to good things; they are addicted to distracting things; they
are riddled with cancer; they are overcoming adultery; they are battling their demons;
they long to be married; they yearn for more children, for any children, for
clarity from Christ. They look normal. They dress normal. They suffer inside
and share their hearts with people who open up to them and we are SO thankful
for their friendships – both casual and close. I’ve learned everyone has a
something, a suffering. It doesn’t have to be physical, visible, tangible,
explainable…. But a Christian who truly believes does suffer. I’m not being
dramatic; I’m being honest. It’s in the handbook. Look it up. All that stuff,
concealed in so much normalness – is known to our Heavenly Daddy and it’s
placed in our paths to bring us closer to Him. I’ve probably said it before but
someone told me you’re always either moving closer to God or moving farther
away from Him and that’s so true.
I cried during most of the baptism, not because of
Gabriel, not because I was in pain, not because I was sad for the Memphis
family’s crushing loss, but because God was, and is, with us. He is with us. He
is in us. He is for us. And I know that. So I cried because we were
acknowledging that truth at our home church, with our loved ones in town, with our
Sunday School pastor who buried my baby, attended my wedding and sat with his
wife at a six-year-old’s funeral. God was so with us in that sanctuary. Charlie
was quiet enough for our congregation to be able to sing “Jesus Loves Me” at
the end of the sweet, sweet experience.
We have a new lead/senior pastor at our church.
We’ve spoken a couple of times but nothing major. It’s a big church. He
happened to be there that Sunday and stood in the huddle that prays with the
family of newly baptized little ones. I wanted literally to reach out, grab his
arm, look him in the eyes and tell him one thing: get to know the people here.
Not all the people, but a few of the people here. Pick a very small few and be
there for them. Really get to know them. Deeply. Find a trusted handful of
fellow journeymen and women and enter their lives. You’ll never know all 2,000
of us but you can be there for a solid few and your heart, ministry, and
purpose will stay centered from there. Slowly. Not meticulously. Organically.
Honestly.
That conversation didn’t happen because there was
only small talk time, family picture time, baby fluffing time, well wishing
time and me trying to use Charlie as a human barrier to hugging or standing –
two things that might snap me in half for good. You know, normal church stuff.
I wanted to tell the new pastor that unsolicited
advice because Kevin and I love – and receive love from – the people of our
church. We only know a handful of them and some better than others, but there’s
a propensity to be open and honest at our church – at least that’s been our
experience over the last 6 or 7 years. Where’s your husband today? Rehab.
Months ago, that was a verbatim conversation Kevin had with someone in our
Sunday School class who had an empty seat beside her one day. Three immediately
great things about this 1) she was comfortable with Kevin and, therefore,
honest 2) we hadn’t already heard about it from gossip (a most pervasive sin in
churches) and 3) she was standing by her man. Praise the Lord for this family
and her faith. She is not alone.
Emmanuel. God is with us. No, really, that’s what
Emmanuel means. “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” (origins in an 8th
century Gregorian chant). Do you know what Noel means? We sing “The First Noel”
(written in 1823), and I can feel out a tiny section of it on the piano – one
childlike keystroke at a time. “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” (16th
century). Do you know what that means? More Christ. These are other songs are
the background soundtrack this time of year and the lyrics are imprinted on our
memories. But memorization is not learning. I’m 40 and I’m still learning. I’m
still leaning. I’m still resisting. I’m still regrouping. Emmanuel. He loved me
first. He loved you first. He is love.
I don’t know whether I’ll update this blog again. I
do know I’ll love and I’ll lose and I’ll praise our Heavenly Daddy through
every bit of it. I don’t know how my Life of Lee story ends, or when. Maybe
I’ll chronicle the funny things my healthy (manna for the day) children will
do. Maybe I’ll keep that private. I don’t know. My overriding prayer for my
children is that they know and love our Lord. Please pray that with me. Thank
the Lord I don’t have to have answers now – for the small or the very, very
large questions.
So like my sneezy, sleepy babies collapse on my
shoulder in surrendering snuggles, I’ll try try try to slow down and lean on
Him. My heart is sick – thanks Eve, I mean an apple, really? – my mind wanders,
but I’m so so so much better after I snuggle with my Father. I pray you all
feel that feeling this season and, at least for a nanosecond, every single day.
Love, Lee
Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son,
and they shall call his name Immanuel (which means, God with us). – Matthew 1:23
