Recently in Faith Category

Methinks I need a good cry. A good ol' end-o-my-rope, can't take any more, it's gotta get better from here, cry. I'm not good at that, though. And as I get older, the only thing I think I'm actually improving on is an art to bury my emotions under a layer of pretend apathy. I'm not sure if that's because I've learned that there isn't really that much in life worth getting that upset over, or if it's because it makes me feel better to act nonchalant.

I can't (won't) go into it here. It wouldn't be chic, or polished, or temperate of me to get into the details. I've tried to define the emotions over the past week, and I can't land on one that's just right. To say "devastated" would sound melodramatic. "Frustrated" doesn't seem to go far enough. "Disappointed" is trite, in comparison to the details. And I know better than to let anger take hold, but there might actually be a touch of plain old "angry" in there.

So, I'm left without answers, and the classic stand-in for a lack of answers is, "Everything happens for a reason." Talk about trite. I feel like I'm just patting myself on the head and telling myself to "run along, now". But there are no other answers. No other solutions. No (clear) options. No magic wands. No rainbows, and definitely no pots o' gold.

There is probably a lesson to be learned in here somewhere. I can't find it yet, aside from a solid reminder of "do unto others as you would have done unto you."

That leaves me with forward motion. One foot. In front. Of the other. And repeat. With the hope that the light at the end of the tunnel isn't a train.

I've found myself creeping over to the side of negativity lately. Wanting to get all that off my chest, I found myself sitting here, trying to figure out who to call and heart-dump to. I couldn't think of anyone, and then I realized that the better approach would be to count my blessings. Find something positive in the negative, and focus on that. So, I'm going to implement the practice of counting blessings:

I'm grateful for a successful tradeshow recently.
I'm grateful for a team who is motivated to get the projects done in a timely fashion.
I'm grateful for the opportunities sitting just around the bend.
I'm grateful for the unexpected financing we received to help make some of this happen.
I'm grateful for good sales reps who see the potential and are out selling our lines.
I'm grateful that a co-worker recently had a perfectly healthy baby and is celebrating that new life!
I'm grateful for a shipping manager who could beat lightening if they were in a competition.
I'm grateful for an art director who knows how to kick booty.
I'm grateful for a production manager who goes the extra mile, and knows when to ask for help.
I'm grateful for a bookkeeper who keeps us all in line, whether we know it or not.
I'm grateful for a husband who knows how important my "alone time" is.
I'm grateful for a sales manager who can sell some socks off you.
I'm grateful for a marketing director who can also sell some socks off you.
I'm grateful for a collaborator who thinks win/win, and that energizes me.
I'm grateful for a talented graphic designer, who has an amazing knack for interpreting our brands.
I'm grateful for the positivity exuded by our main typesetter, whose positive attitude is hard to resist.
I'm grateful for the creativity brought to our team by current web manager.
I'm grateful for a customer service manager who believes in where we are going, and works so hard to make that happen.
I'm grateful for new opportunities.

And I pray that the Lord would grant me the wisdom to manage all of these assets to their advantage and His glory.

This morning, the most adorable, precious two-year-old little girl met Jesus, face to face. We had never met; I didn't know her. In her short years on this earth, her little body went through more agony than mine has in 31 years. I've been following her updates on twitter for the past couple of weeks, unsuccessfully bracing for tears every time I navigated to check her status. Her name was Layla Grace.

This morning, something was wrong. Her mother still had not posted a twitter update by 10:30, which was rare. Lately, her morning updates had been coming much earlier than that. As I realized this, sitting in a meeting, I flashed back to the moment I suddenly woke up this morning at 4:00 a.m. It was a different kind of waking--I wasn't thinking about work, wasn't watching TV, I was just laying there. My mind went to Layla, and I started praying furiously. Hardcore, focused, begging-praying. In my gut, my heart of hearts, I knew--well, something. I don't know what. But it was SOMETHING.

Fast forward to 10:30, when I realized her mother had not yet updated the twitter status. My heart sank. I prayed some more. Packing up my things, getting ready to leave the meeting, the topic of cause-focused marketing came up. I mentioned to the leader of the group that I was trying to find a way to support an organization that funded research for childhood cancer. She looked up at me, suddenly. "My daughter died of neuroblastoma, twenty-eight years ago..." she said, pausing only slightly before finishing her sentence, "...today."

Goosebumps hit me. The odds of me (the Tin Man) discussing Layla Grace with her, on this day of all days, were eerie. But if you subscribe to classic theories, there is no such thing as coincidence, and everything happens for a reason. I do not know her daughter's name, so we'll call her Dee. She was five.

I left my meeting at 1, came home, checked twitter and realized that Layla had gone. Forever. In the arms of a merciful, merciful, gracious Savior. And as hard as it is for us to understand that from down here, I know that God saw it as good. His plan for that little girl is far more amazing than anything I can grasp in my feeble human mind.

The phone rang, and it was Caroline, who has run a non-profit for several years called Katie's Kids. Her sister-in-law, Katie, died at 28 of a brain tumor. Katie had founded the non-profit to help find and fund a cure for pediatric brain tumors.

I told Caroline the story of Layla and little Dee. She got goosebumps, too.

Since the earthquake in Haiti, I've been following several blogs. A couple of weeks ago, I read this beautiful, poignant story, told by a missionary who was visiting a remote orphanage.

There were two little children who very much broke my heart--a (very) little girl named Jemima and a (very) little boy named Ezaye. Both were malnourished to the point where they looked like skeletons. There was no meat on them at all, their skin was saggy and baggy, their eyes sunken in, the hair they had (not much) was orange and brittle, their eyes half closed and unresponsive. Holding them was like holding a bag of bones. We've all seen pictures of starving children on TV. But this is the first time I actually saw, touched, and held a truly starving person. It wasn't that great for me. Barton was the first to cry. Tears poured down his face in silence, dripping onto the blankets they were wrapped in to keep them warm. He whispered to Ezaye, "Go home. Just go home. You won't feel pain any more if you just go home. It's okay. God is waiting for you there."

I bent down close to him and started singing quietly a popular children's song in Haiti, "Eske 'w vle ale, lakay papa mwen, lakay papa mwen, lakay papa mwen? Eske 'w vle ale lakay papa mwen? Genyen jwa, jwa, jwa." (Translation: Do you want to go to my Father's house, to my Father's house, to my Father's house? Do you want to go, to my father's house? It has joy, joy, joy.") It was the same with Jemima. I sang it to her too. I touched her and prayed that God would find a way for there to be redemption in the situation. I even asked if we could foster them in our house--I knew it probably be of much use, but I would at least know that they would be held and fed every two hours around the clock. If it helped, great. If not, they could die in a home, in the arms of someone who cherished their sweet souls. But I wasn't given permission. (That's another story for another day.)

Yesterday I went back with our visiting group. Ezaye was still there. I sang to him again. I held him and prayed for him again.

Jemima was not there. I asked a nanny where she was, knowing already the answer.

"Jemima? Oh, li mouri." (Jemima? Oh, she's dead.")

Here's the funny thing. Though my heart initally sunk when I heard her words, I quickly saw the goodness of God, and I decided not to think of her as dead. Instead I am thinking of her as finally truly alive. No longer a skeleton, but the proud owner of a new body. Running and playing and laughing and hugging the neck of Jesus. I asked God for redemption in this situation. I can't imagine a more full redemption than she was granted...

But I take heart in knowing that sweet little 2 year old Layla, baby Jemima, and five-year-old Dee are running through those fields with Katie and Jesus. Completely healed. No more pain.

And for that, I'm grateful.

Dear Kiddo,

You'll have to start learning to forgive me early in life, I suppose. I've started several drafts of these letters to you, but haven't finished them, for one reason or another. The excuses have been plentiful; time has not. I started with the best of intentions, but haven't written you a three month, four month, or five month letter.

Sometime during your month three, I walked in late from work. Things had been hectic, as they always are at that time of year. It was quiet in the house, without a daddy, dog or baby in sight, so I tiptoed upstairs and saw this:

You and your daddy were both sound asleep. He had been helping me at work. We were exhausted. You weren't sleeping through the night yet.

Christmas hit, and a snowstorm. Kiddo, actually, it was a blizzard. Your Uncle Toothpick and cousin Bames barely made it to our house. We all holed up together, laughing and playing Uno Attack until three in the morning. There is video footage of that night--we'll let you see it when you are older. Your Uncle Toothpick brought you a giant Curious George. You just sat there, looking at that monkey, wondering why he was bigger than you were.

Your Nana and Poppa didn't make it to town that night, and so the next day, Christmas Day, we headed to your Mimi's house. You spent Christmas morning with your cousins, and your Mimi. You weren't sure what to make of the chaos, and didn't want to nap that afternoon. We finally rocked you to sleep and you agreed to crash at Mimi's house, sleeping in the crib in the guest room. Meanwhile, Daddy and I had dug out our snow gear and went sledding like two kids on the hills at Mimi and Carpa's house.

We officially celebrated Christmas on the 26th in 2009. It was a Saturday, which made the Christmas holiday seem like a four day weekend. We put off having the feast until after your Nana and Poppa finally made it to town. There is also some video footage of that as well, complete with a full critique of the menu by your Aunt Dianna.

Later that night, we gathered around for some family photos. Notice the contrast of your glamorous Aunt B, versus your rather granola-y-looking-but-not-really-Momma:

Aunt B:

Your cousin, Pardner, held you patiently while we took photos, none of which turned out to be halfway decent. Cruiser sat by, rather disenchanted with the whole picture taking process. They were extremely tired cousins, on their best behavior.

It snowed again in January. There was a Thursday when we left work, knowing that a storm would hit, and we would not be in on Friday. I was relishing the thought of staying home with you. Your daddy was out of town--I don't remember why or where. We woke up that Friday morning to at least six inches of thick snow on the ground. I opened the curtains (after you woke me up) and we worked together that day. I laid blankets on the ground in the floor of my room, and took these photos of you.

We've had a couple of days like that, you and I. They are long and slow days. Your sitter isn't here, and the world is quiet. Sundays are like that when your daddy is out of town. The phone doesn't ring, we don't turn the television on...it's just you and me. I already regret that I have not savored more moments with you, that I have not turned the computer off more often, that I have not been here for your every waking moment.

I'm so glad I pulled the camera out on that snowy day. We took pictures for all of ten minutes, but I'll always remember those moments, frozen in time, with you watching me, watching Francie, watching the thick flakes fall outside. The world isn't always such a beautiful place, you will someday learn. Wars, greed, corruption and pain can encompass you if you let it.

Kiddo, I'm learning that you don't have to let those things encompass you. You don't have to identify with that pain, you don't have to become a part of the pain. You can become a part of the healing. And those quiet days--that snowy day--have been healing for me, in so many ways as well.

This morning, I talked to your Aunt B. We talked about how we can let the past define who we are, or we can let our choices define who we become.

Yesterday, one of those quiet Sundays, I turned off the computer at noon. You were fussy, were having none of your Bouncy Monkey, or your bottle, or your crib, or a schedule. So, we laid on the floor together, and talked to an octopus, and a hungry caterpillar, and a rather annoying vibrating and musical elephant. Francie curled up in a ball on her bed on the other side of the room, and you rolled over. And over. And over. On your back, you smiled up at me. On your stomach, you looked around, up, and wiggled on your legs, pushing to see if they would take you somewhere.

All too soon, Kiddo, you will be gone. Those legs will take you so many places in life. Never forget that the choices you make about where you go, what you do, who you associate with, will affect you for the rest of your life. Don't let yourself become mired down in the past, or in negative people. Always move up and onward.

So far, you're doing an incredible job of it.

Love always,
Momma

Tonight, I'm going to bed with so many questions in my head, and thoughts in my heart, most of which can be summarized by asking: how can a little ol' stationery company change the world?

Kiddo has some pretty bad eczema on his skin. My mom and sister are convinced that it is some type of allergic reaction--and they both suffer from the itchy stuff. My sister's boys, especially, itch so badly that they'll scratch until they bleed, poor things. Our pediatrician advised us that one way to deal with the eczema is to wait until we "just can't stand it anymore, and give him a bath."

I have to say, it's helped his skin. The horrid rough patches aren't as bad as have been. But this morning, I got to the "just can't stand it anymore" point, and gave him a bath.

It's been a while--almost four weeks. I know that sounds gross, but that's what our doctor told us to do. I wondered if he'd even remember what a bath was--he was loving them for a while, but I was curious if it would be a new experience all over again. We walked into the bathroom, turned on the heater and the light.

Our shower curtain hangs on those little rings that have the roller-balls on them. It's a weird sound, to be sure. I reached up to move the shower curtain back, and Kiddo practically jumped out of his skin. I stopped mid pull-back, and held him close. He relaxed, and I started moving the curtain the remainder of the way back.

This time instead of just jerking, startled, he SHRIEKED! It wasn't a cry--it was a call out! It was the most awful sound to ever hit a mother's ears. He was so scared. At only not even five months old. I held him so close. The tears were on their way--his lower lip puckered out, corners down-turned.

He was going to be fine, though.

But it reminded me that some children aren't fine. And once again, as it has so many times in the past week and a half, my heart went out to the orphans in Haiti, and really all over the world, who don't have someone to hold them when they are scared. I know the Lord has His eye on them, but in my own human insecurities and weaknesses, I'll admit that that almost doesn't seem like enough. I KNOW it is enough. I know that those of us who have been born into SO much more than orphaned children in third world countries should consider ourselves IMMENSELY blessed.

And I know, to whom much is given, much is required. I'm not sure what the Lord requires of me--if it's an open checkbook, or a willingness to go, or something else. But I know, if I follow where He leads us, that it will be an adventure beyond my wildest dreams, and far more blessing than I ever could have been born into.

One of my favorite sayings is, "When the grass is greener, water your yard."

What that means is, when you're not happy:

• Count your blessings.
• Quit comparing yourself to others.
• Realize that happiness takes work.
• And it's a state of mind.
• And a journey, not a destination.
• Don't live by the seat of your emotions.
• Go help someone who has less than you.
• If, for one second, you think you don't know anyone with less than you, turn on the news and watch this stuff going on in Haiti.
• Or, read this blog.
• Quit being selfish.
• JOY = Jesus, Others, You.
• And, ironic, think "glass half empty". If you prepare yourself for the worst possible scenario, you'll probably never half to deal with it. It really does add perspective.
• Realize that it could all be much, much, much worse.

I'm not sure if that's a morning pep talk for myself, or frustration at lackadaisical attitudes, or the Haiti stuff making me un-Grinch-ish, or if the Tin Man found a heart.

I'm off to find some coffee.

Tomorrow, I have to read and edit six contracts.
I'm grateful for the opportunities.

Tomorrow, we have to process orders.
I'm grateful for the business.

Tomorrow, food and fresh water are plentiful.
I'm grateful, and remember those who are less fortunate.

There is a lot that I'd rather not deal with, but at the end of the day, there is so much more to be grateful for.

In the hustle and bustle of what has been my life lately, mostly a solid combination of career and motherhood, I have discovered the glories of a bedtime no later than 9:30 p.m. CST.

In a day and age when riding the fence, politically and spiritually, seems like the safest thing to do in order to keep from being ostracized by society, I find myself speaking out less and less on these topics, despite the knot in my stomach.

But last night, after drifting to sleep with the TV on, and after a day of Brown vs. Coakley, Hubs was flipping channels, and I caught a whif of what was happening, and mumbled, "He won?" Hubs said yes, and I think I slept a tad better last night.

After a discouraging blow two Novembers ago, and a disheartening year of wanting to say "I told you so" to the American public, all I feel like saying this morning is:

GO, REPUBLICANS, GO!!

I've always said I'm a questionable candidate for motherhood. I never wanted a child, at least not in the way some people desperately do. I never not wanted children either, though. When I was single, I was going to live in the single moment, realizing marriage needed to be conquered before children. After I was married, I refused to let myself fall in love with the notion of parenting, just in case we were never able to conceive, carry, or adopt.

So when people asked if I wanted kids, I always replied with the reminder that I was a questionable candidate for motherhood.

When I found myself rather unexpectedly pregnant, I was hesitant. In all honesty, I was more concerned about the pregnancy than I was the parenting. I went through the entire nine months worrying about every kick, still spell, the whole labor and delivery process, and never once thought about what I would do with Kiddo once he arrived. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I think I thought it would still be possible to resume life as I had once lived it--out with Hubs on Saturday nights, over at friends houses until two in the morning, and quick jaunts down to Dallas whenever we wanted. I wondered what Kiddo looked like, but aside from that, I didn't think about anything beyond just making sure he arrived safely.

When Kiddo arrived, all that changed in an instant. I'm not exaggerating. Immediately, I wanted to hold him, and I've never particularly liked holding babies. I wanted to feed him, and I've always thought nursing was gross. Now that he's two months old, I know instinctively how to make him stop crying, how to get him to go to sleep, and how to make him smile. When I was pregnant, it didn't dawn on me that we would be up on hours on end for sleepless nights, that he would have a small share of health issues (turns out all children do), or that I'd be totally paranoid about people holding him, and obsessive compulsive about hand sanitizer.

I'm still not the best candidate for Mother of the Year, and I know I will make lots of mistakes in the long run. But my perspective on mothering has changed drastically. I'm more touched by the stories of other mothers than I have ever been. Recently, I've read two blog posts, both of which have moved me to tears. Click on over and read these: at Kelly's Korner, she discusses her recent trip to El Salvador, from a mother's perspective. I honestly cannot imagine what these mothers go through. And on Rebecca's blog, she talks about her little Eli's birth mother, and what an agonizing decision she made to give Eli up. Both of these gals inspire me because of their sensitivity to those in need.

In addition, both stories are reminders of how much I've been blessed with, as well as how much responsibility I've been given. People ask if we want more kids, and my answer is the same as it was before--I don't know. I'm not going to be the greatest mother; I will make mistakes. I don't have undivided attention for one, let alone more. But if someone called me tomorrow and said, "I know a child who needs a family," I would be hard pressed to tell them no.

What I do know is that it is important that Kiddo knows and understands the plights of other children, and that we need to do everything we can to reach out to help those in our community and around the world. And in the meantime, I'm grateful that I have a better understanding of what those kiddos and their mothers are going through.