The art of listening

"God gave you two ears and one mouth for a reason." 

Or

"Listen with your ears open and your mouth shut"

I used those witticisms as a mom and as an NCO.  But how much did I really adhere to them?  Not very well, admittedly. And while I'm getting better at listening, I still have a LOT of room for improvement.  

The other day Alex and I were visiting our daughter and son in law in Georgia.   The girls were all in bed (albeit not sleeping) and we were just relaxing and chatting about things when Mandy said she had some bad news.  Another family on their team would not be able to return--their visas were rejected.  This family of six has become an integral part of our kids' and grandkids' lives over the past four years.  And now, just like that, with the stroke of a pen, these dear friends would not be rejoining them.  I listened and was truly saddened.  I know that family, and I also know how much they mean to our family.  

The next day, Mandy confided in me that, after we left that night, Brian said he'd never felt so loved by me, that I really listened.  I hadn't tried to fix things.  Or make their problem my own.  I truly listened, he said. 

At first I wasn't sure what to think, whether to be offended or pleased with myself. But, after much introspection, I understood what he meant.   Like most humans, I listen, but only half heartedly, poised to jump in with my anecdotes and my words of wisdom and my offer of help or my advice for fixing the problem.  And I would just stupidly and blindly assume others are amused with my witty observations and impressed with my sound advice. 

We have all experienced this:   Emptying our soul, pouring our heart out, sharing our joy or our sorrow or our worries, knowing the other person is only half listening, anxiously waiting to pounce on the conversation at the slightest pause.  So he can turn the attention to himself.  The "one-up."  The meaningless advice. The "you think THAT'S bad..."  As if I'm just telling you my story because I only wanted to trigger your much more interesting story.

Yikes.  Ouch.  Convicted.  How many times do I hear without listening?  Or blithely respond with frivolous answers to "solve" a friend's or family member's dilemma?   When instead I should listen, with the attitude and mind of Christ.  Not of the world.

Okay, so here's where my relationship with God comes in.  I talk to Him and read His word.  Not as often as I should.  But more than I used to.  I just assume He is listening.  He knows what I mean.  He cares.  But is it a one sided conversation? Do I stop yakking long enough to actually hear His still small voice?  Am I so busy trying to fix my own problems and toot my own horn to let the Creator of the universe show me the way? 

Lord, help me listen to others the way you listen to me.  

Parting is such sweet sorrow....

My baby has a baby. I've spent the last 10 days reveling in that sweet, sweet reality--Sophie Jo. Beautiful, small, and soft, with her daddy's Asian eyes and her mommy's nose, and just the right amount of shiny brown hair. And despite this being grandbaby #4, I am enjoying her just as much as I do Mandy's three girls. It surprises me still, the shocking, intense love I feel with each new baby.  Never old hat. Or boring. Or ho-hum. So pardon me as I wax poetic.

I have had a tiny little roommate since last Saturday night, allowing her parents to get some much needed sleep. I treasured every sleepless moment, every cry, every poopy diaper. I'd swaddle her, feed and burp her, and bury my nose in the soft, fragrant skin of her neck. Even when Alex arrived and attempted to spell me a couple nights, I woke up, unable to not watch this little miracle. Sophie and I would sit in the nursery in the wee hours of the morning, looking at each other, her little fist wrapped around one of my fingers, and I would watch her chest rise and fall as she slept, eyes welling with tears as I remembered a slightly chunkier but equally precious baby girl I held in my arms over 32 years ago.  

We bonded, Sophie and I, over the past ten days. When I arrived she was barely two weeks old, a petite little newborn with startle reflexes and impatient cries.  When I left, she was chubby and more alert and in synch with our little schedule, patiently enduring the necessary diaper change preceding a nice warm bottle. My heart melted when she would turn her head at the sound of my voice, and that first tenuous yet beautiful smile brought tears to my eyes.

  

And then there is the heart-in-my-throat, overwhelming pride in watching my daughter blossom from a young woman to a wife and now to a loving mother. My sweet, sensitive Bink, who bravely conquered cancer, who stayed true to herself in spite of her selfish father disowning her, who puts more value on family and friends than on things. Who, despite her exterior tough, cavalier attitude about babies and life in general, displayed a maternal instinct and tenderness that makes my heart sing.  

Mother-daughter relationships are difficult to navigate at times, unpredictable, and require honest communication, love, hard work and lots of prayer. And these relationships are even more challenging as our daughters become adults, wives, and mothers in their own right. Resentment and grudges have no place in them.  Expectations have to be thrown to the wind--my daughters continue to exceed every expectation I have. There is a joy in the mother-daughter inner sanctum that can only be surpassed by my relationship with my God. I can hardly wait to watch this daughter grown into her own mother-daughter role. 

Being the mother of daughters who have their own daughters makes me realize what a treasure, what a blessing, what a miracle it is to have given birth to such wonderful human beings.  

And it makes me a better mother. A better daughter. And, hopefully, a better grandmother.  

Focus

Right now Alex and I feel as if our entire life is defined by caregiving for our parents--me for my mom, and him for his mom and dad (probably because it is). We try to enjoy other things, other people, to talk about something else, but the problems of those three people utterly consume our day, even if we are not there.  Even if something truly wonderful and joyful happens. Their problems transcend everything else, no matter how hard we try to escape them.  We are focused on that constantly  And it throws everything else out of focus.

Case in point: We have a new granddaughter--Sophie Jo--born February 19, in Missouri, to our daughter Becky and her husband, Ben. Their first baby. We could have, no SHOULD have, gone to help them. But we had our parents to care for.  I finally went to visit when Sophie was two weeks old, and Alex flew out to join me the following week. But despite having a brand new baby girl and our wonderful daughter and son in law to visit, our thoughts, our conversations, our prayers, were always back with our parents. Calling care centers. Checking on benefit status.  Paying bills. Figuring out our next step. Family drama with my siblings.  Getting calls from hospitals, nurses, doctors, and bill collectors. Sophie is simply lovely, adorable, and a gift from God. We enjoy her immensely.  I love being totally exhausted from holding her, loving her, and feeding her through the night. We play with her and change diapers (lots of diapers). We sit and talk with her parents, play cards, eat dinner.  But always, right under the surface of all this joy, is a sense of guilt for not being with our parents. An urge to check on them, to follow up on something, to shake those who don't get it and make them understand.

Alex and his brother are frustrated with the red tape and bureaucracy of hospitals, Medicare, rehab centers, and computerized charting.  They are sick of explaining their parents' complicated medical history and prescription medicines to nurse after nurse after nurse, and doctor after doctor, only to find out the medical staff still manages to screw things up, to misdiagnose. They are tired of driving 4-5 hours a day to and from different care facilities, because their parents are in different hospitals--in the same city.  They are sick and tired of trying to navigate the asinine maze of rehab centers and their convoluted process for procuring a room and then keeping it.  Alex misses me, his dogs, his home, retirement, and I miss him and his help and his support.  Me? I am tired of my sisters harassing mom's nursing staff, and then bothering me constantly with phone calls and texts that only serve to reduce me to a crying, blubbering idiot, and to make me doubt my sanity and my decisions.  I am fed up with calling social services, the nursing home, and doctors and having to wait days for a call back.  I'm worried constantly that my mom will never adjust to life in a nursing home, that she will forever fight it and hate me for taking her there.  I am tired of explaining Mom's behavior, worsening mental state, her need for 24/7 care, and her idiosyncrasies.

My thoughts are consumed with questions of "what if...?"

But most of all, I am completely and totally frustrated for not being able to just relax, to just let God control it and trust Him to handle it out, to trust that His plan is in motion and He already knows the outcome.  We want to have our hands on the situation, to have some input, or at least some foresight or insight into what the future holds tomorrow, next week, next year, i.e. "How will it all end?"

And that makes me sad, and angry at myself.

For being such a weak Christian.

For not being able to let go of the controls.

For playing tug of war with the Creator..."here you go, God; no wait, gimme a minute; okay, take it back; oops, I forgot one thing."

For not having the proper focus.

And then I realize He is teaching me.  Patience.  Trust.  Faith.  Reliance.

In His perfect plan.

In His perfect timing.

And then I rejoice because through it all, I know we are growing more like Him, and it all will be worth it in the end. 

But I still have trouble focusing...

Running Away

We've all said it, we have probably all even heard it from our own kids:  

"I hate it here!  I am running away from home!"

Mandy tried it, Becky too, and we had countless foster children who tried it as well (and at least one of them never returned).  As adults, we try not to laugh, and some of us have even offered to help them pack, but we know they really are not going anywhere.  They are just trying to push back against our control. 

Later on, we drop out of school, quit our jobs, run away from relationships, and shirk responsibility.  Something happens that we don't like, the situation becomes a little too uncomfortable, someone says something a little too close to the truth, and we bolt.  We run.  We "take our marbles and go home."  We too are pushing back against God being in control.

My mom has been running away for decades.  Running from the truth, from herself, from various failed marriages, from her siblings.  Shutting out anyone who says something she didn't like, or who won't agree with her.  Quitting jobs, defaulting on loans.  Moving more times than I can count or remember.   We never really got too upset over all the moves--it was, well, it was "just mom."

It's different now.  And sad.  She threatens to run away, to move somewhere else, and she pushes us away.  But she knows she needs help, that she cannot live on her own anymore, no matter how much she insists she can.  

Today the staff and I told my mom she cannot come home.  That the goal is for long term care.  

Her suitcases were all packed, her personal hygiene items were in plastic bags.  She says she will leave, she will run away.  We all stood there and looked at her, searching for a glimmer of understanding, my heart breaking as I watched this once vibrant, independent woman realize we were right.  She has nowhere to go.

God give my mom peace.  Let her run away into Your loving arms.

What's in a name?

I have many names...Mom, Barbara, Blondie (to Alex), Mama Ritchey (to my former airmen), Miss Ma'am (to Amber), SMSgt Ritchey, Barbie (only my mom can call me this!),  mi hija (to my mother in law), and, my all-time favorite, Nana.  The name has always been special to me, because of my Nana. When I started this blog (Nana's Nook) six years ago, I even wrote about that (and I would repost it if I could find it). But, to jog your memory....

Back in the 50s, we lived with my dad's mom, my Nana; she was a part of my daily life. She loved me unconditionally. She read me stories, taught me German words, and would let me sneak out of bed and hide behind my dad's chair and watch TV.  I remember her smile, that seemed only reserved for us kids. I remember her orange kitchen, where she made coffee milk and let me sit on the counter to drink. I can still picture her pink carpet in the living room with the big huge flower designs, where she would let me take my afternoon nap; I would listen to the mantel clock tick-tock the minutes away, and when it chimed four times, I was allowed to get up. My dad still has that clock, and I always think of Nana whenever I see it.  

Over half a century later, Mandy made me a grandmother. Before Lydia was even born, everyone knew I was going to be Nana. Not Grandma, or Mimi, or Baba, or anything else. Nana. And Alex would be Pop Pop. Nana and Pop Pop. 

Well, our oldest daughter now has three little girls who all call me Nana--Lydia, 6, Molly 3 1/2, and Isabella, nearly 2.  

I have friends who have children, and those kids all call me Nana Barb.    

And now Becky has a brand new baby girl. Becky has tried to insist we are Grandma and Grandpa. Not Nana and Pop Pop. I've tried on the name, but it just doesn't fit. It is like trying to put on a pair of my husband's shoes, or my daughter's jeans.  One is too big, one is too small, but Nana, well, it is just right. And yeah, a rose by any other name may still smell as sweet, but it is still a rose, and I refuse to call it a tulip.  

I can hardly wait to have all my grandchildren around the Christmas tree, or dinner table, or, better yet, at Disney World, one of these years, all clamoring for Nana. I can't have two names--I am too easily confused as it is.   

Sophie Jo--welcome to the world, sweetheart. Nana can hardly wait to meet you...I already love you more than you know. Pop Pop is on his own.

Corban

It never ceases to amaze me how God's Word speaks to me every day, and that, no matter how often I read His Word, or hear His Word, there is always something new, some phrase or even a single word that speaks to my heart. Such was the case last Sunday, when Andy preached on the Gospel of Mark, specifically Mark 7:1-23.  In this passage, the Pharisees are again challenging the disciples, and indirectly, Jesus Himself, on their adherence to God's commandments. Over the centuries, the Hebrews had constructed a system of tradition, traditions based on God's law handed down through Moses, traditions meant to remind God's people of God's laws and commandments. One of these traditions was the ceremonial cleansing of hands and items used in food preparation, a cleansing meant to represent setting aside a sacrifice for God alone. But like all traditions that come from the heart of man, this strictly human tradition had become distorted, the true purpose forgotten. No longer were the Pharisees concerned with how to keep their hearts clean and set aside for God. They were more concerned with the appearance of cleanliness, not in the keeping of God's commandments.

Of course, Jesus turned the tables on them, focusing their attention on how another human tradition was in direct violation of God's law:

8 You leave the commandment of God and hold to the tradition of men.” And he said to them, “You have a fine way of rejecting the commandment of God in order to establish your tradition! 10 For Moses said, ‘Honor your father and your mother’; and, ‘Whoever reviles father or mother must surely die.’ 11 But you say, ‘If a man tells his father or his mother, “Whatever you would have gained from me is Corban”’ (that is, given to God)— 12 then you no longer permit him to do anything for his father or mother, 13 thus making void the word of God by your tradition that you have handed down. And many such things you do.” (Mark 7:8-13)

I had never heard or read that word "Corban" before, or if I had, I skimmed right past it. Andy explained the term, and I did a little research after church as well.  According to prevailing tradition of the time, one could designate his financial resources  as "corban," which was a way of tagging them, or marking them, as set aside for God, unable to use for personal reasons. There is even an illustration in Jewish historical records that the temple treasury was "corban" and could not be used for secular purposes, e.g. city improvements such as building an aqueduct.  The Pharisees had manipulated this tradition to serve their own selfish, covetous desires, even to the point of flouting God's commandment to honor their parents. If they marked their financial resources as Corban, they were exempt/excused from supporting their parents.  

In all that we are going through these past few months, God knew I needed to hear this. It is not easy to follow God's commandments, because we are sinful, selfish creatures. We are all too willing to find excuses to circumvent God's law, to follow empty traditions that have long since ceased to have a purpose.  Having grown up in the Catholic Church, I was surrounded, no inundated, in traditions. Traditions that became more important than the Word, traditions that took on a life of their own and no longer resembled anything Biblical. I, too, was like those Pharisees. I felt justified in keeping with those traditions.  

Like I have said before, Alex and I feel called by God to obey this commandment, to honor our parents in their poor health, their frailty, their old age. It isn't easy. Many times over the past several weeks, I have been tempted to doubt what God is telling us to do, to listen to others who tell me to take care of myself. At times, I selfishly resent our parents for needing us so much, even to the point of being angry at them. I feel sorry for myself because my husband is not here with me, or because my life is not as I pictured it would be. I want to guard my time, my money, my schedule, to set it all aside as "corban" so it cannot be touched. I try to justify my selfishness, but I cannot. God's commandment is clear.  

Honor they father and thy mother.  

God's law trumps tradition every time.