Looking up to the Hills

We live in Western North Carolina, in a small town at the edge of the Appalachian Mountains, and a stone's throw from the Blue Ridge Parkway.  On any given day, the scenery from my house is beautiful, but the view from the Parkway defies description, and it changes from season to season, month to month, even day to day, never looking the same.  One only needs to look at these hills to realize there is a God, a grand designer for our creation.  And of course, when I am driving or walking up there, in that rarified air, the verse that comes to mind is  from Psalm 121:  

"I lift up my eyes to the hills.  

From where does my help come?  

My help comes from the Lord, 

Who made heaven and earth" (Ps 121, 1-2)

Question asked, and answered, in two short verses.  

And while I would like to say that, as a Christian, I always look to the hills of the Lord for help, I have to admit I do not.  At times, I look up to the hills of my own choosing, my own imaginings, my own pride.  Life doesn't go the way I planned, my expectations are dashed or crushed, or a curve ball is thrown my way, and I resort to the hills of fear and anxiety and dread, turning over the situation in my head time and time again, examining every possible facet, inspecting it, looking at it under a microscope, trying to find a way out, an answer, some help, some peace of mind.  Friends, family, books, food, pastimes, distractions, music, the internet--I leave no stone unturned looking for answers, even rationalizing that all these resources are God-given, so they MUST contain the solution.  I talk about it, think about it, pray about it, cry about it, even try to ignore it in hopes it will pass me by, or miraculously disappear, when in reality, I am simply trying to change the facts to suit me, argue with the obvious, and in so doing, I miss the beauty of these hills God has placed before me, stupidly and stubbornly denying the glaring truth--that God made heaven and earth, and has designed all things, for His glory.  Not unlike the panorama of the mountains here, He designed our lives, our hills, our challenges, our joys.  As the creator, the master Designer, only He can help us.   He has a purpose for His design, and there is beauty in that purpose, even when the design involves pain and sickness and heartbreak that emanate from a diagnosis of cancer.  

Yes, Cancer.  The C word.  The death knell for hopes and dreams--cancer is evil, ugly, painful, unfathomably cruel.  So many times, when dealt the cancer card, God's children waste it, discard it, or try to ignore it exists, instead of playing the card and seeing where it leads.  Nearly everyone I know has been touched by cancer, either personally or in their family or their circle of friends.  My daughter had cancer when she was 12, I lost many friends to cancer, I have had scares that I had cancer, and most recently, my stepmom was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer.   My first, second, third, heck, even my fortieth impulse is to read about it, instead of reading about the Designer.  I turn to Google and WebMD and health websites, instead of opening my bible; I stay up late and worry, or medicate myself with food or wine or exercise, or even ignore it in hopes it will go away, instead of facing it and then giving it back to God.  And in so doing, I put my trust in other people, other things, other hopes, instead of seeking to understand how this design, yes, even this horrible disease, could be in God's plan.  I mean, God is love and truth and beauty and creation and good and knowledge, so how could something as horrible as cancer come from a perfect God?  And yeah, we could ask that question about anything that is ugly in this world, but for some reason, God's children have trouble believing that He created us, designed us, and purposed us to be His, and at the same time, not just that He allows cancer, but that it is part of His sovereign design.  That thought simply defies our feeble human logic.  

I recently found an article by John Piper, written the night before he was to undergo radical surgery for his own cancer, an article titled Don't waste your cancer"  Seriously?   Don't "waste" cancer?  What kind of cockamamie concept was this guy touting?  I mean, don't waste water, or money, or good food, or your time, but cancer???  So I read it, because I am struggling with how to deal with the cancer in my life right now--not just that of my stepmom, or the cured cancer of my daughter, but the heart-wrenching facts and figures and faces behind childhood cancer, a cause with which I am totally enmeshed as a volunteer for St Baldrick's Foundation.   Not only do I donate money to this nonprofit dedicated to funding more research for childhood cancer, I organize fundraisers and events and step way outside my comfort zone to raise awareness and money and hope for families affected by childhood cancer, rallying folks to shave their heads and donate money and time and services and their hearts for this worthwhile cause.  And in so doing, I get so wrapped up in all the activities and facts and figures and fundraising amounts and details of the cause, I fail to stop and think what God's design is in all this.  In other words, what is God's purpose in placing this cause at my feet, in my heart?  What else would God have me do, say, represent, in my role as fundraising organizer, as a mom of a child who had cancer, as a daughter of a parent who may die from cancer?  

I believe nothing is by chance, or random coincidence--and I firmly believe we are to bear witness to Christ in all we do:  our work, our chores, our interface with other people,  our play, and how we spend our time and energy and passions.  Nothing is happenstance or an accident...it is all part of God's perfect design.  Even cancer.  

And, no, it is not easy, not by any means--I cannot even count the times I forgot God or turned to other resources when Becky was so sick over 20 years ago.  Even now, after talking to my stepmom about her grave prognosis and treatment plan, I want to research the whys and wheres and hows about her cancer, and fight it, curse it, control it.  Instead of seeing it for what it is...a blip on the timeline of His plan.  The urge to do a google search, to cry about it, feel hopeless about it, even try to steer the ship, is so relentless, so incredibly strong,  I can feel my shoulders tighten, my breathing shorten, my neck tense, and my mind race.  

God has this, even this.  His design is beautiful. Even more beautiful than these hills that surround us.

Mother's Day Musings

Mother's Day.  Ugh.  Like I've said before, my least favorite holiday.  For me, Mother's Day has always been a fake holiday, an attempt to cover up the ugliness that was there the other 364 days of the year.  Buying cards and gifts and flowers to celebrate my mom was hypocritical and unnatural and made no sense to me whatsoever.  But my sisters and I, we played the game and shored up the facade of our seemingly happy, normal life, tiptoeing around the minefield day-to-day, and searching for the perfect card with the perfect verse that would defuse some of those mines, or at least buy us time off for good intentions.  And yes, I know the saying is "time off for good behavior" but we knew we never behaved well enough for that to happen. So we just papered our relationship with our mom with lies from Hallmark and American Greetings and the FTD flower delivery guy. Not just on Mother's Day, mind you, but finding the right card on Mother's Day was always the hardest challenge--just the right amount of cuteness, stirred up with the perfect artwork, preferably with lots of purple (her favorite color), and topped with whatever amount of praise and compliments the giver could stomach.  And not too early, and NEVER late. Oh, and NEVER make the mistake of sending the mother's day card intended for your stepmom, to your crazy real mom.  

I carried that baggage into my adulthood and my own life as a mother, where I practically exuded insecurity over my value and worth as a mother, and later a grandmother.  I have gotten better at accepting my life, especially the reality that my mother could not, or would not, love me, or perhaps love anyone else; but I still hate Mother's Day.  Probably always will.  Because it celebrates the idea of the perfect mother, who does not exist.  We place moms and motherhood on this ridiculously insurmountable pedestal, as if all moms, just because they have a uterus are somehow magically endowed with all the skills and instincts and feelings needed to nurture and raise healthy, well-balanced, and grateful offspring.  Even worse, we place this burden on the shoulders of girls and young women without providing any suitable preparation or instruction, except that handed down by, you guessed it, their mothers.  Society expects, no demands, perfection from mothers, and if a mother does not fit the mold designed by society, oh well that mother is cast out, cast aside, locked up, and hated as "unnatural" and "cold."  Hollywood, television, marketing and advertising campaigns, literature, music, art...all of it depicts motherhood as some sainted, heavenly assignation bestowed as soon as a woman is given a child to nurture.  Maternal instinct, mothering, Mother Nature, Mother Teresa...all of these conjure visions of women who can soothe any ache, calm any anxiety or fear, kiss away any pain.  Mothers are saints, mothers are holy, and mothers are off limits when it comes to the blame game.  Sure, we kid around about it, make mother-in-law jokes, complain about our mom, but God help the child who tells anyone in his world that his mother was anything but "a good mom."  

No one, especially a child, wants to believe a mother is capable of harming her offspring.  No one, especially a child, has the ability to fathom the pain and angst this will wreak in the child's life.  No one, especially the child, can grasp why he is not loved when his sibling is.  No one, especially the child, can understand that the fault lies not in them, but in the mother and the expectations of society.  So the child lives in a world of fear, of hate, of self-loathing, of guilt, of conflict avoidance, of seeking to please, and in an endless quest for someone to love her as she is.  And if that child speaks up, cries out, that child is not believed.  So the child continues to live in a world of lies, of paradoxes, of confusion and contradictions, wanting his mother to love him, because the world says that is what mothers do, all the while knowing that she does not.  But he has no way to prove that, because the world, society, even those in the child's family, say this is not possible. And the child grows up believing she is at fault, she is damaged, she deserves the punishment and the hatred and only if she would try harder, be nicer, act nicer, be prettier, be a good girl, do the right things...only then would her mother love her.  

I know...pretty dark stuff.  Remember this on the next Mother's Day--that having a functioning uterus, or being given the responsibility of nurturing anything, especially a small human being, does not automatically qualify one to nurture.  Bad mothering lies not just in the lap of the mothers--it belongs to all of us.  Mothers do not have some supernatural power or instinct that is born into them, or implanted in them when they give birth. Mothers need guidance and love and understanding and more guidance and more love.  Mothering is painful and difficult and joyful and excruciatingly sad and anxiety-filled and so many other things.  It is learning by trial and error, by practice makes imperfect, by example, and it is not easy.  It is wonderful, but it is definitely not easy.   Motherhood is one role assigned to some women, not all, and, like any other role in life, God has given us instructions to follow to be the kind of mother He designed us to be.