Perspective

Why do parents and their kids react to phone calls (or any communication) with each other so differently? Whether they’re little or grown, when mom or dad calls out to their progeny, the children always seem absorbed in something infinitely more important. But when the kids holler for Mommy or Daddy, boom! The requested parent would answer or appear.  Strangely enough, when the children are grown, the tableau repeats itself: mom or dad drop in (if they live nearby) or call, or nowadays, text or try to video chat and don’t you know, little Billy or Zoe, all grown up, is just far too busy to spend any quality time with the person who gave them life. But the kids, all “grown up,” call at any hour of the day, their call is answered, or at least promptly returned if missed. 

That “person,” the parent, also happened to have people who gave her life: parents. Parents would call out to her when she was on the porch playing Barbies, and she’d either not hear them or completely ignore them. And when this person grew up, his parents would want to call or be called, visit or be visited. Sometimes it was a chore, an interruption to things he had planned or was doing. Sometimes he’d call, maybe even drive down to see them. She’d make it a habit to call her parents every Sunday at eight. True, though, when their parents would call them or want to visit outside of scheduled times, he or she would let out an audible sigh as if the inconvenience was just too much. Funny enough, they came to enjoy the calls, the visits, the “interruptions “ to their everyday life. 

 

And herein is my dilemma. My head tells me children are supposed to push away from their parents, to become their own person, to fulfill the purpose God has for each of them. I know perfectly well the umbilical cord was cut minutes after each of them was born, and nothing I do can reconnect it. But my heart? Oh, my heart hurts, and yearns to reach out to grasp every possible moment with each of my daughters, and with each of my granddaughters. I don’t want to be relegated to a corner of their lives—I want to be front and center. 

Let’s get real, though. Are my expectations for my relationship with my children in line with my relationship with my parents when they were alive? Did I really include my parents in every facet of my life or am I merely romanticizing our interactions? Wasn’t I just as wrapped up in my everyday minutia? 

Depends on the perspective, I guess.

God give me the peace and wisdom to balance all my relationships with those you have blessed me with.

Unraveling

Have you ever had a sweater or a dress with a loose thread? You notice it, pull on it, thinking it will just be a quick fix, and before you know it there is a quarter-sized hole in the sweater or the dress' hem has all come undone. That is how I feel right now...undone, unraveled, lost. Yes, I am a child of God, yes Jesus is my savior. But I am lost; the fabric of my life I took for granted is unraveling.  

A  month ago I had it all figured out (my life for the next decade). I would have this second surgery to fix a pesky hiatal hernia and to be able to eat without vomiting, then I would be home in two days, three max, and go on to tutor and be a nana and just, well, live my life. I wasn't even worried, and I am embarrassed to say I did not even pray before they put me to sleep. The last two things I remember? Alex crying as he was praying for me, something out of Jeremiah, and the anesthesiologist holding the mask way too firmly on my face; I became claustrophobic, panicked, and then finally prayed a quick prayer a split second before I went out. 

Hours, no, days, went by uncounted. Pain, trouble breathing, fear, and confusion were all accompanied by a never-ending parade of nurses, doctors, medical tests, hushed voices, and a hurried transfer to the ICU. What was happening? I was supposed to go home today. Where is Alex? Why can't I breathe? A doctor inserted a chest tube into my lungs. More CT scans. Suddenly I am in pre-op again, this time for emergency surgery. Again, hours, then days, then nights drift by unnoticed. At some point, I am transferred to another floor. I drift off, and wake up to my daughter, Mandy, putting lotion on my face. How did she get here from Malaysia? More days pass, hours of sameness broken only by the incessant beeps of the IV pump and the ongoing (and welcome) ministrations of nurses and doctors. Weeks go by until I am finally allowed to go home. Home. What a wonderful word. Everything will be ok, it will all be better, I will be home soon. The unraveling would stop--I would get my life back.

Oh, I am such a silly, silly human. Home for nearly four weeks already, the unraveling continues. The world continues to rotate on its axis without me--laundry, scheduling, cleaning, tutoring, taking care of chickens, paying the bills, and walking the dogs. I am no longer the nurturer, the caregiver; instead, I am dependent on others to take care of me. And the more I resist, the more miserable I feel; despite all my efforts, I could not rewind that yarn back into the ball that was my previous life (note the arrogance?). What I perceived as a disaster, as a loss of how things used to be, is in actuality a blessing, as God humbles me and lays out His plan for me.  Proverbs 16:9 says: “The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps."

Yes, the fabric of my life unraveled this year, as it has many times before. But God continues to weave a more perfect tapestry for my life with His plans, taking my imperfections and errant stitches and perfecting me.

Oh, Lord, teach me and show me your ways.

"Come now, you who say, ‘Today or tomorrow we will go into such and such a town and spend a year there and trade and make a profit’ — yet you do not know what tomorrow will bring. What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes. Instead you ought to say”  (James 4:13-15 ESV)