Wait...what was that?

Have you ever felt so wronged that you carried the memory of that wrong around with you for days, weeks, even months, and all that time you formulated in your head the perfect conversation, the ideal confrontation, and role played exactly how you'd face the wrongdoer, confront them, say wise and pithy things to the person, with just the right amount of sarcasm and sardonic wit?  And the longer you nursed the grudge and relived the wrongdoing you suffered, telling it over and over to anyone and everyone within earshot about your abuse, the more vivid the hurt became and the madder you got?  Until you were just bursting with righteous anger and indignation?  And you just KNEW that as soon as the opportunity presented itself, your well-rehearsed speech would come pouring out, completely crushing the wrongdoer, leaving her in a crumpled, shattered, shivering heap of apologies and remorse?  Oh how satisfying that encounter would be!  You were wronged!  You deserve an apology, fairness, even revenge!  And even though you could hate the person, and feel completely justified in that hate and anger, you choose the high road, you choose to forgive, and you gallantly bestow your mercy on the undeserving wretch because, after all, that is what Christians do!  Oh how the wretch will be so grateful, how proud God will be of His progeny for bestowing forgiveness on someone who has hurt you so deeply.  

The moment presents itself, you are facing her, she cannot escape, and you gird your loins for the confrontation that is imminent.  You open your mouth, you say a quick prayer, and the words come tumbling out, hesitant and stuttering at first, then, as you gather assurance and confidence, the words pour out of you, along with your emotions, even tears.  You are surprised at your composure and your compassion for the person sitting across from you.  She looks at you, blinks away tears, and then takes your hands in her hands, and thanks you.  And then, she forgives you.

Wait..what?

I asked for forgiveness?  From the person I have been fuming against for eighteen months?  How in the blue blazes did that just happen?  What planet am I on?  Am I hallucinating?  Did I enter some Mission Impossible scene and get a chip put in my brain and some strange person is controlling what I say without me knowing it?  

Uh, no.  None of the above.  I honestly and seriously have been carrying this bitterness in my heart toward someone I had never met, full of bitterness and resentment and anger over deeds done by others, and I lumped her into the group of evildoers simply as a result of guilt by association.  This grudge got bigger and bigger and took up so much room in my soul and my heart that it grew a life of its own.  I knew (or thought I knew) the only way to clear the playing field and put that grudge out of my life forever would be this:  I would have to face her, and I would magnanimously forgive her.  Yes, that would do it.  Then I could move on because she would know that I knew that she was wrong, but I forgave her anyway.  I had prayed about every facet of this situation for months; I begged for resolution, for an opportunity to present itself for me to fix this. The more I prayed, the more assured I became, confident God could use me to show that person how she was wrong and I had been wronged.  

God had other plans, which is always a good thing.  His plan? For the Holy Spirit to convict me of my wrongdoing, my pride, my arrogance, my self-righteous, and my mean spiritedness.  Yes, some people had wronged me, hurt me, sinned against me, but I had wrongfully laid the blame on the wrong person.  I had intimated impropriety, hinted at conspiracies, and even filed formal complaints.  And when I found myself in front of the person I had dreaded seeing for so long, I knew it was time to put this thing to rest.  Fortunately, putting it to rest meant for me to admit my wrongdoing, to ask for forgiveness for MY sins, my ill feelings.  

I had to remove that board out of my eye, before pointing out a splinter in her eye.  Funny, after I removed that board from my eye, I couldn't see anything wrong with her.  Hmmm....maybe the splinter I thought I saw was really just an illusion.

For, as Jesus said, 

"If your brother or sister has something against you … First go and be reconciled to them” (Matthew 5:23-24).

Tres Anos

Tres anos...that is what Grandma said to me tonight after dinner.  Uno, dos, tres...I am three years old now.  Well, not officially--Mommy says my birthday is really in two days, but I don't care if we had it on the wrong day because I got presents and ice cream and a balloon.  And we had a party at a Mexican restaurant where I got a quesadilla and lots of chips.  

Today started out pretty fun--I woke up and went into Mommy's bed and told her to wake up, wake up, and she said it was too early, but I wanted to come upstairs anyway to see Grandpa and go pee pee on the potty.  So Mommy said it was okay and I climbed up the steps holding the railing like a big girl.  Then I peed, and watched a little show; then I got into my chair and had some cereal that was all different colors, some milk, and a pear. Of course I had to pee again while I was in my chair so Grandma got me out, and then put me back after I peed.  After I finished eating, everyone got dressed for church except Uncle David and Mommy, because they were not feeling very good.  I think they are sick with the snotty nose thing I have.  

Next we went to church--just me and Grandpa and Grandma, and we got there in time for me to go in a room with other kids and learn about being kind.  The teacher helped me draw a heart, and then gave all the kids little bags with candy and lollipops in them.  When that was over, I went to the potty with Grandma, and then we went into the big room with lots of chairs and music.  I ate some snacks and pretended I was singing songs with the people and Grandma took me potty two more times, even though I did not have to go at all.  (I think she was nervous because I was wearing  my rainbow panties instead of a pull up.)  But when the music stopped Mr. Andy got up to talk and I was too tired so me and Grandma went to the playroom by ourselves.  Grandma can hear the talking in there, and I can play without getting in trouble.   We picked up, picked up, put away, then I went back to the big room and ran around with the other kids for a while.  I had so much fun!  But I had my fun, and now it was done, so I went home and pooped in the potty and then took a nap.  I think everyone else took naps too, because it took someone a while to come get me when I hollered.  

After nap, there were a whole bunch of presents on the big table in the living room, and I got to open them all.  All of them were just for me!  I got presents from Mommy and Daddy and Grandpa and even a big bag of presents from Teppie!  My favorite was the princess crayons.  But there was even more fun and surprises coming.  We all got in our car except Grandma--she went somewhere in her car--and we drove to our Mexican restaurant where the people are so so nice.  After we were there for a little bit, I saw Grandma coming in and she was holding a balloon!  A butterfly balloon!  It was so so pretty.  Then we had yummy food, and after I ate most of my dinner the people who make the food came out carrying a giant bowl of ice cream with chocolate syrup and whipped cream and a candle on top, plus some funny hats for me, Uncle David, and Grandpa to wear.  They all sang Happy Birthday to me, and I got to eat all the ice cream myself. Mommy took my dress off because I was messy, so I stood up and ate it and got ice cream on my belly and my arm and all over the table.  It was delicious.  Grandma had to get a warm rag to clean me off, and then we went home.  

When I got home I peed and pooped again from all that ice cream and chocolate, and played with my balloon, and then Mommy had to clean out  my nose...it was full of snot and boogers and ice cream.  I cried and Grandpa held my legs so I couldn't kick Mommy.  I know I needed it, but I do not like it at all.  Mommy gave me medicine and put me in my pink PJs with the little girl Yeti on them.  Now I am going to sleep because it was a long and very happy day.  

The only thing that would make it better is if my daddy was here.  I miss him.  But he would be so proud of me for eating all that ice cream!

Don't scratch that itch!

Have you ever wanted to do something so badly, something unhealthy or wrong, and even though you knew you'd hate yourself for doing it, you just do it anyway?  And for one brief moment, you enjoy the act.  But then, after you do it, you feel ashamed, and horrible, and try to hide it.  Because the consequences of that action are there, staring at you, reminding you of your lack of self-control.  Then, just when the sting of the action starts to fade, you remember how good it felt initially.  That brief moment when you thought, maybe just this once it'd be okay, no one will know, I will be able to stop before it's too late.  But you can't.   And on and on, in a vicious circle, you go. Repeating the same senseless action over and over, and you wish it would stop, that you could go back to before it started?

About a year ago I developed a severely itchy rash on one of my forearms, so itchy that I would scratch it, subconsciously, until it bled.  Sometimes, I would inadvertently rip chunks of skin off my arm, and other times I would just scratch it lightly. Regardless of how hard or how long I scratched, within seconds my arm would be covered with dark purple, angry bruises.  Actually, not bruises--ruptured blood vessels.  Sometimes I'd have the rash on my legs, or other areas, but mostly it is on my arms.  I have dealt with this rash off and on for over a year, and no one really knows what it is.  I do know it is unbearably itchy, and it seems to itch even more after the skin has cleared up.  When I scratch it, it feels good, then it itches again, then I scratch it again.  Dr. Google says it's called the itch-scratch-itch cycle.   Whatever it is, my skin is changing--it has gotten thicker and darker and  pitted with scars.   And despite me being extremely self-conscious about how it looks, the itch is so strong, and it feels sooooo good to scratch it, I just cave.  And within seconds, my arm is ugly again.  And it still itches.  I have tried wearing long sleeves, taping thick gauze over it, applying oils and creams, concealing it with makeup, and wrapping ice packs over it, to no avail.  I've come to the conclusion I will have to get used to having ugly arms, and when people gasp and say "what did you do to your arm?!," I do my best to just laugh it off, saying I burned it, bumped it, had a biopsy, and then blithely change the subject.  

Tonight I was looking at my arms while taking a bath; they look horrible.  This month it's the left arm  that has blotchy purple areas and scabs on it.  In fact, I just scratched it again, and guaranteed myself at least another week before it "clears."  On my right arm there is a noticeably dark, leathery looking area over the entire forearm, and no matter how much lotion I put on it, the skin won't go back to normal.  And in that moment, it hit me: my faults and weaknesses (ahem, my sins) are like that.  It starts innocently enough, and it even feels good (for a moment), and seems harmless (at first), and then I see the ugly result of my weakness, my sin, staring at me, reminding me, even mocking me.  And just when the memory of that sin begins to fade, a little prick, a little twinge, reminds me of how satisfying it was to give in, even for a moment.  And no matter what I do, or how I try to avoid it, I cannot...the urge is too strong.  Again, ugly scars and bruises, and I do my best to hide them from people I see, to laugh them off, make up some excuse, rationalize why I did what I did.  And I see myself changing, the sin stays there, under my skin, daring me to give in.  But I know it is foolhardy and dangerous to scratch that itch, because scratching does not make the itching go away...it just makes it itch all the more.  

Strange analogy, I know.  

But reassuring just the same.  Because even though my skin condition may never go away,  as long as I lean on Christ, I can fight the urge to sin.  Yeah, I may die with ugly, scarred arms, but (and pardon the leap here):

"We grow weary in our present bodies, and we long to put on our heavenly bodies like new clothing...While we live in these earthly bodies, we groan and sign...we want to put on our new bodies so that these dying bodies will be swallowed up by life" 2 Cor 5: 2, 4

Meanwhile, I just keep telling myself "DON'T SCRATCH THAT ITCH!"

Hey, my nose isn't working!

The other night when I was sitting on Grandpa's lap and he was reading me a book, I heard a funny sound:  when I breathed in, my nose whistled!  That was pretty funny.  Mommy looked in my nose and said I did not have any big boogers, though, so when Grandpa finished the story he and Mommy put me to bed.  I went right to sleep, and I woke up because I had to go potty.  I called, "Mommy, Mommy, I have to go potty!  I have to pee!  Mommeeeeeeeeee!"  She finally came, but it was too late, so she just changed me and then I slept with her in her giant bed.  But every time I put my fingers in my mouth like I always do when I get sleepy, it was hard to breathe, so I woke up a lot.  Mommy said I woke up too early, and tried to make me go back to sleep, but it wasn't working, so we got up and came upstairs to play.  Then Mommy got out a thermometer to give me a check-up, because she said I was very hot (which is silly because I felt really cold).  But she could not get the dumb thing to work, so she woke up Grandma, who came out and did my checkup in my ear, and that is when we found out I had a fever; Grandma said it was one o two point five.  Mommy was a little scared but Grandma said don't worry she will be okay.  

The whole rest of the day was pajama day for the big people, and play time for me.  Mommy and Grandma took my tempachure all the time, and had me drink drink drink.  This made me have to go potty...a lot...but that was fine with me because every time I peed on the potty, Grandma would give me M&Ms.  I love Ms...especially the black ones.  We watched movies and colored and played and had snacks like carrots and cucumbers and celery (all my snacks began with the letter C), and I took naps and cuddled and got medicine and even took a bath.  But my fever kept coming back, and my nose was really red and just not working really good, even with the medicine.  I went to bed but I could not sleep, and I woke up and cried, like "wah, wah, wah" and Grandma let me watch a dinosaur movie with her and she put smell good oils on my feet and on her hand and let me smell it.  So, my nose can smell things, but it does not let a lot of air in so I have to breathe through my mouth.  

When the movie was over, Mommy and Grandma said it was time for sleep because I needed my rest but I did not want to sleep I just wanted to play and go potty on my big girl potty and cuddle and read books and talk to Daddy and not be sick anymore and get all better like Daddy says to.  I was crying and a lot of stuff was coming out of my nose.  Mommy put me to bed in her big bed, Grandma put some oils in a little light that puts smell good mist in the air, and now, here I am, trying to sleep.  It is not easy, you know, sleeping with a nose that does not work good.   Have you ever had that happen to you?  Did your Mommy give you medicine?  Did you get better?  Did your nose start working again?  I hope my nose is working better soon, and that my fever will go away and not come back.

Because I want to go outside and go to school like a big girl.  

Leaving it all behind

What did Jesus mean when he said it was hard for the rich young man to enter heaven? That he must be willing to leave everything...family and wealth and possessions?   That it’d be easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle? I mean, seriously, a camel?  Now that is a very descriptive word picture.  A camel, humps and all, fitting through a tiny, tiny slot.  Jesus really wanted to get his point ( no pun intended) across to those rascally disciples of His.  They were dumbfounded because here’s this upstanding young man who has been blessed with riches and family, so therefore, all those blessings must mean he was in good graces with God, right?  

Wrong.  Earthly possessions, good fortune, a loving family, good health—all those are wonderful.  But they are not indicative of our standing with God. Because all have sinned.  And we are all wretched and lost and ugly were it not for His Son’s holy sacrifice.  That was Jesus’ point.  And Peter’s followup question, “yeah but we left it all for you” seems a bit presumptuous at first blush, but I think Peter, good ol doubting Peter, just wanted that little bit of reassurance.  That his soul was safe.  

So, great—the disciples are in, the rich guy is out, so what does that mean to me?   In the eyes of the world I’m fairly rich—steady income, a nice home, good health, a beautiful family—does that mean my only ticket to heaven is to leave it all?  Hate my family, abandon my possessions, give away my IRA, and move to Zimbabwe to live in filth with only one set of clothes?   Not exactly.  What I’ve discovered over the past few years is the tighter I hold on to things, and the more I set my family and successes above my love for God, and the more I attribute all my good fortune to my own efforts, well, all that just puts God in the passenger seat, or even the back seat.  I love my husband.  I adore my grandchildren. And I am so thankful we are not struggling day to day.  And yes I’ve felt more than a twinge of pride when I got promoted or someone compliments my hair or my kids.  I used to hold on to those things so tightly, and felt my happiness and my very will to live were dependent on relationships and things.  God was, I’m embarrassed to say, not the source of happiness or  the center of my life.  Not even a close second.  

And inside, I was miserable.  The harder I tried to hold on to thing-centered happiness, the more I felt it slipping away.  Same for relationships.  I found myself unable to be thankful, happy, or even at peace.  I cried.  A lot.  Then, three  years ago , God broke me—emotionally, physically, and spiritually--and suddenly it was crystal clear.    As broken as I was, I was finally whole. My world was falling apart, but I was all together.  Because I finally realized my worth lay not in what I had or who loved me or how I felt.  No, my worth lay in leaning completely on Jesus.  And I “left” everything—daughters, grandkids, financial security, even mental wellbeing—for the sake of being Christ’s.  

Not a bad trade off.  

Not at all 

S is for School, P is for Potty

Right after Daddy left to go work far, far away, I started at a different school. This one is inside and there are lots of rooms with different sized kids in each one. There’s a baby room and a little kids room and a big kid room and even a playground.  My teacher is so nice and I really like this little boy; his name is Baylee, like Aunt Teppies doggie.  We sing and color and eat and play and learn things.  I like school.  I even have my own backpack and mommy put up hooks at Grandma’s house so I can hang it up when I get home.  I go to school three days a week, and even though I miss Mommy I really really really like it.  They even have a potty that is just the right size!   That’s important, you know.  Little kids need a little potty. 

And since I’m telling you about the potty at school, I should pwobly tell you ‘bout potty time at home.  All the big people are very serious about this potty thing—my little potty is in the living room and Mommy went to Walmart and bought me about 100 big girl panties, and even a kitty kat timer that rings when it’s time to sit and pee. I want to just play and play and not stop but Mommy says I need to pee so I try and push it out.  Maybe soon I’ll know when I have to go and then I won’t need the kitty timer.  The good news though is I can feel the poop coming and I make it to the potty.  I get stickers and candy and lots of clapping when I do that.  Grownups are crazy like that.  They get awfully excited about poop.   I wonder if they get happy when they poop.  Hmmm. 

Besides school and potty, I’ve learned the letter C is for crafts.  Mommy went shopping three times already for supplies—even though Grandma has lots of stuff at her house, Mommy had to get more.  I think she just really loves to shop.  But I’m glad because she bought my favorite—googlie eyes!  Anyway, we made rainbows with cereal and we made turtles and caterpillars out of egg cartons.    We made Valentine’s Day cards, too — to send to Daddy and Liz and Grandma and Grandpa and other friends.  I got to paint and eat some of the rainbow cereal and I got all messy.  Good thing I was only wearing a pull-up...and that it was bath night.  (Actually, Daddy, bath nights are just about any night now...I get dirty a lot).

So, that is my alphabet practice for the week.  There are lots more letters, I know, but Mommy is calling me and telling me it is time to go potty again...yikes!  Good night, googly eyed caterpillar!

Growing into Grand-motherhood

Lydia and Nana, January 2010

Nine years ago our first grandchild (albeit not my oldest grandchild) was born.   Lydia Anne Stock, weighing in at a petite 6lbs 4oz, entered our world, and our lives have not been the same since.   As I often tell her, she made me a Nana—and oh what a challenging growth experience that has been!  Now I have six grandchildren, and have gotten a lot better at this Nana/Grandma thing.  So if you’re about to meet your first grandchild, or if you aspire to be a Nana or Mimi or Grandma some day, this is for you in hopes I can spare you some pain and embarrassment.  So listen up.  Learn from my craziness. And for all you veteran grandparents out there, go ahead and nod knowingly...I am sure my oldest daughter is.

1.  Being a grandmother is not a competition.  While you may be your daughter's (or son's) only mother, more than likely you are NOT the only grandmother.  Each parent of this precious baby has parents, and perhaps even stepparents, and even dear, close friends, all of whom may be considered as another grandma simply because of the relationship that person held with your child growing up.  Having more than one grandma does not dilute your standing.  You do not have to prove you are a "better" grandma, or spend more money, bake better cookies, or even spend more time with your grandchild to let them know you love her.  And she will love you.  Not more, not less, just different.  

2.  Before you give advice, think twice.  And then bite your tongue, and don't give it anyway.  No passive aggressive comments, no eye rolling, heavy sighs, gasps of shock, or shaking of the head.  While you may have put your baby in a rickety crib with a drop down side, with a pillow and a blanket, and no baby monitor or video camera or white noise maker, things have changed.  Trust your daughter to take care of her precious baby.  

3.  This is not the 80s. Okay, yes, I bathed my kids in my kitchen sink until they could sit up on their own.  And I used cloth diapers with (gulp!) safety pins, and made my own baby food without sterilizing the blender, and I didn't have fancy car seats that can withstand a head-on collision at 65mph.  I put sugar in my kids' bottles, I did not cut hot dog slices in half, and I did not have the patience of installing child guards on cabinets or door knobs.  I had to make do with what was available 30 years ago, and what I could afford.  Did my kids survive?  Yes.  But the stuff moms have at their disposal now?  Amazing.  And admit it...you wish you had all this cool shit when your kids were babies!  Except the diaper genie.

4.  Discipline and rules are the parents' domain.  Respect your grandchild's parents' wishes, desires, and schedules.  Do not interfere with their rule enforcement, or criticize their parenting skills, unless you are asked for advice.  And, if that happens, see rule 2.

5.  Do not embarrass the parents.  No matter how funny the story, or how pertinent it may be to the current situation, do not share memories of your child's misbehavior, mistakes, or failures.  Period.  Build up the parents in the eyes of the grandchild.  They do not need to hear how their Mommy or Daddy almost burned the house down or wrecked the car.

6. There IS such a thing as too many sweets.  While there is no recommended daily allowance for chocolate, there should be.  And I know people equate "grandma" with "spoiling," and we grandmas have that stereotype hanging over our heads--you know, the one who is always baking and giving children cookies for breakfast and candy for lunch and letting the children run the house.  Non-grandparents expect that behavior--heck, even our children expect it.  Don't fall into this trap.  Be smart.  

7.  No strings attached.  Whether it is toys, blankets, or clothes, a gift is a gift is a gift.  You will be showering your new grandchild with toys, adorable outfits, hand-knit afghans, and giant teddy bears...but just because you absolutely love that frilly red dress with polka dots and a white pinafore does not mean her parents will feel the same.  And the solid wood play kitchen, complete with range, dishwasher, refrigerator, table and chairs, and a place setting for 8 may have spoken to you in the toy store or the catalog, but if your son lives in an 800 square foot apartment, they will not have anywhere to put it.  So, if your gifts mysteriously disappear, or show up on a Facebook yard sale site, don't fall to pieces.  

8.  Grandchildren do not assign feelings to toys, or clothes.  Just because the baby's favorite stuffed animal is from your ex-husband,  or the little Fisher Price bus from "the other grandma" is all your grandson wants to play with, does not mean they like you any less.  The frequency with which little Emma wears an outfit or hugs a dolly is not indicative of the level of love they feel for you.  See rule #1.

9.  Facebook is not the place to _______ (fill in the blank).  Yes, it is the ideal venue to stay abreast of baby's firsts, view priceless little videos of the baby drooling, crawling, cooing, etc..  And all grandmas love seeing the newest photos and posts, especially if they do not live close to their grandchild.  But, for the sake of the family, do not, I repeat, do NOT, make any snide comments about the baby's hair, or ask why she's not dressed in that Christmas sleeper you bought, or get all bent out of shape if there happens to be more photos/mentions of people other than yourself. Look at the photos, and move on.  See rule #1. Again.

And, finally,

10.  Be yourself.  Love them.  Unconditionally.  That, my friends, is what your grandchildren will remember.