A Spring of Joy

My mom took the kids and me to Chick-fil-A last week. After consuming large quantities of chicken and fruit cups, we made our way into the playroom for a whopping good time that turned into a nightmare. There were three siblings in there with mine. Two boys and a girl whose parents sat outside not supervising their children and enjoying their milkshakes. I felt the rush of anger and self-righteousness as I watched their kids disobey every rule posted. Climbing where they shouldn’t be climbing, running, etc. It got worse when they began pushing, hitting, pinching, and screaming.

At one point I said to one boy who had brought Micah to tears by cracking him on the head, “Please don’t hit.”

His response? “I’ll hit him if I want to.”

Ooooooh. Mamma Bear got mad. Real mad. Choking back rage, I said sweetly (through gritted teeth), “Please do not hit MY children.”

He stopped hitting, but proceeded to block them from coming down the slide. His sister, on the other hand, decided to take a cue from her brothers and hit Audrey who looked up, confusion passing over her features. Once the shock and pain set in, the screaming commenced as well.

It got worse, and my frustration level grew to epic proportions. I’m gonna go give those parents a piece of my mind. I thought. Thank the Lord He kept me from acting impulsively, because there’s no telling what I would have said.

My kids finally begged to go elsewhere, so we packed up to go play with the trains at Barnes & Noble. As we were getting their shoes on, the one boy said, “Good. You’re leaving. Then we’ll have nobody to boss us.”

Oooooooh. I could feel the acidic taste of rage rising in my throat. I fumed inwardly, as my self-righteousness grew to join my frustration level in its epic proportions. I grumbled inwardly at those parents. Those kids were awful, horrible little beasts. Blah, blah, blah.

We were at Barnes & Noble 15 minutes, when my children began to implode. Grabbing trains from each other, pushing each other if they crossed the line into “my space”, overreacting and melting down… my balloon of pride began to deflate rapidly. We left B & N to head home, and one of my sons and I had a confrontation culminating in him sitting in a hard chair in the kitchen until he was ready to obey me. He was angry. My, was he angry! And like me, in his anger, he speaks without thinking. Hard words. Hurtful words. “Mommy, I don’t ever want to play with you ever again. Mommy, I don’t love you!”

I whirled and looked at that little face. The furrowed brow. The crossed arms. The image of those children and parents at Chick-fil-A floated before me. The pride at how I’m a much better parent than them had disappeared when I carried screaming children from B & N. Instead I felt pain… the pain of children whose parents don’t love them enough to train and discipline them. Realizing that it’s the ones that are most disruptive and disobedient that often need the most love. The humility of realizing that I don’t have all the answers when it comes to parenting even when I think I do.

I choked back the words I wanted to say, and I knelt next to him, tears stinging my eyes, feeling the pain as his words pricked my heart. “You know what, buddy? I love you, and nothing you say or do will ever change that.” He pushed me away weakly, but his head bowed. I reached out and hugged him, holding his stiff body in my arms. Seconds later he melted, arms wrapped tightly around me, head buried in my shoulder. We talked about his anger and his words. Within moments he was ready to obey, apologize, and move on.

And me? Well, I couldn’t get my kids in bed fast enough so we could move on to a new day. I was exhausted and stuffed with the hefty slice of humble pie I had just been served.

Could it really be one year?! This post was originally published on August 11, 2007.

Last night I held my kids a whole lot tighter before they went to bed. As I snuggled with Bear, I thought about how he climbs into bed with us every so often afraid of the monster in the shadows of his room. He’s had a lot of fear for a 3-year old… recurring nightmares about a mean girl dressed in white who comes up from the floor in his room. I’ve held him so many times and told him there’s no such thing as monsters and that even if there were, his Daddy is big and strong and he’d take care of that mean ol’ monster. Then he smiles contentedly and goes off to his room feeling safe for a while.

Yesterday I found out I have breast cancer. Some monsters are real.

Now I’m the one that doesn’t feel safe and fear lurks in every shadow. There are so many unknowns, so many questions, and so much heartache right now. I mostly think about my children and question who will take care of them? My God is so much more capable of taking care of them and He loves them infinitely more than I ever could. Yet they’re His gift to me, and I love being their mom. Then I realize that taking care of them and caring for them are two totally different things. Even if I’m too sick or too tired to pick them up, fix their supper, play with them, I’ll never stop caring for them…and they will know that.

Already, I’ve seen God working in so many of the details of this past week, and I’m thankful. I’m mostly thankful for my Brian–for his strength that has held me up when mine has given out, for his arms that hug so well, for his mouth whispering prayers and encouragement to me, for his unconditional love that has sat through hospital rooms and procedures when I know he hates being in that environment, for his faith and his ability to take it one day at a time, for his smile and laugh that is so contagious, for his heart for our kids and being with them through this, too. He, too, is my gift from God.

I am afraid. I am weak. I am tired. Yet I have peace… at least today I do. Tomorrow may be a different story, but I’m learning to take it one day at a time. Yes, my monster is very real and big and ugly and very scary, but my God is bigger and stronger and I’m clinging to that. And right now I have a beautiful little redheaded girl holding out a book to me, so I’m going to go care for my daughter. I do love being a mom!

Give thanks to the LORD, call on his name;
make known among the nations what he has done.
Sing to him, sing praise to him;
tell of all his wonderful acts.
Glory in his holy name;
let the hearts of those who seek the LORD rejoice.
Look to the LORD and his strength;
seek his face always.
Remember the wonders he has done…
(I Chronicles 16:8-12a)

We called them our second grandparents. Always ready with open arms to hug us, gum or candy to sneak to us, and smiles that welcomed any stranger, Cal & Lil exemplified the love of Christ. There are so many memories… the sound of Cal’s change jingling in his pocket, Lil’s laugh whenever he teased her, the taste of any of Lil’s cooking, and the sight of Cal patting his belly “complaining” that Lil was feeding him too much. There was Cal’s voice ringing loudly in prayer, and Lil’s sweet agreements to the hymns we sang. There was the constant encouragement that “God is with you.” They were special in so many ways. Holding hands at eighty is a rarity. And Cal and Lil were rare.

Four years ago, Cal went to be with His Jesus, and Lillian was never the same. The spark was gone. But Wednesday night, Lil joined her husband in the home where they had both longed to be for years. When Mom told me she had died, my breath left me for a moment. The grief overcame. Because of my cancer I hadn’t seen Lil in over a year, but she always asked Mom how I was, reminding her that she was praying for me. I longed for those open arms. To hug her again. To sit in her home and laugh and watch Cal tell stories. I ached in a way that was raw and real. But at the same time I rejoiced, because I knew she would never suffer again.

God is good, isn’t He?

The grief is great. The hope is so much greater.

Last week I took Ash to his daily swim lessons then home for a few before we climbed back in the van to his rescheduled dentist appointment. Yes. Rescheduled. Because I forgot his other one. Or rather forgot to remind Brian to take him because I would be at the doctor. This chemo brain is killing me!

We arrived at the dentist, and I opened the van door for Asher to get out. But he stood there. Minus his yellow flip-flops. “Um, Mom. I forgot to put on shoes.” You’ve got to be kidding me!

Fortunately the staff there is extremely laid back and they all got a huge laugh at our expense. One woman even told me how she kept shoes in her car for her kids because it happens to her all the time. I wanted to say, “But it doesn’t happen to me!” I’ve always been on top of things like that.

I’m a well-organized, multi-tasker. Or at least I was. I’ve always been the one to plan, schedule and make sure things happen in our home. The glue that holds our family together. Now I can’t remember what I’m supposed to do, where I’m supposed to be, or with whom I am supposed to be doing it. (Heavy sigh.) I’m the one with my meals planned a month in advance. My credit cards are alphabetized (Bri thinks this is hysterical, so please, feel free to laugh with him at my expense). My home is ordered and routine.

That was the old me. The pre-cancer me. The pre-chemo brain me. I’m having to let go of a lot these days and learn how to live a whole different lifestyle, and frankly, it is exhausting mentally, physically, emotionally and spiritually. I put my life on three calendars (yes, THREE) in hopes that one of them will remind me of my schedule. Then I go to my physical therapist’s and discover I’m an hour late. And–are you ready for this?–I had it written down at two different times on my calendars. So much for the several calendar idea.

I’m also learning to not make promises–“I’ll call you and we’ll get together”–unless I know there is a way I can follow through. Believe me when I tell you I’ve felt the pain of people not following through these last months. Promises made to me but not kept. I’ve felt the sting of words not acted upon. I don’t want to inflict that pain on others. I can’t remember full conversations I’ve had with Brian even though only 20 minutes have passed. I want to be a woman of my word and honor others. I’ve learned to tell people not to be afraid to remind me of things I forget. That I will fail them. And I’ve learned that it’s okay when people fail me.

I’m learning to let go and laugh. I’m learning to forgive. I’m learning to live. What’s hard is remembering how I used to “have it all together” and expecting my days to return to that normalcy. It’s not happening. I’m having to learn how to breathe all over again… flailing and coughing and kicking like a drowning person trying to not sink underwater.

I’m learning to run to Jesus every day… to cling to His promise that He is always with me. When I pass through the waters of my life they will not sweep over me. I will not drown. His hand is there grasping mine and holding me up.

I imagine He smiles, too, when He sees the image of little Asher standing barefoot in the dentist office. I am learning that He is in control.

I am learning, yes, but I have so much more to learn.

Oh, Jesus, may every moment, even these difficult ones, bring You glory!