It was just a box. A small blue box. The soldier handing it to me had just returned from eighteen months in Afghanistan. At twenty-four, he still had the face of a boy, but the weariness showed in his eyes.
I met Nathan between deployments, while he was at Fort Campbell recovering from injuries caused by a roadside bomb. He had survived the blast, while others who were with him didn’t. He showed up at a dinner our church hosted for the military, and kept coming back. Based on the extent of his injuries, I thought his days in battle were over. But instead, the army gave him time to recover and sent him back.
During his next deployment to Afghanistan, I stayed in touch with him through email. He is the age of my stepson, and I developed a soft spot for this young man who loved God and his country with such a passion. I took every opportunity to say thank you, especially on the holidays.
I don’t know what he went through during that deployment. I know he was wounded again, not once, but twice. I know he had to make some hard choices, the kind of decisions that stay with you long after your tour of duty is over and you’ve returned home.
After Nathan got back from Afghanistan, he brought the small box with him to church. He handed it to me, and I took it, not knowing what was inside. When I opened the hinged lid, I saw a medal suspended from a red, white, and blue ribbon. It was a Bronze Star, which is given to honor bravery in battle.
I thanked him for showing it to me, closed the lid, and handed it back to him. He wouldn’t take it. It was for me, he said. He wanted me to have it.
I tried very hard to make him understand that I couldn’t keep the medal. I didn’t deserve such a precious gift. I hadn’t fought for it. I hadn’t made the sacrifices he had made. He had earned it, not me.
Nathan wouldn’t take no for an answer, and I finally relented. His Bronze Star sits in a place of honor in my home. Since Nathan left two weeks ago for another tour of duty in Afghanistan, the medal reminds me to pray for him.
Nathan’s Bronze Star has become more than a symbol of patriotism and sacrifice. It has unlocked a door that for years has kept me from accepting God’s love.
I was saved when I was five years old. I know that’s young. I don’t remember the sermon that was preached that Sunday night, but I know that whatever it was, God used it to change my heart. I walked out of the church almost in a daze, too emotional to speak. My parents joined me, and then the pastor, convinced that someone had said or done something to hurt me. At five, I didn’t even have the vocabulary to explain what I was feeling. I finally managed to choke out, “I just love Jesus.”
As a child, my faith was unwavering. I knew that God loved me, no question about it, and I trusted him to be there in all situations. But life happens. My father died. My mother married someone who became abusive. Over time, I started to see myself as someone who wasn’t very high on God’s priority list.
So here I was, a woman who desperately needed to feel God’s love. I didn’t doubt it was there, but I couldn’t get past my unworthiness and just accept it. So I worked for it. Need a teacher for Sunday school? I’ll do it. Looking for an assistant director for the Christmas program? Sign me up. Need someone to serve meals for 100 people every Friday night? I’ll be there.
I couldn’t say no. I just kept waiting for that one act of service that would impress God enough to love me.
After I received the medal from Nathan, I finally started realizing the difference between getting and receiving. Getting means you have to work for something to earn it. Getting involves effort on my part, effort that may or may not be enough.
Receiving is just that — receiving. There’s no work or argument. There’s no worrying that whatever it is I’ve received will be taken away, based on something I may or may not do.
I hadn’t earned that Bronze Star. But I hadn’t earned God’s love, either. That’s the amazing thing about God’s love. God gives it for free. Jesus did the suffering. He made the sacrifice. All I had to do — all any of us have to do — is to receive it. God loves us, just because he created us. I could argue with him until the end of time, but it wouldn’t take away his love.
That’s taking a while to process. I’ve been struggling to earn something I already have.
Over the holidays the Sunday school class I teach planned a surprise Christmas party for me and my husband. At first the old feelings of being unworthy crept in. I should have done this for them, not the other way around.
But then I made the decision to just receive what they were giving me. I opened gifts. I ate too much, and I enjoyed myself. It was then that I noticed something interesting on the faces of the class members: They were filled with joy. My receiving made them happy. Can’t you just picture God’s joy when we accept his love and finally start seeing ourselves as he sees us?
I am loved. When I’m afraid, I am loved. When I have doubts, I am loved. When troubled times roll in, and I don’t know when they’ll end, I don’t have to handle things all on my own. I am loved, and that’s enough.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Handball Hell
It was the spring of 1981, my freshman year in college. Back then you had to have three physical education credits. Physical education has never been my favorite thing, so I vowed to make it easy on myself. My first credit was bowling. I didn’t learn much, but I had fun.
My second PE credit was paddleball, which is similar to racquetball, but played with a paddle. Again, this wasn’t too difficult. I like racquetball, so I knew it couldn’t be too hard. I got to take it with a couple of friends, and the coach who taught it didn’t ask for much. With the schedule he set up, each person only had to play about once every other week. It was another easy “B.”
Then came my third credit. For this I chose handball. Picture racquetball without the racquet. How much harder could it be, I thought. Another easy “B.” I could even apply myself a little and maybe pull off an “A.” My friends and I chatted happily as we walked across campus to our first handball class.
That’s where the good times ended. We didn’t know what was waiting for us in that gymnasium: Coach Combs.
Coach Combs had a bad comb-over and an even worse attitude. In his prime, he might have been an athlete, but by then his playing days were long gone. Muscle had turned to fat, and he struggled to keep his pants pulled up over his stomach. Not once did he step onto the racquetball court. His teaching style was to pair two girls with two guys and send them onto the court to figure it out for themselves. He would watch with the rest of the class from the viewing area above.
Something about stepping onto that court turned every male in the class into brutal, take-no-prisoners, handball machines. It must have been testosterone, because it never affected the girls, just the guys. Their eyes would glaze over, and the battle would begin. Handballs would whiz by so fast, they would just be a blur. While the guys worked the court, diving for shots and bouncing off walls, the girls would cower in the corners, trying not to get hit. (Did I mention how it feels to get hit by a handball traveling at the speed of light? It hurts. A lot.) Coach would pass judgment from above, hurling insults and forcing the girls to get out of the corners and into the game.
When the game would end, we would drag ourselves up the stairs to join the class and Coach Combs. Our bodies would be soaked in sweat and stinging from the numerous hits we’d taken from the ball. But it wasn’t over. For me, the worst was yet to come. That’s when Coach would make the class run laps. Not walk. Not jog. Coach Combs wanted a full-out run all the way around the top level of the gymnasium. Sometimes it would be four laps, sometimes six, depending on his mood. My friends and I would always be at the rear, doing our best to keep up. Of course, Coach never ran with us.
Before the running began, Coach would single out one person to be the leader. No one could pass the leader, but everyone had to keep up with him. And wouldn’t you know it, the day came when Coach pointed at me and said, “You’re the leader!” Even though I hated running, I was too afraid of Coach to argue. So off I went.
The longer I ran, the harder it got. All I could do was keep putting one foot in front of the other. If I fall down, I wondered, since I’m the leader, will everyone else have to fall down too? Or will that give them permission to pass me and trample my body into the floor? Would my own friends, who were nowhere to be seen, leave their shoeprints on my backside, like everyone else? It’s funny the things that go through your mind when you’re almost certain you’re seconds from death.
Here’s where the hero enters the story. Bill Swint. I didn’t really know Bill Swint. He was just another student in the class. But unlike me, he was lean. He had a body made for running. The entire time we ran, Bill Swint never left my side.
Lap by lap, Bill literally willed me to keep going. Even over the sound of my own ragged breathing, I kept hearing Bill’s voice: “You can do it. Keep going. You can do it.” One lap at a time, with Bill beside me, I finished. After all four laps, I was still standing, with my dignity still somewhat intact.
It’s been nearly thirty years, but I haven’t forgotten Coach Combs and Bill Swint. One treated everyone with intimidation and disrespect. The other did the opposite. Both men have surely forgotten my name, but I remember theirs.
I ran into Coach Combs a few weeks after that quarter ended. We were at a local Mexican restaurant frequented by college students, mostly because of its good food and cheap beer. For the first time, I saw Coach happy and relaxed. He greeted me and my friends enthusiastically, with a big smile and a hug. I’m guessing it had less to do with any genuine affection and more to do with all the empty beer mugs stacked in front of him. Either way, it was too little, too late.
On the other hand, I don’t remember ever seeing Bill Swint again. I looked for his name on facebook a few weeks ago. There are three or four listed there, and I peered into their faces, trying to recognize that college boy from long ago. I’m not sure if I ever said thank you. I’d like to. I’d like him to know that the out-of-shape girl in his handball class remembers what he did for her, and she appreciates it.
My second PE credit was paddleball, which is similar to racquetball, but played with a paddle. Again, this wasn’t too difficult. I like racquetball, so I knew it couldn’t be too hard. I got to take it with a couple of friends, and the coach who taught it didn’t ask for much. With the schedule he set up, each person only had to play about once every other week. It was another easy “B.”
Then came my third credit. For this I chose handball. Picture racquetball without the racquet. How much harder could it be, I thought. Another easy “B.” I could even apply myself a little and maybe pull off an “A.” My friends and I chatted happily as we walked across campus to our first handball class.
That’s where the good times ended. We didn’t know what was waiting for us in that gymnasium: Coach Combs.
Coach Combs had a bad comb-over and an even worse attitude. In his prime, he might have been an athlete, but by then his playing days were long gone. Muscle had turned to fat, and he struggled to keep his pants pulled up over his stomach. Not once did he step onto the racquetball court. His teaching style was to pair two girls with two guys and send them onto the court to figure it out for themselves. He would watch with the rest of the class from the viewing area above.
Something about stepping onto that court turned every male in the class into brutal, take-no-prisoners, handball machines. It must have been testosterone, because it never affected the girls, just the guys. Their eyes would glaze over, and the battle would begin. Handballs would whiz by so fast, they would just be a blur. While the guys worked the court, diving for shots and bouncing off walls, the girls would cower in the corners, trying not to get hit. (Did I mention how it feels to get hit by a handball traveling at the speed of light? It hurts. A lot.) Coach would pass judgment from above, hurling insults and forcing the girls to get out of the corners and into the game.
When the game would end, we would drag ourselves up the stairs to join the class and Coach Combs. Our bodies would be soaked in sweat and stinging from the numerous hits we’d taken from the ball. But it wasn’t over. For me, the worst was yet to come. That’s when Coach would make the class run laps. Not walk. Not jog. Coach Combs wanted a full-out run all the way around the top level of the gymnasium. Sometimes it would be four laps, sometimes six, depending on his mood. My friends and I would always be at the rear, doing our best to keep up. Of course, Coach never ran with us.
Before the running began, Coach would single out one person to be the leader. No one could pass the leader, but everyone had to keep up with him. And wouldn’t you know it, the day came when Coach pointed at me and said, “You’re the leader!” Even though I hated running, I was too afraid of Coach to argue. So off I went.
The longer I ran, the harder it got. All I could do was keep putting one foot in front of the other. If I fall down, I wondered, since I’m the leader, will everyone else have to fall down too? Or will that give them permission to pass me and trample my body into the floor? Would my own friends, who were nowhere to be seen, leave their shoeprints on my backside, like everyone else? It’s funny the things that go through your mind when you’re almost certain you’re seconds from death.
Here’s where the hero enters the story. Bill Swint. I didn’t really know Bill Swint. He was just another student in the class. But unlike me, he was lean. He had a body made for running. The entire time we ran, Bill Swint never left my side.
Lap by lap, Bill literally willed me to keep going. Even over the sound of my own ragged breathing, I kept hearing Bill’s voice: “You can do it. Keep going. You can do it.” One lap at a time, with Bill beside me, I finished. After all four laps, I was still standing, with my dignity still somewhat intact.
It’s been nearly thirty years, but I haven’t forgotten Coach Combs and Bill Swint. One treated everyone with intimidation and disrespect. The other did the opposite. Both men have surely forgotten my name, but I remember theirs.
I ran into Coach Combs a few weeks after that quarter ended. We were at a local Mexican restaurant frequented by college students, mostly because of its good food and cheap beer. For the first time, I saw Coach happy and relaxed. He greeted me and my friends enthusiastically, with a big smile and a hug. I’m guessing it had less to do with any genuine affection and more to do with all the empty beer mugs stacked in front of him. Either way, it was too little, too late.
On the other hand, I don’t remember ever seeing Bill Swint again. I looked for his name on facebook a few weeks ago. There are three or four listed there, and I peered into their faces, trying to recognize that college boy from long ago. I’m not sure if I ever said thank you. I’d like to. I’d like him to know that the out-of-shape girl in his handball class remembers what he did for her, and she appreciates it.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
We Pray . . .
We pray for soldiers . . .
who stand tall and proud,
who look so handsome in their uniforms,
who can swap war stories from sun up to sundown.
And we pray for soldiers . . .
who go when they’re called,
who go where they’re needed,
who wonder if their children will recognize them
the next time they see them,
who handle photos of their loved ones with as much reverence
as they handle their Bibles,
who must live with the images of war,
who tell themselves soldiers don’t cry — but they cry anyway.
We pray for their families . . .
for the kids who like to wear camouflage because Daddy does,
for the wives who pack boxes full of junk food and letters from home,
for the moms who tie yellow ribbons on every tree in the front yard.
And we pray for the families . . .
when younger children don’t understand
why Daddy isn’t there to read them a story,
when older children hide their feelings
because they think they have to be tough,
when moms are afraid to watch the nightly news,
and dads are afraid not to,
when wives sleep with the phone so they won’t miss a call,
when they dread the knock on the door,
when they try to explain to their children
why their father isn’t ever coming home again.
We pray for our nation . . .
where our hands go over our hearts
when we say the Pledge of Allegiance,
where families still hold hands and say grace before meals,
where we will always be one nation, under God.
And we pray for our nation . . .
when the planes returning from the war
carry soldiers headed for home,
or when they carry coffins draped in American flags,
when the sound of “Taps” echoes across Arlington National Cemetery,
when terrorists bring down tall buildings and then brag about it,
when peace on earth seems far away.
Lord, let us always remember . . .
to love this country we call the United States of America,
to teach our children that real heroes are found
in war zones, not in comic books,
to pray for the men and women who are still fighting today,
to say thank you to the ones who made it home,
and to honor the memory of the ones who didn’t,
as we care for the families they left behind.
who stand tall and proud,
who look so handsome in their uniforms,
who can swap war stories from sun up to sundown.
And we pray for soldiers . . .
who go when they’re called,
who go where they’re needed,
who wonder if their children will recognize them
the next time they see them,
who handle photos of their loved ones with as much reverence
as they handle their Bibles,
who must live with the images of war,
who tell themselves soldiers don’t cry — but they cry anyway.
We pray for their families . . .
for the kids who like to wear camouflage because Daddy does,
for the wives who pack boxes full of junk food and letters from home,
for the moms who tie yellow ribbons on every tree in the front yard.
And we pray for the families . . .
when younger children don’t understand
why Daddy isn’t there to read them a story,
when older children hide their feelings
because they think they have to be tough,
when moms are afraid to watch the nightly news,
and dads are afraid not to,
when wives sleep with the phone so they won’t miss a call,
when they dread the knock on the door,
when they try to explain to their children
why their father isn’t ever coming home again.
We pray for our nation . . .
where our hands go over our hearts
when we say the Pledge of Allegiance,
where families still hold hands and say grace before meals,
where we will always be one nation, under God.
And we pray for our nation . . .
when the planes returning from the war
carry soldiers headed for home,
or when they carry coffins draped in American flags,
when the sound of “Taps” echoes across Arlington National Cemetery,
when terrorists bring down tall buildings and then brag about it,
when peace on earth seems far away.
Lord, let us always remember . . .
to love this country we call the United States of America,
to teach our children that real heroes are found
in war zones, not in comic books,
to pray for the men and women who are still fighting today,
to say thank you to the ones who made it home,
and to honor the memory of the ones who didn’t,
as we care for the families they left behind.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
The Stepmother Dilemma
I hate Mother’s Day. There, I’ve said it. I’ll just wait for that bolt of lightning to come down and burn me to a crisp. I’ll admit I see the point of celebrating mothers. It's a tough job. You deserve at least one day a year to be honored.
So when I say that I hate Mother’s Day, I’m just speaking for myself. I didn’t give birth to a child. I am not a member of that club of women who brought a baby home in their arms and nurtured him from his first days on earth. I do have a stepson, so technically that makes me a stepmom. He’s grown now, and I didn’t enter his life until he was past the stage where a kiss and a cuddle could dry tears or make a scraped knee feel all better. I got to jump in there just in time for the teen years. Nothing warm and cuddly about that stage.
Does that make me a mother? I never wiped his nose, tied his shoe, or rocked him to sleep. I haven’t earned my stripes, paid my dues, put in the time it takes to be recognized as a valuable person in his life. I’m in that gray area, where a simple “Happy Mother’s Day!” could be recognition for a job well done, or it could be a painful reminder that I'm not a “real” mom, and I never will be.
One Mother’s Day several years ago, we were attending a church with a traditional pastor who did not approve of divorce or second marriages. The pastor asked all mothers to stand. He made sure to include adoptive mothers and foster mothers. Maybe it was an oversight, but he didn’t say a word about stepmothers. I didn’t stand up. I wasn’t included. Of course, the little ones, dressed in their Mother’s Day best, handed out something to all the mothers, while everyone clapped. The worst part was, my stepson was with us that weekend, sitting right beside me. We both stared at the floor, waiting for it to be over. Ever since then, I’ve dreamed about spending every Mother’s Day in bed, with the covers pulled over my head.
I realize my stepson has felt the same awkwardness I do. We’ve spent the past eleven years tiptoeing around each other, not quite sure what our relationship is. I’m definitely not “Mom.” He has a great mother, and I’d never attempt to take her place. Am I “Betsi”? Not that I’ve ever heard. I’m somewhere in limbo, not quite a parent, not quite a friend.
I wonder if other stepparents go through the same feelings, especially if they have no children of their own. How do you know when to step up and when to shut up? If you discipline bad behavior, are you overstepping? If you report bad behavior, are you a snitch? If you accept bad behavior, are you contributing to the problem? It’s a tightrope, and I’ve fallen off more than once.
If a questionnaire existed to determine whether or not you qualified as a mother, it might include these questions:
1. Do you attend ballgames, graduations, and other special events in the child’s life?
Done that. I’ve sat through baseball games in the scorching heat. I’ve huddled under the bleachers, soaked to the skin, waiting for the storm to pass. I’ve attended basketball games in gyms so small, you spend half the time ducking runaway balls and the over-eager players chasing them. At the senior prom, I searched through a sea of people for him and his cute little date; I got a lump in my throat seeing how handsome and grown-up he looked. I cheered along with everyone else when he accepted his high-school diploma and later his college degree.
2. Do you endure on-the-job training in child-rearing, hoping you aren't doing more harm than good?
Done that, too. Just as with babies, preteens don’t come with an instruction manual. They do, however, come with established likes, dislikes, and personalities. I learned he wouldn’t eat anything green (still won’t). I learned that a teenage boy’s sweaty tennis shoes need to stay in the garage, because the smell will turn your stomach and make your eyes water. I learned not to laugh when he first started to shave and decided to “trim” his eyebrows at the same time. I learned that when I lost my temper and said things I shouldn’t, I needed to be the adult and apologize; whether I meant them or not, I still shouldn't have said them.
3. Do you worry about the child, want the best for the child, and pray for the child?
Yes, yes, and yes. I worry when he’s on the road late at night, especially when his car isn’t reliable. I want him to figure out that true happiness is found in family, friendships, and spiritual peace, and not in a big house or a fancy car. I pray that the person he chooses to spend his life with will be smart, sensitive, and will love him like he is the greatest person on earth, and that he will love her the same way.
The best advice I ever got about being a stepparent came from someone who had recently married a woman with two little girls. “Don’t expect to love the kids immediately, just because you love their parent,” he warned. He was right. I wanted to love my stepson, but it took time. He didn’t always make it easy, and I tend to lose my patience when things aren’t easy. Let’s face it: sometimes I didn’t even like him, and I’m sure it was mutual.
That started to change the summer he turned 13. With all of his friends reaching this same milestone, every weekend meant at least one birthday party. One Saturday evening, he rode to a party with a friend’s mother. Although the party wasn’t supposed to end until 10 p.m., he was home barely an hour after leaving the house. Apparently, some kids showed up who weren’t invited. Words were said, fights broke out, and the police were called in to break it up. He was not harmed, but this calm, cool kid was definitely shaken. As I listened to his story, I realized something: I was more upset than he was. I wanted to wrap him in something soft and never let him leave the house again. Anything to keep him safe. That’s when I realized that somehow, through all the awkward, difficult moments, I had grown to love this boy.
I did not give birth to this child, who has grown into a strong, smart, responsible man. My title will never officially be “Mom.” I will retain the uncomfortable label of “stepmom,” with all it entails. And Mother’s Day will never feel natural or normal. But I know in my heart that this man is my son.
In recent years, he and I have come a long way. We hug hello and goodbye. When he calls, I get more out of him than just, “Let me speak to Dad.” Even better, I’ve started getting Mother’s Day cards. Unfortunately, the front of the envelope is always blank. He still doesn’t know what to call me. But that’s okay. We’ll figure it out. What counts is that he signs them, “With love.”
So when I say that I hate Mother’s Day, I’m just speaking for myself. I didn’t give birth to a child. I am not a member of that club of women who brought a baby home in their arms and nurtured him from his first days on earth. I do have a stepson, so technically that makes me a stepmom. He’s grown now, and I didn’t enter his life until he was past the stage where a kiss and a cuddle could dry tears or make a scraped knee feel all better. I got to jump in there just in time for the teen years. Nothing warm and cuddly about that stage.
Does that make me a mother? I never wiped his nose, tied his shoe, or rocked him to sleep. I haven’t earned my stripes, paid my dues, put in the time it takes to be recognized as a valuable person in his life. I’m in that gray area, where a simple “Happy Mother’s Day!” could be recognition for a job well done, or it could be a painful reminder that I'm not a “real” mom, and I never will be.
One Mother’s Day several years ago, we were attending a church with a traditional pastor who did not approve of divorce or second marriages. The pastor asked all mothers to stand. He made sure to include adoptive mothers and foster mothers. Maybe it was an oversight, but he didn’t say a word about stepmothers. I didn’t stand up. I wasn’t included. Of course, the little ones, dressed in their Mother’s Day best, handed out something to all the mothers, while everyone clapped. The worst part was, my stepson was with us that weekend, sitting right beside me. We both stared at the floor, waiting for it to be over. Ever since then, I’ve dreamed about spending every Mother’s Day in bed, with the covers pulled over my head.
I realize my stepson has felt the same awkwardness I do. We’ve spent the past eleven years tiptoeing around each other, not quite sure what our relationship is. I’m definitely not “Mom.” He has a great mother, and I’d never attempt to take her place. Am I “Betsi”? Not that I’ve ever heard. I’m somewhere in limbo, not quite a parent, not quite a friend.
I wonder if other stepparents go through the same feelings, especially if they have no children of their own. How do you know when to step up and when to shut up? If you discipline bad behavior, are you overstepping? If you report bad behavior, are you a snitch? If you accept bad behavior, are you contributing to the problem? It’s a tightrope, and I’ve fallen off more than once.
If a questionnaire existed to determine whether or not you qualified as a mother, it might include these questions:
1. Do you attend ballgames, graduations, and other special events in the child’s life?
Done that. I’ve sat through baseball games in the scorching heat. I’ve huddled under the bleachers, soaked to the skin, waiting for the storm to pass. I’ve attended basketball games in gyms so small, you spend half the time ducking runaway balls and the over-eager players chasing them. At the senior prom, I searched through a sea of people for him and his cute little date; I got a lump in my throat seeing how handsome and grown-up he looked. I cheered along with everyone else when he accepted his high-school diploma and later his college degree.
2. Do you endure on-the-job training in child-rearing, hoping you aren't doing more harm than good?
Done that, too. Just as with babies, preteens don’t come with an instruction manual. They do, however, come with established likes, dislikes, and personalities. I learned he wouldn’t eat anything green (still won’t). I learned that a teenage boy’s sweaty tennis shoes need to stay in the garage, because the smell will turn your stomach and make your eyes water. I learned not to laugh when he first started to shave and decided to “trim” his eyebrows at the same time. I learned that when I lost my temper and said things I shouldn’t, I needed to be the adult and apologize; whether I meant them or not, I still shouldn't have said them.
3. Do you worry about the child, want the best for the child, and pray for the child?
Yes, yes, and yes. I worry when he’s on the road late at night, especially when his car isn’t reliable. I want him to figure out that true happiness is found in family, friendships, and spiritual peace, and not in a big house or a fancy car. I pray that the person he chooses to spend his life with will be smart, sensitive, and will love him like he is the greatest person on earth, and that he will love her the same way.
The best advice I ever got about being a stepparent came from someone who had recently married a woman with two little girls. “Don’t expect to love the kids immediately, just because you love their parent,” he warned. He was right. I wanted to love my stepson, but it took time. He didn’t always make it easy, and I tend to lose my patience when things aren’t easy. Let’s face it: sometimes I didn’t even like him, and I’m sure it was mutual.
That started to change the summer he turned 13. With all of his friends reaching this same milestone, every weekend meant at least one birthday party. One Saturday evening, he rode to a party with a friend’s mother. Although the party wasn’t supposed to end until 10 p.m., he was home barely an hour after leaving the house. Apparently, some kids showed up who weren’t invited. Words were said, fights broke out, and the police were called in to break it up. He was not harmed, but this calm, cool kid was definitely shaken. As I listened to his story, I realized something: I was more upset than he was. I wanted to wrap him in something soft and never let him leave the house again. Anything to keep him safe. That’s when I realized that somehow, through all the awkward, difficult moments, I had grown to love this boy.
I did not give birth to this child, who has grown into a strong, smart, responsible man. My title will never officially be “Mom.” I will retain the uncomfortable label of “stepmom,” with all it entails. And Mother’s Day will never feel natural or normal. But I know in my heart that this man is my son.
In recent years, he and I have come a long way. We hug hello and goodbye. When he calls, I get more out of him than just, “Let me speak to Dad.” Even better, I’ve started getting Mother’s Day cards. Unfortunately, the front of the envelope is always blank. He still doesn’t know what to call me. But that’s okay. We’ll figure it out. What counts is that he signs them, “With love.”
Monday, April 13, 2009
It's Not About Me
The worship service had already started when I slipped in. I had been helping out in the church kitchen, cleaning up after the meal we always serve right before the Friday-night service. Looking at the pile of dishes in the sink, I thought about skipping the service completely. Still, it was Good Friday. I knew they were doing Communion, and I knew I should be there.
The sanctuary was crowded, but my husband had saved me a seat. When I sat down, I turned to the woman beside me and smiled hello. She was by herself, and I’d never seen her before, so I leaned over and asked, “Are you with one of the other churches visiting tonight?”
“No,” she answered. “I haven’t been to church in a long time.”
I nodded my head and said I’d traveled that road myself for a few years. We talked for a few minutes during the music, while I answered her questions about the church, even leaving the sanctuary to find a brochure for her to take with her.
Once the music ended, they started the Lord’s Supper. Row by row, we made our way to the front, where our pastor and another church leader were holding a loaf of bread and a cup of juice. We would tear off a piece of bread and dip it into the cup as we passed by. It was a solemn, meaningful experience, especially walking by the cross that they had placed on the stage just for this service.
The woman sitting beside me didn’t take Communion, remaining in her seat instead. When I sat back down beside her, something led me to reach out and pat her hand. We sat there in silence in the darkened sanctuary for a moment, while the rest of the congregation filed past the front of the church.
After a moment, the woman leaned over and said, “I didn’t take Communion, because I don’t think God wants me to. I’ve done so many things wrong, he could never forgive me.”
Don’t do this to me, God, I thought. I’m not the person to handle this. Where are our prayer warriors? Where are the women in the church who have mentored me and encouraged me so many times? They’ll know what to say. But then something reminded me that God didn’t put her beside one of those women. He put her beside me. This was meant for me.
Instinctively I put my arm around her. All I knew to say were the words that I would want someone to say to me. I reassured her that she was a child of God, and no matter what she had done, God could never quit loving her. I pointed out the empty cross on the stage and reminded her that Jesus had done that for her, so she could be free and let go of her shame. And then this stranger, this person whom I had known for maybe fifteen minutes, laid her head on my shoulder and cried. And I cried right along with her, just telling her over and over, “God loves you. God loves you.”
I don’t know how long this went on -- maybe five minutes, maybe ten. I felt my husband’s reassuring hand on my shoulder, but other than that, she and I seemed to be all alone. Gradually she calmed down. We sat in silence through the rest of the service. Just before it ended, she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek and said that God must have brought me to her that night. I gave her my phone number and told her to call anytime.
I can’t imagine what courage it must have taken for her to admit her shame and her brokenness. I just pray that she was able to let go of some of it that night, that God used my words to touch her in some healing way.
Now, here’s the thing: How many of us are just as broken, just as filled with shame? How many of us want to cry on someone’s shoulder? How many of us need to hear someone telling us “God loves you” over and over? We may not be brave enough to open up so quickly, but that doesn’t mean the pain isn’t there.
Before Friday night, I can’t tell you the last time that someone cried on my shoulder. I don’t remember the last time I told someone, “God loves you.” I’m not proud of that.
Are we paying attention to the people who are hurting? Or do we keep ourselves too busy? Do we spend so much time taking care of what we think is most important, or what makes us feel most important, that we pass right by the walking wounded? They’re out there. They need us. We need one another.
I learned a couple of things Friday night. First, I learned that it’s really, truly not about me. I wanted to be in the kitchen, getting a head start on the dirty dishes, so that I could get home a little earlier. I wanted to be a Martha. Remember the two sisters in the Bible, Mary and Martha, who spent time with Jesus? Martha was the one who bustled around, cooking and cleaning. Mary was the one who sat at Jesus’ feet and listened. I wanted to be busy in the kitchen; God had other plans.
Second, I learned that I’m a grownup. Oh, I know I’m closer to fifty than I want to be. The creases in my face remind me every time I look in the mirror. But the spiritual maturity, that took a little while to develop. When did I become a giver of support and not just a taker? I guess that’s part of the journey I’ve been on for a while. Now that God apparently trusts me to help carry another’s burden, I have to trust myself, and quit looking for someone else to take up the slack. It’s something new for me, but I’m finally ready for the challenge. After all, as a close friend is fond of telling me, “God doesn’t call the equipped. God equips the called.” The next time someone needs to cry on my shoulder, I’ll be ready for it.
Oh, and one more thing: God loves you.
The sanctuary was crowded, but my husband had saved me a seat. When I sat down, I turned to the woman beside me and smiled hello. She was by herself, and I’d never seen her before, so I leaned over and asked, “Are you with one of the other churches visiting tonight?”
“No,” she answered. “I haven’t been to church in a long time.”
I nodded my head and said I’d traveled that road myself for a few years. We talked for a few minutes during the music, while I answered her questions about the church, even leaving the sanctuary to find a brochure for her to take with her.
Once the music ended, they started the Lord’s Supper. Row by row, we made our way to the front, where our pastor and another church leader were holding a loaf of bread and a cup of juice. We would tear off a piece of bread and dip it into the cup as we passed by. It was a solemn, meaningful experience, especially walking by the cross that they had placed on the stage just for this service.
The woman sitting beside me didn’t take Communion, remaining in her seat instead. When I sat back down beside her, something led me to reach out and pat her hand. We sat there in silence in the darkened sanctuary for a moment, while the rest of the congregation filed past the front of the church.
After a moment, the woman leaned over and said, “I didn’t take Communion, because I don’t think God wants me to. I’ve done so many things wrong, he could never forgive me.”
Don’t do this to me, God, I thought. I’m not the person to handle this. Where are our prayer warriors? Where are the women in the church who have mentored me and encouraged me so many times? They’ll know what to say. But then something reminded me that God didn’t put her beside one of those women. He put her beside me. This was meant for me.
Instinctively I put my arm around her. All I knew to say were the words that I would want someone to say to me. I reassured her that she was a child of God, and no matter what she had done, God could never quit loving her. I pointed out the empty cross on the stage and reminded her that Jesus had done that for her, so she could be free and let go of her shame. And then this stranger, this person whom I had known for maybe fifteen minutes, laid her head on my shoulder and cried. And I cried right along with her, just telling her over and over, “God loves you. God loves you.”
I don’t know how long this went on -- maybe five minutes, maybe ten. I felt my husband’s reassuring hand on my shoulder, but other than that, she and I seemed to be all alone. Gradually she calmed down. We sat in silence through the rest of the service. Just before it ended, she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek and said that God must have brought me to her that night. I gave her my phone number and told her to call anytime.
I can’t imagine what courage it must have taken for her to admit her shame and her brokenness. I just pray that she was able to let go of some of it that night, that God used my words to touch her in some healing way.
Now, here’s the thing: How many of us are just as broken, just as filled with shame? How many of us want to cry on someone’s shoulder? How many of us need to hear someone telling us “God loves you” over and over? We may not be brave enough to open up so quickly, but that doesn’t mean the pain isn’t there.
Before Friday night, I can’t tell you the last time that someone cried on my shoulder. I don’t remember the last time I told someone, “God loves you.” I’m not proud of that.
Are we paying attention to the people who are hurting? Or do we keep ourselves too busy? Do we spend so much time taking care of what we think is most important, or what makes us feel most important, that we pass right by the walking wounded? They’re out there. They need us. We need one another.
I learned a couple of things Friday night. First, I learned that it’s really, truly not about me. I wanted to be in the kitchen, getting a head start on the dirty dishes, so that I could get home a little earlier. I wanted to be a Martha. Remember the two sisters in the Bible, Mary and Martha, who spent time with Jesus? Martha was the one who bustled around, cooking and cleaning. Mary was the one who sat at Jesus’ feet and listened. I wanted to be busy in the kitchen; God had other plans.
Second, I learned that I’m a grownup. Oh, I know I’m closer to fifty than I want to be. The creases in my face remind me every time I look in the mirror. But the spiritual maturity, that took a little while to develop. When did I become a giver of support and not just a taker? I guess that’s part of the journey I’ve been on for a while. Now that God apparently trusts me to help carry another’s burden, I have to trust myself, and quit looking for someone else to take up the slack. It’s something new for me, but I’m finally ready for the challenge. After all, as a close friend is fond of telling me, “God doesn’t call the equipped. God equips the called.” The next time someone needs to cry on my shoulder, I’ll be ready for it.
Oh, and one more thing: God loves you.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Mending a Broken Sole
Okay, I'll admit it. I thought I looked good. I was wearing my new outfit to church -- brown pants and a burnt-orange jacket, with a sparkly shirt underneath. Even my earrings and necklace were picked out the night before and perfectly coordinated. I set out a pair of shoes with a little bit of heel -- not too much, but just enough to be a little dressy.
Everything seemed fine, until I was walking from my Sunday school room to the sanctuary. I noticed that one foot seemed to be dragging a little. How strange, I thought, but just then the music started up, and I got into it and forgot about my shoe.
Until I sat down for the sermon. I looked down and realized that the sole of my shoe had come unglued, except for about two inches at the toe. Great. Here I am thinking I've got it all pulled together, and there's my shoe flapping in the wind. From the surface, my shoe looked fine. Underneath, it was on the verge of disintegrating. What if I had gone forward during the invitation to kneel at the altar, and everyone had seen my loose sole? What if I had been walking back to my seat, and it had come all the way unglued, and had just laid there in the middle of the aisle for everyone to see? Oh, the humiliation!
Isn't that how we live our lives, though? On the surface we carry this facade that everything is great and we've got life completely under control. We live in fear that people will find out that underneath the surface, where no one can see, our souls are broken. Show our weaknesses? No way! Admit that we're falling apart? Not a chance! Just smile and stay calm. Don't let them in, or they'll know just what a screw-up we really are.
What a way to live. What an isolated, exhausting way to live. And I admit, I'm one of the worst. Just this morning in Sunday school, a woman who has become a close friend in the past few months admitted that when we first met, she wasn't sure she liked me. She said I seemed so calm and so together, she didn't think we could possibly have anything in common. I wanted to turn around and see if she was talking about someone behind me, because that's not me at all. I'm not calm, even though I strive to be, and I definitely don't have it all together. I didn't realize it, but by trying so hard to look as if my life were perfect, I had created a facade that people couldn't or wouldn't penetrate.
Just in the past few months, I have begun to open up. I've always been a good listener, but that was partially to keep the conversation focused on the other person and not on me. Now, little by little, I've begun to reveal the parts of me that I've always tried to hide -- the insecurities, the brokenness, the things in my life that keep me awake at night and make me feel unworthy and unlovable. And as I've shared these things with people, something amazing has started to happen -- no one has turned away. No one has abandoned me. Instead, I've found friendships on a deep level that I never even knew existed. As I've opened up, so have they. All the tears that I held in for so long flow freely now, and I let them. My laughter is genuine. My words are sincere, because I'm less concerned about how they make me sound, and more concerned that they somehow comfort or enrich the person hearing them.
Sure, opening up is a risk. Being vulnerable makes you feel . . . well, vulnerable. And let's face it: Not everyone out there can be trusted with your emotions and your secrets. That's where God's guidance and your own instincts must be followed. But when you finally throw caution to the winds and let people into your heart, the rewards are immeasurable.
So what if your shoe breaks? Kick off your shoes and dance in the rain. If you wear earrings that don't match, say it's the latest fashion trend from Paris. If you get spinach stuck between your front teeth, smile broadly at everyone sitting around you. Just be yourself, warts and all. Relationships with people who accept us as we are will sustain us long after the storms have swept away our facades.
Everything seemed fine, until I was walking from my Sunday school room to the sanctuary. I noticed that one foot seemed to be dragging a little. How strange, I thought, but just then the music started up, and I got into it and forgot about my shoe.
Until I sat down for the sermon. I looked down and realized that the sole of my shoe had come unglued, except for about two inches at the toe. Great. Here I am thinking I've got it all pulled together, and there's my shoe flapping in the wind. From the surface, my shoe looked fine. Underneath, it was on the verge of disintegrating. What if I had gone forward during the invitation to kneel at the altar, and everyone had seen my loose sole? What if I had been walking back to my seat, and it had come all the way unglued, and had just laid there in the middle of the aisle for everyone to see? Oh, the humiliation!
Isn't that how we live our lives, though? On the surface we carry this facade that everything is great and we've got life completely under control. We live in fear that people will find out that underneath the surface, where no one can see, our souls are broken. Show our weaknesses? No way! Admit that we're falling apart? Not a chance! Just smile and stay calm. Don't let them in, or they'll know just what a screw-up we really are.
What a way to live. What an isolated, exhausting way to live. And I admit, I'm one of the worst. Just this morning in Sunday school, a woman who has become a close friend in the past few months admitted that when we first met, she wasn't sure she liked me. She said I seemed so calm and so together, she didn't think we could possibly have anything in common. I wanted to turn around and see if she was talking about someone behind me, because that's not me at all. I'm not calm, even though I strive to be, and I definitely don't have it all together. I didn't realize it, but by trying so hard to look as if my life were perfect, I had created a facade that people couldn't or wouldn't penetrate.
Just in the past few months, I have begun to open up. I've always been a good listener, but that was partially to keep the conversation focused on the other person and not on me. Now, little by little, I've begun to reveal the parts of me that I've always tried to hide -- the insecurities, the brokenness, the things in my life that keep me awake at night and make me feel unworthy and unlovable. And as I've shared these things with people, something amazing has started to happen -- no one has turned away. No one has abandoned me. Instead, I've found friendships on a deep level that I never even knew existed. As I've opened up, so have they. All the tears that I held in for so long flow freely now, and I let them. My laughter is genuine. My words are sincere, because I'm less concerned about how they make me sound, and more concerned that they somehow comfort or enrich the person hearing them.
Sure, opening up is a risk. Being vulnerable makes you feel . . . well, vulnerable. And let's face it: Not everyone out there can be trusted with your emotions and your secrets. That's where God's guidance and your own instincts must be followed. But when you finally throw caution to the winds and let people into your heart, the rewards are immeasurable.
So what if your shoe breaks? Kick off your shoes and dance in the rain. If you wear earrings that don't match, say it's the latest fashion trend from Paris. If you get spinach stuck between your front teeth, smile broadly at everyone sitting around you. Just be yourself, warts and all. Relationships with people who accept us as we are will sustain us long after the storms have swept away our facades.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Dodging Butterflies
Many years ago, I took a trip back to the Smoky Mountains, where I grew up. Although I was with a group of people, I had wandered a distance away and made my way down to the water's edge. Except for the water pushing its way over the rocks and flowing downstream, there was no sound -- just me and nature. A young girl, maybe nine or ten years old, also wandered down close to where I sat, but other than wondering briefly if her parents were keeping an eye on her, I didn't pay much attention to her.
Then I saw it: Just a few feet away, a large, flat rock was completely covered with monarch butterflies. There must have been at least fifty of them, quietly sitting on the rock's surface, their wings gently opening and closing. I've learned since then that such a gathering is known as a "bachelor's watering hole." Monarch butterflies, as they migrate, will find a place to rest and replenish before continuing their journey. I'd never seen such a sight before, and it took my breath away.
While I was watching the butterflies, the young girl noticed them and came closer. I said something like, "Aren't they pretty?" She looked at them for a second, and then before I could react, she picked up a flat rock and slammed it down on top of the butterflies. I sat there speechless, not knowing what to say. She left the rock where it was, turned and smiled at me, and then climbed up the bank and disappeared.
It's been probably thirty years, and I've never forgotten the experience. I think it's because I can't understand why she did it. Why would someone deliberately destroy something so beautiful and so innocent?
Unfortunately, the answer comes back: Why not? We don't live in a perfect world. Innocence doesn't last long, often not even through childhood. Maybe that little girl wanted to hurt something because she had already been hurt herself. Maybe she didn't understand what she was doing. That's my hope: that her actions came out of ignorance, not out of vengeance or some overwhelming need for power, because someone had taken hers away.
Sometimes, when I'm sitting in the quiet, enjoying the sight and sounds of nature, I'll see a butterfly float by. I'll wonder if that child remembers what she did. If she does, does she regret it? I'll never know. Could I have stopped her from destroying those butterflies? Probably not. It happened so fast. But I can choose not to make the same kind of decision. I can choose not to use careless words that crush someone's self esteem. I can choose not to turn away from someone who is reaching out. I can choose to protect the things I hold dear. I want to think -- no, I need to think -- that what I do matters.
A principal at an impoverished elementary school in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains makes sure that his students develop an appreciation for life. Seedlings in plastic cups line the windowsills of the dingy classrooms. Cocoons are watched eagerly for the first signs of life. Gerbils are stroked carefully by little hands. The principal prays that they will always be amazed by the works of God, no matter how small. After doing a tour of duty in Viet Nam, he’ll never take a sunrise, a rainbow, or a friendly smile for granted again. He even reluctantly admits that he dodges butterflies in the road.
For every person who can walk by a homeless man on the sidewalk, there are others who operate a shelter where the man can find heat, food, and a safe place to lay his head. For every company ready to cut off a family's insurance because the cost has become too high, there are people who bake cupcakes, wash cars, and dig into their own pockets to help a child fighting cancer. And for every person who can callously destroy a butterfly, there is someone else who will go out of his way to protect it.
Then I saw it: Just a few feet away, a large, flat rock was completely covered with monarch butterflies. There must have been at least fifty of them, quietly sitting on the rock's surface, their wings gently opening and closing. I've learned since then that such a gathering is known as a "bachelor's watering hole." Monarch butterflies, as they migrate, will find a place to rest and replenish before continuing their journey. I'd never seen such a sight before, and it took my breath away.
While I was watching the butterflies, the young girl noticed them and came closer. I said something like, "Aren't they pretty?" She looked at them for a second, and then before I could react, she picked up a flat rock and slammed it down on top of the butterflies. I sat there speechless, not knowing what to say. She left the rock where it was, turned and smiled at me, and then climbed up the bank and disappeared.
It's been probably thirty years, and I've never forgotten the experience. I think it's because I can't understand why she did it. Why would someone deliberately destroy something so beautiful and so innocent?
Unfortunately, the answer comes back: Why not? We don't live in a perfect world. Innocence doesn't last long, often not even through childhood. Maybe that little girl wanted to hurt something because she had already been hurt herself. Maybe she didn't understand what she was doing. That's my hope: that her actions came out of ignorance, not out of vengeance or some overwhelming need for power, because someone had taken hers away.
Sometimes, when I'm sitting in the quiet, enjoying the sight and sounds of nature, I'll see a butterfly float by. I'll wonder if that child remembers what she did. If she does, does she regret it? I'll never know. Could I have stopped her from destroying those butterflies? Probably not. It happened so fast. But I can choose not to make the same kind of decision. I can choose not to use careless words that crush someone's self esteem. I can choose not to turn away from someone who is reaching out. I can choose to protect the things I hold dear. I want to think -- no, I need to think -- that what I do matters.
A principal at an impoverished elementary school in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains makes sure that his students develop an appreciation for life. Seedlings in plastic cups line the windowsills of the dingy classrooms. Cocoons are watched eagerly for the first signs of life. Gerbils are stroked carefully by little hands. The principal prays that they will always be amazed by the works of God, no matter how small. After doing a tour of duty in Viet Nam, he’ll never take a sunrise, a rainbow, or a friendly smile for granted again. He even reluctantly admits that he dodges butterflies in the road.
For every person who can walk by a homeless man on the sidewalk, there are others who operate a shelter where the man can find heat, food, and a safe place to lay his head. For every company ready to cut off a family's insurance because the cost has become too high, there are people who bake cupcakes, wash cars, and dig into their own pockets to help a child fighting cancer. And for every person who can callously destroy a butterfly, there is someone else who will go out of his way to protect it.
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