One of the reasons I love being a columnist is that I love telling people what to do. That's probably why I blog, too. My downfall is that at times others do not seem to recognize the brilliance of my insight, but I console myself in the fact that one day they might!
Hence, I know that one of the sins I struggle with is judgmentalism. Perhaps we all have it to a certain extent, but I have it in spades. I am constantly having to remind myself that I should not judge, for I too have faults. And I should not expect people who are not Christians to behave as if they were.
And this time of year is especially difficult for me, because of Father's Day. We had a wonderful Sunday celebrating with my husband and my father-in-law, with lots of card games, laughter, and barbecues to go around.
Nevertheless, I know that many did not have such good days, because the dads in their lives walked out on them. They had affairs on their wives. They abandoned their kids. I struggle when I think of these men.
It reminds me of a wedding I was at when I had to leave early because I had such a visceral judgmental reaction. The wedding was for two people who were closer to my husband than they were to me. While they were smiling and walking down the aisle, all I could think about was the fact that a year and a half earlier the bride had aborted their baby because she was still in school, and they wanted to finish their degrees first.
As I was seething in the pews of that church, I was also pregnant with my son, whom we knew had a serious heart defect, and whom we knew would likely not live long when he was born. We had been pressured to abort, and yet did not, because we wanted to give our baby whatever life we could.
That made the stark choice of abortion all the more vivid to me. And as I was thinking these thoughts, there was this couple, grinning from ear to ear, enjoying the wedding they wanted now that they both had landed jobs after they had received their diplomas. They had lived together for years, had aborted their baby, and had done everything so that their lives could be as convenient as possible.
And what was worse, to me, was that she had not kept the abortion secret. She had told people proudly that she was exercising her right to choose, so that she would not be burdened with a baby when she was not ready.
That was about fifteen years ago; I have no idea what has happened to that couple, or if they have gone on to have other children. Yet I have always almost hated that woman. At the time I refused to stay for the dance, and demanded that my husband take me home, because the thought of her being so happy after she had sacrificed everything that was good and pure on the altar of convenience made me physically ill.
I am not proud of my reaction, and yet I am getting the same tight feeling in my stomach when I think of that moment. I am not sure what I expected; did I want to hear remorse from her in her wedding speech? Did I want her to look miserable? Obviously the emotion I was feeling was not due to her. I was projecting on to this woman for reasons of my own that I still have not entirely figured out.
Perhaps it was easier to project because I did not really know this woman on a personal basis, and everything I did know about her was in such contrast to my own values that it was hard to feel any sense of comaraderie. Yet often it is in our deepest areas of pain that we are the most judgmental. I am most judgmental about men who leave their families, and about women who abort, because these are the big hurts in my life: a father deserting me; a baby I so desperately wanted dying. When others throw away what we would have done anything to keep, it makes us angry not primarily because of the hurt that they caused, but because we take it personally.
As much as we may be right in our assessment, though, we must stop this urge to personalize such sins. That couple did nothing against me; they did everything against God and against their child. It was to God that they owed an apology, and not to me. Yet I was acting the part of God in that story, demanding a penance that was not really mine to receive.
I wonder how often this dynamic plays a part in our own families. I know that I am far more sensitive to when Keith does something that reminds me of a husband leaving, even if he has no intention of leaving. Early in our marriage, when we used to have fights, I told him in no uncertain terms that he was not allowed to leave the house to clear his head, even if it would help, because that would be hurtful to me. I would interpret it too much as what my father did--even though it was nothing close to it. Similarly, when I sense a rift developing between Rebecca, our 15-year-old, and Keith, I immediately lay all the blame at Keith's feet and demand that he fix it, because I know what it is like to grow up a teen without a father. I am projecting onto Keith sins he has not committed, because they sit so close to the areas of my heart where the hurt is still a little raw.
Many people say judgmentalism is caused by pride; we think we are better than others. I think it is also caused by hurt. We are angry that things did not work out differently for ourselves, and when others seem to be replicating the problem, it is almost as if they are denying the hurt feelings that we ourselves have. The answer to judgmentalism, then, is not always to look at our own sin. I think sometimes it's to look at our hurts. Take those hurts to God. Often we stop telling God what we're really feeling because we're afraid that if we start all this anger will come pouring out, and it won't help anybody. We'll never be able to stop. Yet we need to be honest with God. He knows what you're feeling anyway, and He's the only one who can wipe away the tears.
When we don't go to God, we take it out on others. That pain is still there, and it is ugly and it is big and it won't be silenced. If you won't take it to God, it will emerge in obscure ways in anger; usually in the anger of judgmentalism. You will start projecting onto others because that way you have a seemingly safe method of exorcising some of the pain. But it doesn't work, because it doesn't really get to the root.
If you find yourself overreacting in certain areas of your marriage, or overreacting with your kids, ask yourself if they're touching a scab, or maybe even an open wound on your heart. And then ask God if He will start to heal that wound. Don't be afraid to touch it. Sometimes healing hurts initially. The alternative, though, is to live with the pain. And to me, that's not much of an alternative at all.
One of my favourite authors is C.S. Lewis. I love his Narnia series, and I have read them out loud about five times now: once to my cousins when they were young; once as a camp counsellor; and three times to my children.
I also challenged myself a few summers ago to read through his non-fiction works, and I did. I loved Surprised by Joy (you can read my comments on it here), but I was really touched by A Grief Observed. As someone who has also gone through grief, I found it real, refreshing, and melancholy. And perhaps it was the melancholy that I liked. This wasn't one of these "Just look to God and all will be joyful again!" type of books. This was one of those "sometimes life is just awful". And isn't that closer to the truth?
Today, for Good Friday, I thought it might be good to return to this question about how the dark moments fit into our lives as Christians. I think that it’s a misnomer that Christians are always supposed to be happy and nothing is supposed to get to us. God, after all, is a God who cries. Perhaps the times that we are closest to Him, Lewis once said, are not in times of ecstasy but instead in times of grief. That is when we touch God's heart the most, and understand the tears that He shed.
I don’t think we should be ashamed of our tears, or think that it means we haven’t healed, haven’t surrendered, haven’t advanced. This world is fallen, and life is pain. God understands that. To be a Christian is not to feel no pain; it is to have God carry you when that pain comes.
I have written books about emotional healing, and I'm working on another right now. Again and again I hit a brick wall when I really dig deeply into the way the church often handles pain. We think that it is something that we need to get over, that the pain itself is somehow an aberration of life, a betrayal of faith, and something from which we must emerge.
I'm not so sure. I think joy and pain can coexist; and to think that pain must be banished is also, I believe, to banish love. Pain is simply what we feel when the object of love is taken from us. It is a loss. In that loss, we often feel God's love much more acutely, and hence that is why pain and joy often are experienced together. But to say that a grieving parent must somehow get over their grief, or that a betrayed wife must heal from her loneliness, I find harsh. I don't think God asks us to heal; I think God asks us to turn to Him in these times, and it is then that we are given strength, and mercy, and peace.
My mother does not pine over my father, who left her over 35 years ago. She has a full and rich life, though it did not turn out the way she would have hoped. But every year, at Christmas, when we sing a certain hymn at church, it all comes flooding back: the desperation she felt, realizing she would be a single mother at 29; the loneliness; the grief; the betrayal. Because she sang that song to me in the midst of her grief, it has the power to take her back, and she feels briefly sad again. It does not mean that God has not ministered to her; it is just a reminder that this life is hard, and that we do still bear the marks of a fallen world while we walk upon this world.
If you are bearing those marks more acutely today, I do understand. I have been betrayed by a father. I have lost a son. And I can tell you, too, that I also experience great joy. There were days, though, when I couldn't feel God, and when it was all I could do to breathe.
I wrote a little book about it called How Big Is Your Umbrella: Weathering the Storms of Life. If you're sick of Christian books that tell you that you should be happy, you'll appreciate this. And if you have a friend walking through sorrow, and you don't know what to say, it can help.
And today of all days, I hope that, if you are walking through sorrow, grief, or even just a funk, that you will still be able to turn to God, even in that pain. He is there, and often He feels closest when we feel the most vulnerable. May you feel God carry you.
In this post, Cassandra says that often it's only when looking back that she can see how God had faithfully led her, and I agree. She says:
It's usually easier for me to see in hindsight that God was guiding me. Is that the way it works for you? I find it's like climbing a steep cliff. I feel the strained muscles, the shortness of breath, the sweat on my brow. Then I pause, turn, and look back.
The view fills me with astonishment. Oh, I can see where he was with me, how he guided me and protected me. How surely he watched over my steps! What dangers he led me around! There were hints of his voice, which I saw dimly then, but now they sparkle like jeweled lakes in the light of the alpine sun.
I'm like that, too. It's not always as I'm walking forward that I hear God. It's often when I take time to stop and think and then I see how He was telling me things.
That's often the case with my writing. I'll pray and pray and ask God to show me something I should talk about in a book, and nothing will come. And then one day, I'll sit down and a book proposal will flow right out of me, and I'll wonder where it came from. And then I look back and I can see all the different people He put into my life, the radio snippets I heard, the newspaper articles that got me thinking, and the Bible passages that held me captive that started my thinking in a certain direction. But it's not until afterwards that it all comes together.
I think we misunderstand what God's voice is supposed to sound like. There are a few times in my life when I have actually heard God speak to me (I talk about those times in my audio download, "Getting Rid of the Guilt"). They were very specific things at very important junctures in my life. But there were 3 times in total when I heard specific words. Other than that, God gently guides us in all sorts of ways.
So often we're waiting for a thunderbolt, and we feel paralyzed until it comes. But I think we need to walk forward in faith, knowing that God will steer us.
When our son was sick, my husband agonized about certain medical decisions we might be forced to make. What if we had to choose between surgery and just letting him go (if surgery would be horrific for him, and likely have little impact?) Should we put him on the heart transplant list? What should we do? He didn't want to do the wrong thing, and he was so desperately trying to hear God.
Our minister took us aside and said very firmly to Keith, "If God has a specific path He wants you to take, who is most invested in you figuring that out? God or you?"
"God," Keith admitted.
"Then don't you think He's big enough to show you when the time is right?"
That minister was right. If God has something specific He wants you to do, He will show you. What we need to do, I think, are two things:
1. Walk forward, as much as we can, in His Spirit. Read the Word, do what we know is right, and pray.
2. Take some time to listen and think. Let God guide you. Take some time to look back over the last few weeks or months and see where you have already been. Look around you. Open your eyes. Don't let life pass you by so quickly.
God does speak, and He does lead us, but often we miss it because it doesn't usually do it audibly. He does it gently, and unless we take those times to look, we'll miss the wonder of what has happened in our lives.
Don't beat yourself up if you're having trouble hearing God's voice. I think He wants you to press ahead anyway, and if you need to make a U-turn, He'll tell you. Just make sure you always have time to listen and look. That's when you'll see the patterns of what He is already doing and where He is already leading, which we often miss in the busy-ness of our lives.
Heaven is one of those things I always held in the back of my mind. It was real, in the way that Mercury or Venus is real, but it's not like I'm going to see it any time soon, so what relevance does it have for me right now? It's fun to think about, but no one can honestly say what it's like.
Then I had a son who died, and heaven suddenly became real to me. Sometimes I'll be walking through a normal day, thinking about nothing in particular, and a flash will hit me--a vision of him running in a field and laughing, or climbing a tree. He would have had difficulty running or climbing here with his heart problems, but I know that in heaven he's happy, and healthy, and thriving. And one day I will arrive, and Christopher will greet me and show me around.
I've read novels lately, too, most particularly by Randy Alcorn, which feature heaven, and what a wonderful place it is. They've made me think about it in a different way.
I have to admit that as a teen and young adult I feared heaven. I thought it would be boring--standing around singing all the time. Not that I don't like worship; I actually really do. And to finally be able to find the harmonies all the time--that would be bliss! But it's not something I want to do for thousands and thousands of years. And then thousands after that. I want to knit. I want to talk. I want to explore.
And somehow those things never meshed with my view of heaven. I had too much of the popular culture image of haloes and white robes floating on clouds.
Recently my youngest daughter and I reread C.S. Lewis' The Last Battle, the final book in the Narnia series, and reading his description of heaven made my heart beat a little faster, too. I love the imagery of "higher up and further in", as the children experience heaven to be like earth, only magnified so much better. They can run and climb much more easily. They can see and hear so much more acutely. They can experience colour, and wind, and beauty as if the senses are more finely attuned.
Personally, I think God has saved most of His creative power for heaven. As Keith Green used to sing, "In six days He created everything, but He's been working on heaven 2,000 years."
We have nothing to fear, and everything to look forward to. Sure, I worry about what relationships will be like in heaven. No marriage? Does that mean that we aren't close to our kids in the same way, too? But I think it's just that everything is so magnified that these kinds of special relationships aren't as key. Intimacy is felt with all, and though that seems like we are losing something special, in the end, we'll gain.
Here's a thought for you: the best friend you will likely ever have in your life you probably have not met yet. She may be some saint who died in 1247, but she was created especially for you. And one day you will meet her, and you will laugh together, and share so much. If you are lonely here, you will not be lonely forever.
As a speaker, I travel around and meet wonderful Christians for a night, or a weekend. I talk to many women who are so lovely, especially older women. And I long to sit at their feet and chat and share my heart, but there isn't time. But one day there will be, and often while I'm saying good-bye, inside I'm making a mental note to look her up in the hereafter, because that will be one of the blessings of dying in this life: really knowing so many with whom we only scratched the surface on this earth.
A few years ago a dear man in our congregation passed away. He was a stalwart in our church; so humble, and through his humility he exercised perhaps the best servant leadership I have ever seen in a church. He died three weeks after being diagnosed wtih cancer. Yet I know that he is having such a wonderful time now, and I am looking forward to seeing him, too.
It is often the older people that I get these "longings for heaven" with. I don't know if it's because their time on earth is shorter, or because we don't move in the same social circles, so it's harder to get to know them well on this earth. But often I see these lovely older saints, and I think to myself, "there's really no hurry. I will have an eternity with them", and I smile to myself. At times it's only a glimpse of someone, or the sound of their giggle, and I just know that here is a kindred spirit. But there's really no way of growing that relationship here. So I just add them to my list of those I will have such fun with on the other side.
And then, of course, there's Jesus. Can you imagine actually being able to talk to Him, and hug Him? Can you imagine being able to ask Him questions, to hear Him affirm you in words that reach your ears, and not only your heart. We were created just for that, and while that relationship begins here, it does not end. It will meet its fulfillment there.
I know life is often busy, and it has its frustrations and its disappointments. But I don't believe that this is our REAL life. This is temporary; heaven is eternal. This will pass away; heaven will not. In effect, heaven is the real, not this. That does not mean earth doesn't matter; what we do today has repercussions throughout eternity, and we were put here for a reason. But perhaps if we kept things in perspective, and realized that this is only for a time, there is so much more to come, we could endure our daily petty trials just a little bit better.
And in heaven, my dear readers, we'll be able to meet face to face, too! So introduce yourself to me, come on over, and we'll chat for a while, as we run higher up and further in. After all, we'll have all the time in the world.
My son died thirteen years ago today. It's strange; sometimes the anniversaries bother me, and at other times I don't think about it very much. But last night I had such dreams, and I find I can't concentrate this morning.
I tweeted that, and @HisFireFly tweeted this back:
Maybe God desires your concentration to be on your memories, there is much to remember...
Perhaps she's right. I've been having a running conversation with Christopher in my head all day, and so maybe I'll just write it out. I keep trying to turn it off, but perhaps that's not the right thing to do. Maybe I need to walk through this today. It's been a long time since I've done so systematically. So here goes.
Hi Christopher,
I can't stop my mind today from going back thirteen years ago. Imagine! You would have been a teenager now. But back then, on September 3, you were in the PICU, recovering from massive heart surgery four days ago. I was sitting with you when I noticed that your blood pressure was down to 54 over something very small. No one else caught it. The nurse was preoccupied with someone else, so I tracked down a doctor, who yelled at me for bypassing the chain of command. But when he came over he was quite alarmed and immediately gave you two units of fluid. And he had you re-intubated. That broke my heart, because we had been so excited when the tube had come out that morning and you were breathing on your own. It just seemed so barbaric to stick it back in.
I used to be able to remember your cry. I heard you cry for the last time right before they stuck that horrible tube back in, but I can't remember now. That bothers me.
Daddy and I visited you together that night, which was unusual. Usually we came in alone since one of us had to be with your sister, but that night Nana had her and we both went in and sat with you. We left at 9:45, and on my way out of the ICU my last words to you were "Mommy loves you, sweetheart."
At that point you were doing well. Your blood pressure had come back up and you seemed all right. I actually went to sleep peacefully.
The phone rang at 1:45 that morning. I knew something was wrong as soon as it rang, and I was right. I woke Daddy up, and called Judy who lived in an upstairs apartment to come and sit with Rebecca while we rushed down. We didn't have a car, but it was a 15 minute walk. We made it there in 7 I'm sure.
When we got the hospital the doctors put us in a little waiting room, and came in to tell us that your heart had stopped and they were trying everything. I told them not to hurt you, and if it seemed like it wasn't going to work to stop. Your little body had been so tortured already.
They brought your body out a half hour later. They had wrapped it in a blanket, and your little tongue was sticking partway out, the way it often did. Your blonde hair was wisping over your forehead.
But you weren't there. It was the worst feeling of my life. I so wished I had never held your body like that, because it wasn't you. I knew you were gone already, and the whole experience felt so empty. Daddy needed it, but I didn't. I wish my last glimpse of you was when I said, "Mommy loves you, sweetheart."
Instead I found myself saying, over and over again, "I'm so sorry." I don't even know what I was sorry for. I wasn't sorry for you that you had died; I knew that you were with Jesus, and it was so hard to see you in pain with all those tubes and so blue, and I knew that now you would be able to run and play and do all the things little boys are supposed to do. But I was still sorry. Sorry that I couldn't have been there to comfort you. Sorry that I couldn't hold you after your surgery. Sorry that I couldn't have spared you all of that. Sorry that you had to be so tortured. Sorry that I wouldn't see you grow up.
I didn't feel like I had said good-bye then. I had said it earlier. The day before your surgery, when the doctor came in to talk to us, he said you only had a 25% chance of making it through the next day. We had thought it was closer to 60%, but you were so small, you see. You had lost so much weight since your birth and you were down to four pounds. Our friend Tommy came in to take photos, in case it was your last day. Here's us together right after I heard the news:
That night I couldn't sleep, and I walked to the hospital at 5:30 a.m. to sit with you for two hours before surgery. That was when I really said good-bye. I sang with you and prayed over you and held you in my arms, even with all the tubes. I told you that it was okay to go. I told you that Daddy and Rebecca and I would be okay, and if it was just too hard you could go to be with Jesus. I told you that I so wanted to watch you grow up, and to hold you and to love you and to be your Mommy, but I knew life was so hard for you, and you were having trouble breathing, and I told you that it was okay. I loved you, and I would always love you, and I would be with you again.
They let me walk with you down to the pre-op room, and I was the one who handed you over to the anesthetist as they took you in to surgery. Passing you over was the hardest thing I ever did in my life. I really didn't think you'd come back to me. I felt like I was handing you over to your death. Daddy and I had prayed over you in that room, and Daddy gently lifted me up and helped me hand you to her. She was a nice woman. She wore a little surgical cap with teddy bears on it, just like Auntie Allee wears. She smiled and told us that they were going to do everything and that they would take care of you.
It was a gift when you made it through surgery, and then made it through that night. And the next night. And the next. I guess I thought we'd really have you now. I started letting myself dream about you growing up, and what Rebecca would be like playing with you, and how you would laugh.
But it was not to be.
I don't know how to feel now. It's been so long, and I share your story with others everytime I speak. I know you made such a profound change in my life, and in Daddy's. Rebecca was at summer camp this year and she always spends a lot of time with the Down Syndrome kids. They love her. You would have, too, and one day you will have time to get to know her.
When Katie was born she looked so much like you (though she was twice your size!). She had the same wispy blonde hair, the same blue eyes. She gets sad that she never shared this earth with you the way Rebecca did, I heard her telling a friend a few years ago that when she gets to heaven you will be the first one to greet her, to show her around. You will have such fun with her.
I find it harder to remember you today. It's just fading so fast. I keep replaying certain moments in my head. I remember when you got feisty when they came to do yet another blood test, and even though you weren't feeling well you kicked that nurse hard for someone who was only 4 1/2 pounds! And I love the look on your face when they gave you that gross medicine. Auntie Allee caught it in a photo:
But lately I've been thinking less about those moments and so much more about heaven, and I know that when I get there I'll get to know you so well. It's not that I'm moving away from you, even after thirteen years. It's more that I'm moving towards you, and I'm closer to seeing you again now than I was then.
I'm so blessed that I got to be your mommy. I did sing over you, and cuddle you, and pray over you, and kiss you. I wish I could have done more, but that time will come.
It's just that sometimes I feel so sad, and today it seems worse than usual. I'm remembering that day. It's 10 in the morning now. Back then I was making phone calls, trying to find a funeral home we could afford. We had already called Grandma and Grandpa early this morning and told them that we wanted to bury you in Belleville, and Grandpa was out already looking for a good place. He found a perfect one; the most peaceful cemetery just outside the town.
That doctor called around 10:30 to apologize for how he yelled at me the day before. I found out later that he had lectured his residents to not rely on nurses but to listen to parents' concerns, since it was me who had caught your deterioration. He actually had a lot of grace to make that call. It must have been hard, and I respect him for it.
The minister was due at our apartment at 11 to talk about the funeral. Your sister was playing with her friend Alison, Judy's daughter. They were three weeks apart. I don't think Judy had had any sleep after we called her in the middle of the night, but she was there first thing in the morning to watch Rebecca. She found me recently on Facebook, and it was good to reconnect.
Oh, Christopher, I miss you. A few weeks after you died Auntie Allee had her pictures developed, and there was one that made me burst into tears. I was holding you, and your eyes were open (you were so rarely awake), and you were looking right at me. I am so blessed to still have that picture. And I am blessed to be your mommy. I know that if you had lived you would have always had health problems, and been short of breath. Today I imagine you playing baseball, and running, and singing, and laughing. I know you are with Jesus, and He loves you so much. I will join you someday, too, and then we will finally be able to laugh together.
Last week we celebrated my daughter's 12th birthday, in a post when I recounted my rather humorous birth story with her.
I want to put her birth in a bit more perspective.
She was born on July 27, and I was very grateful that she did not wait until August, because I didn't want her birthday to be too close to another one. You see, a year before she was born, her brother came into this world. I guess he was her "big" brother, although he never got to be more than 5 pounds. She entered the world at 9 1/2. He left this world at 4 1/2. But I know that right now, he is running with the angels, and laughing, and doing cartwheels, and all sorts of physically fun things his little heart would never have allowed him to do on this earth.
My Christopher lived for 29 days 13 years ago. He would've been a teenager today. (Here's a picture of me last fall out at the cemetery). I wonder if babies and children grow in heaven? I think they must, at least babies, but at the same time, if they did, would that mean that there may be a time when heaven does not contain babies or children, because they've all grown up? I guess these are questions that will only be answered later.
It was because of Christopher that I started writing. My first article was this one, detailing my pregnancy with him, his short life, and what that taught us about loving "the least of these" in a culture which wanted me to abort him. My second article was this one, about how to help a friend through grief.
And then, of course, I have written a book called How Big Is Your Umbrella about the things that we yell at God when life stinks, and what He gently whispers back. And over the years I have discovered that I would so much rather have a hug from God than an encyclopedia of answers.
Right now I'm working on a new project. A few years ago I wrote a column called "A Prayer Through Tears" to help parents who had lost babies. It received an amazing response from readers, and I want to put it into a video on YouTube to comfort other grieving parents. I've got it almost done, but I'm lacking some pictures. Do you have any you'd be willing to share? Here's what I'm looking for:
Pictures of babies (if your child is still alive, and you're willing to let me use the picture just for artistic purposes anyway, that would be great. Or if you have a picture of a child in a hospital, or one who did die, I'd love to honor your child by including him or her
Pictures of children's gravestones (I know it sounds morbid, but that's the reality for many of us parents)
Pictures of women or men reading Scripture, or sitting quietly and looking out the window
If you have any, just email me through this page. I would so appreciate it! Thank you.
Every Friday my syndicated column is printed in a number of newspapers. I couldn't post on Friday since I was on an airplane flying to a marriage conference, so this one's a little late! It's based on a blog post from last week about Obama's Special Olympics remark. Hope you like it!
I believe in free speech, so I don’t particularly like political correctness. I think people are far too scared to criticize some cultures because they may be labelled racist. But some cultures have bad elements, and if we ignore things like Islamic honor killings or Jamaican gang violence, we're doing a disservice to everyone, especially to the most vulnerable within those cultures.
Political correctness veils truth. It makes people watch what they say, even if it is the truth, so they don't offend. Truth takes a back seat to inoffensiveness.
Personally, I think truth should trump just about everything. But that doesn’t mean that I think offending people is fine. Saying racist things against natives just because they're natives is wrong. Saying that parts of the native community have an issue with child abuse is legitimate, if done in the proper context. Do you see the difference?
By the way, my sub-culture has issues, too, primarily around greed, laziness, and lack of commitment to our families. We've all got problems.
Some are saying right now that Obama's recent comment that he bowls as badly as the Special Olympics was stupid, but nothing to get upset about. I don't agree. What he was saying had nothing to do with truth, and everything to do with offense. To cause offense for no reason except to boost your own ego isn't just stupid. It reflects a fundamental character flaw.
Maybe he was just making a joke and it fell flat. We all make stupid jokes sometimes. But I don't think I've ever joked about the Special Olympics.
Especially not since 1996. That year I learned that the baby I was carrying had Down Syndrome. When we first found out, while I was still pregnant, it seemed like everyone was pressuring us to abort, especially the doctors. But we didn't. It wasn't that I was happy about the Down Syndrome. I was devastated. What if my son could never read? Would I have to care for him the rest of my life? Would he ever get married?
But after a few days of panic, we began to read more materials about Down's. And I became excited. I was going to be the best mom he could have!
I only had that chance for a month on this side of heaven. Christopher died far too early. The rest of my relationship with him will have to wait until we're reunited. But so many people plot against these little blessings. The doctors didn't want him to be born. Many of my friends didn't want him to be born. Keith's colleagues didn't want him to be born. And now Obama thinks he's the subject of a joke.
What are we becoming when we start making jokes about the weakest in our society? We're becoming cruel, heartless, and prideful. Did Obama intend to insult those with Down's? Of course not. Did he intend to insult those with other disabilities who compete in the Special Olympics? No, I don't think he did. But he made that comment anyway, without thinking. I would never do such a thing, anymore than I would make fun of Obama because he's black. Such things don't register with me, as I don't think they do with the majority of good-hearted folk.
But we live in a culture which denigrates the disabled without even thinking about it. When we realize what we’ve done, of course we apologize, but the point is that we don't realize it beforehand. If we truly valued the disabled, such slips wouldn't happen. Perhaps I'm taking this too personally because I still miss my son, but that's just the way I see it. Let’s start valuing people again for who they are, instead of using them as a springboard to make ourselves look better. Maybe then we’d have a society that truly does include everyone, whether they can bowl well or not.
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I wasn't sure whether or not to post on this, but I have some thoughts on Obama's Special Olympics gaffe, and I'd like to get them out.
First, a disclaimer. I completely believe in free speech. I am completely against political correctness. I don't think we should all second guess ourselves and watch what we say for fear of offending someone. For instance, I think people are far too scared to criticize some cultures because they may be labelled racist. But some cultures are bad, if not downright evil in some respects, and if we ignore things like Islamic honor killings or child marriage, we're doing a disservice to everyone.
But the reason that I dislike political correctness is that it distorts truth. It makes people watch what they say--EVEN IF IT IS THE TRUTH--so they don't offend. The key here is to avoid offense, not to speak the truth.
I'm in favour of truth, regardless of whether it causes offense (though, of course, we should also be tactful).
But that doesn't mean I'm in favour of causing offense if there's no truth behind it. Saying racist things against African Americans just because they're African Americans is wrong and should never be done. Saying that the African American community has an issue with illegitimacy should be done, in the proper context. Do you see the difference?
By the way, I think my culture has issues, too, primarily around lack of compassion, lack of fortitude in speaking up against moral relativism, and lack of commitment to our families. So we've all got problems.
Some are saying right now that Obama's comment that he bowls as badly as the Special Olympics was stupid, but nothing to get upset about. We should just leave it.
I don't agree. Though I'm not politically correct, I hope I don't go around gratuitously taking slaps at people just to make myself look better. And what he was saying had nothing to do with truth, and everything to do with offense. To cause offense for no reason except to boost your own ego isn't just stupid. It reflects a fundamental character flaw.
Now maybe he was just making a joke and it fell flat. We all make stupid jokes sometimes. But I don't think I've ever joked about the Special Olympics.
Especially not since 1996. Here's a picture of me with someone very dear to me. This was taken the night before my son Christopher had open heart surgery. Unfortunately, the surgery wasn't successful, and he died five days later. Christopher had Down Syndrome.
When we first found out, while I was still pregnant, it seemed like everyone was pressuring us to abort, especially the doctors. (You can read the story here). But we didn't.
It wasn't that I was happy about the Down Syndrome. I was devastated. What if my son could never read? Would I have to care for him the rest of my life? Would he ever get married?
But after a few days of panic, we began to read more and more materials about Down's. We joined listservs of Down Syndrome parents. And I became excited. I was going to be the best mom he could have!
I only had that chance for a month on this side of heaven. The rest of my relationship with him will have to wait until we're reunited. But so many people plot against these little blessings. The doctors didn't want him to be born. Many in my family didn't want him born. Keith's colleagues didn't want him born. And Obama thinks he's the subject of a joke.
What are we becoming when we start making jokes about the least of these? We're becoming cruel, heartless, and proud. It seems to me I remember Someone else saying something quite different about those who are maybe a little more helpless among us. He said, "whoever does this to the least of these my brothers does it to Me." So when Obama said that about the Special Olympics, he wasn't just talking about those with Down's. I know that sounds harsh, but that's what I think.
Did Obama intend to insult those with Down's? Of course not. Did he intend to insult those with other disabilities who compete in the Special Olympics? No, I don't think he did. But the point is he made that comment without thinking. I would never do such a thing, anymore than I would make fun of Obama because he's black. Such things don't register with me, as I don't think they do with the majority of good-hearted folk.
We live in a culture which denigrates the disabled without even thinking about it. When we realize what we do, of course we apologize, but the point is that we don't realize it. It's become so commonplace that it just slips out. And what does that say about us?
That's why I don't think it really matters whether he intended it or not. I don't think it matters whether he apologized (though I'm glad he did). And I do hope that he's learned to think a little bit more about those who are disabled.
But if we truly valued the disabled, such slips wouldn't happen. Canada really doesn't have the racist history that the United States does, and so I don't hear racist jokes. I really don't. We trained ourselves not to make them, because racism just isn't acceptable. So surely we can train ourselves not to make jokes about the disabled, either.
If we truly valued those with Down's, the way Jesus does, we won't make such jokes. Perhaps I'm taking this too personally because I still miss my son, but that's just the way I see it.
By the way, at the same time as I was learning about his gaffe, I was putting together a video trailer for my book, How Big Is Your Umbrella, which relates Christopher's story. I posted it the other day, but here it is again:
When my husband and I were in university my husband entered what was almost a depression. (I say almost because though most of his drives were gone--to sleep, to eat--he still had a sex drive! But that's another story).
He was in medical school, which is a brutal place for him to be. He was told day in and day out how stupid he was, how there was no way everyone in the class would pass, how they should know all this stuff by now, etc. etc. He had to memorize minutiae after minutiae, and he's more of an extraverted, hands on kind of person.
It was killing him.
But it was only temporary. And he couldn't see that. I could see that if he could just hang on for two more years, he'd be seeing actual patients and practising medicine, rather than just studying it. And that's a whole different ballgame.
Nevertheless, he was feeling very sorry for himself. Now I admit I wasn't the most sensitive sort. I get a little fed up when people mope. So I told him that everyday he had to think of five things to be thankful for, write them down, and pray over them. Even if they were little things, like seeing a sunrise, or having a child smile at him.
So he did. And it honestly helped. And in the fifteen years since, whenever he has felt depression coming on he has done exactly the same thing. He made it a point to always come up with five NEW things, so it was like a challenge. And everyday he was scouring everything that happened to find his five. So he was on the lookout for things to be grateful for, rather than for things to be upset about.
Over the years I have had to resort to this, too, because I have entered my fair share of down times. When we were having difficulty in our marriage in the first few years I had to do that: everyday, list five things I'm grateful for. It helped me focus on what I loved about him, rather than on what was bugging me. And it really did give me a different attitude.
And when my son was sick, before he passed away, everyday I would write down five things that were great about that day. I knew that our days with him were numbered, and I didn't want to forget anything. The night before his surgery, which only had a 25% chance of survival, I sat with him and made a whole list of the wonderful things about him I didn't want to forget. Here are a couple of them:
1. How he just loved his soother! 2. How he had such spunk, kicking the nurses everytime they came to poke him. He was a fighter! 3. How his little tongue would push out the medicine because he didn't like it, but he'd always calm down as soon as you held him. 4. How he sighed contentedly while I was holding him when he was feeding. 5. Singing to him while I was hugging him and he was sleeping.
And the list goes on to 99 things.
I remember crying while I was writing it, and I'm even tearing up now, because I do miss him. But it helped me to focus on the positive during a very difficult time.
That's what thankfulness is for. It makes us search out positive things, rather than focusing on the negative. Many of us have tendencies to dwell on all the injustices done to us, or all the things we have failed to do or accomplish. An attitude of thankfulness changes that.
I truly believe that if more people became thankful fewer would become depressed. So I practice thankfulness.
It's not Thanksgiving where I live. We had it last month. But to all my American friends, I wish you a wonderful day full of yummy turkey, peaceful relatives, and others who are more than willing to do the dishes!
And for all of us, wherever we may be, I wish that God may help us to focus on our blessings, so that the trials pale by comparison.
I don't think it's wrong to yell at God. After all, most of the Psalms are just David yelling at God. I think we read them wrong. We tend to read them in a pretty reading voice like this:
"O God, where are you? I am surrounded by enemies and pressed down, and I cry out to you."
But I think David said it like this:
"O GOOOOOOOODDDDD!!!!! Where are YOU?!? !? I am SURROUNDED by ENEMIES here, God, and I'm pressed down!!!!!"
You know what I mean? And since God knows what we're thinking anyway, we may as well be honest and yell it out.
There have been times in my life when I've yelled a lot at God. When my son was diagnosed with a terminal heart defect, I was devastated. I cried. And I yelled.
But one of the things that made me scared to yell too much was the idea that I might tick God off. And if there was any chance He was going to save Christopher, I had to be picture perfect and figure out what God was trying to teach me through this.
At some level, I thought that if I could just figure out what God was trying to say, then maybe the pain would go away. Maybe Christopher would get better. Maybe the grief would lessen.
What God showed me was that I was asking the wrong questions. I was making the whole thing about me, rather than about God. And I was misunderstanding the way that God works.
If you're having trouble walking through suffering, or if you've ever cried out to God and tried to figure out how to appease Him, this might help. It's an article I wrote about some of the things that I learned when I was walking through that really hard time. Is death a punishment? Is God really mad at me? If you've ever felt that, I hope that these words can help you see His love through whatever storm you're going through.
C.S. Lewis, after the death of his wife, remarked that grief felt a lot like fear. It was the same sickening pit in your stomach that precedes something truly awful. That’s what I felt, too. But what is it, exactly, that we’re afraid of? Facing the future alone? Forgetting? Or that this feeling will never end?
Perhaps it’s a combination of all of them. After Christopher’s death I was scared simultaneously of forgetting and of never being able to cope well again. During his illness and after his death I wailed many questions at God to try to make sense out of what was happening to me. In many ways, though, this quest was self-serving. I reasoned that if I could just find the reason for this storm, then it would stop. So I searched my repertoire of explanations for suffering in order to make sense of it. As I did so, these are the questions that vexed me.
This summer, when we were in Alaska, I met some crazy people. People who race dogs for 1000 miles. People who willingly choose to live in the bush with no electricity in minus 50 degree weather. People who fly little float planes instead of drive cars.
And I loved them all.
What an awesome state! Everybody there seemed independent, responsible, motivated, fun, and definitely a character.
Plus they had great yarn shops.
And great scenery.
But on with my story.
When our cruise ship stopped in Juneau, I saw a little handmade soap shop called "The Glacier Smoothie". They make awesome creams and soaps using silt from the glaciers, which acts as an exfoliant. It is really luxurious.
I bought some gifts there, and as I was paying, I happened to look on top of the door. There, in calligraphy, was a Bible verse--I look to the hills, from whence cometh my help. The white-haired man smiled at me when I commented that it was a beautiful verse, and he went on to say that without God you can't really do anything.
I agreed with him, and we talked for a bit.
Then, to show my dazzlingly amazing knowledge of American politics and bond with this kind gentleman, who reminded me of a Matthew Cuthbert, I said, "I've just been praying for Sarah Palin, and I hope that McCain names her VP."
All of a sudden his eyes lit up, and he said that he believed that God had put her in this place for a purpose, and that he's been preparing her for something greater. She has stood for God through thick and thin, even through some big attacks on her for her faith. He told me that he believed that when you stand for God, God gives you more responsibility. And she has proven herself worthy of that.
The main attack, he said, came this year when she chose not to abort her son with Down Syndrome.
Here's what the Wikipedia entry says about Palin's children:
From Wikipedia:
On September 11, 2007, the Palins' son Track joined the Army. Eighteen years old at the time, he is the eldest of Palin's five children.[10] Track now serves in an infantry brigade and will be deployed to Iraq in September. She also has three daughters: Bristol, 17, Willow, 13, and Piper, 7.[11] On April 18, 2008, Palin gave birth to her second son, Trig Paxson Van Palin, who has Down syndrome.[12] She returned to the office three days after giving birth.[13] Palin refused to let the results of prenatal genetic testing change her decision to have the baby. "I'm looking at him right now, and I see perfection," Palin said. "Yeah, he has an extra chromosome. I keep thinking, in our world, what is normal and what is perfect?"[13]
(I don't think it says that today; her post is being changed with the news).
Anyway, she was lambasted for having a fifth child, and then for not aborting, but she held on anyway.
As this man told me about Palin, and her integrity, I shared with him my own story about my child with Down Syndrome. And he looked at me with compassion, and said, "So you understand."
More customers came into the store then, so I took my things and left. I didn't want to. You knw how sometimes you encounter someone and your heart just yearns to sit with them and talk for a lifetime or two? I don't get that very often, but I did with this gentleman. But my father-in-law and mother-in-law were waiting for me, and my husband was hoping I didn't spend all our money, so it was time to go.
Talking with him just made my day, and even my cruise. It's such a little thing, but when I think of all the people I met in Alaska, this quiet man with deep conviction about "I look to the hills, from whence comes my help" is who I recall. I look forward to meeting him on the other side.
I suppose McCain sat up this morning, and perhaps said the same thing about Palin--"I look to the mountains, from whence comes my help." And hopefully he saw behind those mountains to the One who made them, too.
I have no idea who will win the election. I do think Palin is a good choice. It's time a woman was VP pick again, and she brings the energy issue front and center, where it should be. Certainly I would prefer McCain, it's true, but I know God's in charge, and I'm Canadian and can't vote anyway.
But to have Palin there, on this day, is so meaningful to me. After being told again and again to abort my son, and choosing to give him life, and still having people second guess me, to have her there is like God smiling on me.
I can't explain it, but thirteen years ago today we were sitting in the Intensive Care Unit watching my son post-surgery. And he was not doing particularly well. We would only have him for another five days.
Usually this week is one of the hardest in the year for me.
But today, I think that a woman who deliberately stood against both the abortion lobby and the group that would belittle Down Syndrome people is potentially in a position of great moral authority. And I'm so glad she's there. May God be with you, Sarah.
Katrina over at Callapidder Days has a beautiful tribute up to her father, who died thirteen years ago. The post is a reprint from two years ago, hence it's called Eleven Years, but don't let that confuse you!
A little bit:
But the one thing that breaks my heart, the one thing that I think of in the late days of August every year...is that my kids won't have the joy of knowing him in this life. And oh, how he would have loved them. He would have bounced them on his knee, told them corny jokes, tossed them giggling onto the bed long after I asked him to stop. He would have coaxed a giggle from Logan. And he would have absolutely loved Camden's analytical, inquisitive mind, and the hilarious things that come out of his mouth. And I just know that my boys would have adored their Grandpa.
It's interesting because my son was transferred to the Hospital for Sick Children thirteen years ago today, too, and he never left. He never recovered from his surgery. So I guess Katrina and I have something in common! Anyway, go read her story, and then read this post I just wrote about grief.
Every Friday my syndicated column appears in over a dozen newspapers. This week I focused on Canada and the Olympics. Since that has limited interest to some of my American readers, who are basking in Phelps' glory, I thought I'd reprint one of my favourite columns from a few years ago.
This particular column garnered me more email than any other. It inspired me to start writing more about Christopher (up until then I had always found it too painful) because it obviously touched people. And best of all, this appeared in secular newspapers.
In a few days I’ll take my girls to the cemetery, for one of our regular visits on the anniversary of their brother’s death. It’s been eight years now, but the pain still hits when you least expect it.
Last week, in my hometown, another set of parents endured the unimaginable, this time because their seven-year-old drowned in a tragic accident. I’m sure, though, that they are not the only ones with fresh wounds. There are others who are grieving today: parents who have miscarried, or lost a baby like I did, or had accidents, whether or not it hit the news. Even if it happened long ago, such grief does not just evaporate. After my son died, I realized that one cannot comfort a grieving parent as one would like to, because there are no words. But one can listen, one can hug, and one can pray. And so I would like to share some of my thoughts and prayers for those of us who have entered this horrible fraternity of grieving parents, in the hopes that it may help some of you, too.
When a child dies it feels as if the physical laws of the universe have been violated. You needed that child far more than you need the very oxygen you breathe, and yet that child is gone, and your lungs keep working. Your very breath is a betrayal, and squeezes your chest worse than any violence ever could. So I pray that you will be able to take each breath, and that eventually simply living won’t hurt like this anymore.
And I pray that in your grief you and your spouse will be able to turn to each other. The death of a child strains a marriage in a way little else does. It’s not fair, but you face a crossroads. I pray you will walk this valley together, and that the journey will strengthen you, rather than separate you.
I pray that people will surround you with practical help, that they will hug and that they will listen. I pray that your friends won’t scatter because they feel awkward, but that they will be patient, even when the grief seems to be lasting longer than others think it should. I pray that if your grief is from a miscarriage or a stillbirth, people will still understand the depth of your pain.
I also pray that you will be able to take each day as it comes. When a child dies, and especially a baby who did not have the chance to become part of your daily routine, on the outside it is almost as if he or she never existed. And yet, for you that child was your very heart. If you let go of the grief, it is as if you are letting go of the last thing that ties you to your baby. Remember, though, that grief is not something that disappears. Sometimes grief is overt, but other times you feel fine. I pray that you will embrace those moments when you feel peace, because there will be moments—even if it’s days, weeks, or years later—when the grief will return, unbidden, in full force. Be grateful for good days and do not feel guilty for them. Smiling is not betraying your child.
At the same time, I pray that when those good days become the norm, even if it’s years down the road, that you will not feel like you are going crazy if the grief suddenly hits you hard again. You’re not regressing, or starting at square one. This is the way of grief, and know that it never completely disappears. If we are honest, we probably wouldn’t want it any other way. So I pray that in those moments when you can’t breathe again that you will still experience peace, and know that this intensity will again subside.
I pray that you will remember that everyday that passes is not one more day further away from your child, but instead one more day that you are closer to meeting him or her again.
And finally, I pray that one day you will be able to remember with laughter, and not just with tears.
Amen.
If you have a friend who is grieving, or if you yourself are enduring a big loss, my book How Big Is Your Umbrella can help. It's a short, encouraging read about the things we yell at God, and what He whispers back.
If you're more the listening type, you can download talks that I gave on the subject, including Do You Believe God Loves You? and the conference, Extreme Makeover, both of which contain Christopher's story. You can also choose CDs of them both.
And finally, if you just want a copy of this column in book form, it's available in Reality Check, my collection of columns, which is on super special just until Labor Day!
I had a crush on a boy named Walker. I hated Amy, a girl in my class. I used to fake asthma attacks to get out of gym.
I would run with my dog Brandy all around our farm property. I did the Thirty Minute Workout in the summer to an aerobics show. I hated my hair, and wished it was wavy like Farrah Fawcett's.
I loved The Love Boat, especially when they had young people on. I wanted to grow up.
My son would have been 12 today. And I'm just feeling a little blue. I'm visiting some friends right now, which is why I haven't posted in a bit. We're going home tonight. If I were home I'd post a picture, but I'm on my friend's computer, and it's only dial up at that. But I just felt like remembering his birthday.
The holes in his heart meant he never even made it to one birthday. Instead, on the day he would have turned one we had a new baby, who is now 11, and I love her very much. But I always think of my little boy on August 6, and I look forward to seeing him again.
Shannon over at Rocks in My Dryer has a post up called Life and Death about how her grandmother's death happened at the same time as her wedding, and how the intermingling of those two things affected her life. It's really beautiful.
In my life the two have also often come hand in hand.
A few weeks after my son died we threw a party for my mother. It was her tenth anniversary from her cancer surgery, and so I had a "glad you're not dead" party. Many thought it was in poor taste, but I couldn't figure out what they were objecting to. Should we have had a "wish you were dead" party?
It was strange to be celebrating my mother's life just as we were mourning my son's death, but such is the stuff of life. And I was so glad that she was there to help walk me through it.
The real life-death dichotomy came for me, though, because I got pregnant with Katie just 10 weeks after Christopher died. In fact, she was born July 27; his birthday would have been August 6.
We asked to know what sex she was while I was pregnant, because I so desperately wanted a boy. When it was a girl I was disappointed, but not for long. And today I just can't picture anybody but my Katie. I'm so glad God gave me another little girl.
My girls are good friends, probably better than they would have been had she been a boy. And she was never a replacement baby.
It was strange to be nursing one child while crying for the one that is missing, and yet it was wonderful just the same. Katie never replaced Christopher; what she did was give me someone to hug when I was lonely. And Katie came out of the womb an affectionate baby. She always wanted to be hugged, quite the opposite of Rebecca. I felt that she was God's gift to me.
She realized a few years ago the significance of her birthday. She said to me, "Mommy, if Christopher had lived, I wouldn't have been born, would I?". That was a tough one, because the truth is no. But I said to her what I see as the truth: I said, "God gave you to me as my gift, and I am so grateful for you."
She likes coming to the graveyard and putting flowers on the grave of the brother she never knew. I heard her introducing herself to another child last week at the Track and Field meet, and she said, "I have one sister here and one brother in heaven." I didn't know she talked about Christopher like that, but it was nice to hear her say it.
I often think of the song, "Blessed Be Your Name", and the Bridge, "you give and take away". For me it's always been the opposite: you take away and give. God has always taken first.
My fiance broke up with me; then he came back and we married. I miscarried; then I had Rebecca. Christopher died; then I had Katie. But I keep coming back to that: He gives and takes away. And If I can praise Him in both, then I have learned a lot indeed.
I've given conferences talking about what it means when you feel like God has ripped things away. To listen in, go here.
I'm partway through Surprised by Joy by C.S. Lewis in the Spring Reading Thing challenge, and it's like entering another world. He just writes so beautifully. I wish I could express things like that. It's almost like standing and staring at a Monet painting from a distance.
Anyway, Surprised by Joy is his sorta-autobiography. He deals at length on his childhood, because, as he says, one's childhood is always the most interesting part of one's life, and it's integral to understanding his conversion story. He's only about 14 at the point where I stopped for the night, so I can't comment on anything more.
But a few thoughts for the journey.
He differentiates Joy from Happiness. The only thing joy has in common, he believes, is that once you experience it you want it again. But unhappiness or grief could even be part of joy. It is almost an other-worldly, intense experience that is quite glorious. I know what he means.
And that brings me to what really struck me tonight. But for that I have to back up.
Eleven years ago I had a beautiful baby boy, perfect to my sight except for a defect in his heart that, much as the doctors tried, could not be repaired. You can read a little bit about his life here, in one of the first articles I published, or look at a longer book I wrote about the journey of grief here. Suffice it to say that I know how grief and joy can be intermingled.
A year after my Christopher died Katie arrived, and she has always been my huggy-bear and a great comfort. But I still miss my little peanut.
On the night that he died we actually weren't expecting it. It was five days post-surgery, and we left the hospital at 9:30 at night to go home and get some rest. The last thing I said to him was "Mommy loves you, sweetheart."
When the phone rang at 1:30 that morning I knew the worst had come. We hurried down to the hospital, and a doctor told us that they had done all they could.
And then they brought his body out to us.
I wish they hadn't. There is something absolutely horrid about dead bodies, because you know they're dead before you even touch them. You can tell. It wasn't him. And I didn't want to remember that way.
For my husband, holding him was catharctic. I wish I never had. Few people understand that when I explain it. After all, we live in an age when open coffins are the norm. But C.S. Lewis agreed with me, so I feel in very good company.
This is what he says after the death of his mother:
I was taken into the bedroom where my mother lay dead; as they said, "to see her," in reality, as I at once knew, "to see it". there was nothing that a grown-up would call disfigurement, except for that total disfigurement which is death itself. Grief was overwhelmed in terror. To this day I do not know what they mean when they call dead bodies beautiful.
I know exactly what he meant.
And perhaps it's appropriate for me to be thinking about this on Holy Thursday, the time when Jesus was agonizing in the garden. In just a few short hours his mother would be anointing his body for burial, all the life taken out of it. It would no longer be Him.
And yet, in that moment He truly did defeat death, so that this empty shell of a human being is not all that remains anymore. And not just that, but the desecration of what was supposed to be life that the dead body shows has been redeemed, and we will one day see it in all its fullness.
I know tonight, somewhere in heaven, as the saints praise our Lamb once again, my grandmother is standing next to my son, and laughing over him. And I will join them one day, and then the image I have of Christopher will not be some desecration, but instead his glorious body that was made possible only because Jesus gave up His own body. And for that I am eternally grateful.
About Me: I'm a Christian author of a bunch of books, and a frequent speaker to women's groups and marriage conferences. Best of all, I love homeschooling my daughters, Rebecca and Katie. And I love to knit. Preferably simultaneously.
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