by jphilo | Jan 16, 2012 | Family
Yesterday afternoon, Hiram went for a run.
The event hardly seems worth mentioning when compared to news of the cruise ship that capsized near Italy, the secretary general of the UN chastising the king of Syria, the race for the Republican presidential nomination, or outgoing governor Haley Barbour pardoning more than 200 convicted felons during his last hour in office.
But Hiram’s run is worth mentioning.
Because this is January in Iowa, a month written off by most joggers as too icy and cold for running outdoors. But this winter, the roads are still ice free and the temperatures much warmer than usual.
But excluding the weather, Hiram’s run is still worth mentioning.
Because it is a grace beyond what many men my husband’s age have been granted. We are surrounded by evidence of this reality. Hiram cares for patients who can’t walk because of serious heart issues. The memory of my wheelchair bound, fifty-five-year-old father in the nursing home never leaves us. We are praying for friends our age and younger who’ve recently had knee surgeries and hip replacements.
But Hiram’s run is worth mentioning for another reason.
In the past year and a half, four friends have lost their husbands. One to cancer. One to suicide. One to the effects of Agent Orange exposure in Viet Nam. One to a brain aneurysm. Two of them were younger than Hiram. Two were older, but not by much.
But Hiram was alive yesterday and went for a run.
His run is worthy of more than a mere mention. It is worthy of thanksgiving, even when my alive-and-well husband who went for a run yesterday forgets to take out the garbage. It is worthy of gratitude, especially when his sweaty running clothes in the bedroom hamper make the room stink. It is an event for which I am usually not grateful enough.
Except for today, when I thank God for my husband who went for a run yesterday.
by jphilo | Jan 13, 2012 | Reviews
Gratitude.
Thanksgiving.
Mindfulness.
These are lessons God has taught me over and over in the past decade. Through times of joy and sorrow, in everyday events and extraordinary ones, he had showed me the importance of gratitude, thanksgiving, and mindfulness in all things.
So in one sense, I was prepared to read and appreciate the life lessons author Ann Voskamp shares in One Thousand Gifts. In another sense, the book was a delightful surprise. Page by page, Voskamp unwrapped God’s lessons using word pictures and poetic prose that took my breath away time and time again.
She can transform a walk through a field of wheat stubble and everyday life into an altar of worship:
The wheat stubble scratches my legs as I walk in the fields. One hand fingers the hem of my splotchy apron. I am going back. I look up…reluctant to untether from the moon. The world I live in is loud and blurring and toilets plug and I get speeding tickets and the dog gets sick all over the back step and I forget everything and these six kids lean hard into me all day to teach and raise and lead and I fail hard and there are real souls that are at stake and how long do I really have to figure out how to live full of grace, full of joy-before these six beautiful children fly the coop and my mothering days fold up quiet? How do you open the eyes to see how to take the daily, domestic, workday vortex and invert it into the dome of an everyday cathedral?
Every page is like that. Every paragraph is a feast of the everyday turned exceptional. Every chapter is so rich it’s best eaten in moderation, one or two pages at a time. Slowly, with plenty of chewing in between bites. Plenty of time to sit at the table with Voskamp and taste God and find him good in a way you’ve never tasted him before. Though her word pictures are rich, Voskamp is also aware of and transparent about her personal frailty and failures. She doesn’t put herself above readers, but invites them to walk with her, equal in hunger and need for God.
One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp is more than a good read. It’s a must read for Christ followers serious about their faith.
by jphilo | Dec 13, 2011 | Different Dream, Self-Care and Stress, Special Needs Parenting
Guest blogger April Brownlee is back with another serious-but-funny look at life as the parent of a child with special needs. Today, she talks about the special needs parenting obsessions that constantly run through her head. See if what she has sounds familiar.
Special Needs Parenting Obsessions Confessed
I think a lot about how rationally I do or don’t handle my daughter’s medical situation. I try to be proactive with her care, but in turn, am I constantly picking her over looking for something to be wrong? Sometimes I assume she can’t do certain things and then she does them and I wonder do I underestimate her too often? Or do I take it easy on her when she really doesn’t need me to cut her a break?
Finding the Right Balance
It’s so hard to find the right balance, but I feel especially challenged because my child falls into this “”gray” area. She has a syndrome and, from what I can tell, she’s somewhat mildly affected. For the most part, her symptoms can’t be seen. No one sees her spaghetti muscles. No one knows that sometimes she can’t muster the strength to walk another step and I end up lugging 40-pounds of five-year-old and curly hair around. No one sees something discombobulated in her stomach, resulting in all sorts of bizarre GI difficulties. No one sees these things but those of us who care for her. And in so many ways, I think that makes our job harder. No one is cognizant of the challenges Catie faces each day. And if I bring it up, I’m often met with confusion, because
(a) no one knows what Noonan Syndrome is and
(b) is she really that bad when she looks so good?
And since most people don’t see Catie’s issues, if I complain or cry or worry, will people think I’m begging for attention? Will they think I’m exaggerating the situation. Or worse, will those whose children are more affected think I’m pathetic and wimpy?
Questions I Obsess Over
I obsess about these questions from time to time. Not all the time. But sometimes. Like recently, when I decided Catie needs a new stroller. A bigger stroller. A special needs stroller to accommodate her as she grows. Not some ginormous contraption. Just an umbrella-type stroller that will allow us to always have a seat for her. She can walk just fine, but she fatigues easily and has chronic leg pain that often leaves her screaming in the middle of the night. I felt sheepish asking our physical therapist for a letter of medical necessity so insurance will help cover the cost of the stroller, even though I knew she would understand. I felt very ridiculous asking our pediatrician to write a prescription for a stroller. Yet, I felt empowered when I picked up the script with the words “Maclaren Major” written on it. And then, I felt deflated when other parents cautioned me about what people will say when they see a big kid in a stroller. I can read their disaproving glares now.
Good grief. Make that kid walk. I swear, parents today…
And worse, will they think I’m completely malfunctioning when they see Catie in a stroller and her little brother is walking? Probably, considering most people take one look at Catie and have no idea about her condition.
A Profound Tex-versation
Not long ago, around the same time I was contemplating having a pity party for Catie (and for me), I had a profound conversation with my husband’s cousin Leslie. By text. Because, it seems, we mom’s can’t manage to find time for actual conversations anymore. God bless Steve Jobs because I am convinced that without my iPhone I would be out-of-control-unorganized and completely devoid of friends.
Anyway, back to the text-versation. I thanked Leslie for a book she bought for me, which happens to be the original Different Dream book.(Maybe you’ve heard of it?) Leslie’s 18-month old is diabetic. I worry about them. And it was nice to know she thinks of me, too.
ME: Thanks for thinking of me! We moms of kids with issues have to stick together!”
LELSIE: I hate to put myself in the same boat as you because I don’t feel like my struggels compare to yours. I don’t know if I’m in denial about the seriousness of it or if it’s really not that bad. Maybe our struggles are just different. But equally “bad” so to speak.
ME: Oh my gosh! Diabetes is awfu!. I can’t imagine! I think you have it worse than me! But, I’ve learned that no one has the right to make you feel like your trials are trivial. Unless someone has been in your shoes, it’s unfair to judge. And I agree, our situations are different, but bad enough to change our lives forever and make it all so much harder.
LESLIE: It’s funny to me that neither of us would want to swap even though we don’t necessarily enjoy our struggles. That’s why I say each person has to deal with their own situation and can’t compare to other people. Your struggle is yours and mine is mine AND they all SUCK!
Realizations in Hindsight
Looking back on that conversation I’ve realized two things:
- I abuse exclamation points, and
- Leslie and I both shared great words of wisdom with each other, but apparently, we haven’t managed to sell it to ourselves.
That conversation was full of things I should repeat over and over and over to myself:
- No one has the right to make you feel like your trials are trivial. Especially if they haven’t walked in your shoes.
- Our struggles are different, but they’re still struggles that changed our lives forever.
- And they all suck.
But in the end, I’m still so grateful for what I’m constantly learning from all of this. For as much worrying and contemplating as I feel I do, I’ve also come to the realization that it all has made me me so much more grateful for every single minute of life.
Special Needs Parenting Obsessions Confession Time for You
I won’t ask if you can you identify with April’s propensity to obsessively question her performance as the parent of a child with special needs. Instead I’ll cut to the chase and ask what special needs parenting obsessions you grapple with? This is a place where you can share them, knowing others will understand. So comment…obsessively if you like.
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by jphilo | Nov 30, 2010 | Daily Life
Between the holiday hubbub and writing the first draft of Different Dream Parenting, time continually runs short. So I’ll be implementing some conservation efforts for however long it takes to complete the first draft – hopefully only a month or two.
First, I’m stocking up on peanut butter, spaghetti sauce, and Uncle Ben’s Rice, ingredients for quick and easy meals. Second, I’m swearing off housework and letting the dust mount between the cleaning lady’s visits. (The sacrifices I make in the name of art!)
Third, once a week I’ll recycle some blog posts from previous years. When Prairie Home Companion rebroadcasts former episodes, Garrison Keillor calls them “encore performances. But I prefer “recycle” which sounds more environmentally friendly and more Lutheran with its overtones of frugality and sacrifice. Funny Garrison didn’t think of that.
But I digress. Back to today’s recycled post, Hand Lotion Grace. It first appeared on December 6, 2007. Reading it makes me thankful for today’s weather conditions, which are windy and cold, but without ice or snow. And it makes me grateful for the many modern conveniences I take for granted too often, including hand lotion.
Hand Lotion Grace – Recycled
The weather turned cold here right around Thanksgiving, and it’s stayed cold ever since. Nobody was quite ready for it, except the local ski hill owners, but I thought I was adjusting pretty well. Every morning I dressed warmly and took my morning walk, until last Saturday when a mixture of sleet, rain and snow coated Iowa roads with two inches of ice. No more walks down my gravel road until there’s a thaw and the forecast doesn’t hold hope for one.
So I find creative ways to exercise indoors and try not to whine about the cold, but last night I started complaining. I was snuggled in bed, able to concentrate on my reading once my body heat had warmed the sheets. Then I noticed my hands were dry, itchy dry. I needed hand lotion, but that would mean getting out of the warm bed and shivering in the cool air again. Finally, I made a run for the lotion and then dived into bed again.
As the sheets warmed and my hands softened, my heart did too. I thought about all the women before me who never have hand lotion and how painful their cracked, chapped skin must have been. And if they had anything to rub into their skin, I wondered how bad the lard or goose grease smelled, and how cold the run from bed to lotion and back was for them. My attitude changed as I rubbed my hands and thought about those pioneer women. Instead of complaining, I was grateful for a warm house, for new sheets and a comfortable bed, for smooth skin and for legs that function.
So I’m coining a new phrase – hand lotion grace. Whenever I get whiny this winter, a sure symptom that my attitude is growing calloused, I’ll head for my hand lotion and let it’s luxurious grace soften my dry hands and my hard heart.
While I’m thinking of it, I’d better add hand lotion to my shopping list. I’ll need a lot of it this winter.
by jphilo | Nov 4, 2009 | Church Newsletter Columns
…in everything give thanks
For this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.
I Thessalonians 5:18
This morning I was a wee bit discontent during my morning walk because it was 7:00 AM and still dark.
I hate walking in the dark.
A few minutes later the sun rose, and the temperature dipped, as it often does in the chilly, late autumn dawn. My hands were double-gloved, but they went numb in the cold.
I hate it when my fingers go numb.
To get my blood flowing, I walked faster. Pretty soon my hands warmed up and the sun rose higher, bright in the cloudless sky. The brightness made me squint, and my eyes started to water.
I hate squinty, watery eyes.
A little later, my path curved, and I no longer faced the sun. A peculiar scritchy, scratchy sound came from a nearby parking lot,so l turned to see what it was. A shivering young man was scraping the frost off the windshield of his car. For the first time in a long time, I thought of our years in South Dakota when we never had a garage.
I hated scraping the windshield on frosty mornings before work in those days.
Inside me, a voice whispered. You don’t have to scrape windows anymore. You don’t even have to leave home to work any more.
I looked up and blinked. The sky was an intense, chilly October morning blue. The sun blazed bright and turn the thick carpet of frost into a field of glittering diamonds. The air smelled fresh, as satisfying as a drink of cold water on a hot day.
Suddenly, I was grateful for the still, chilly air stinging my cheeks. I was grateful for a sunny day after so many cloudy ones, grateful for this strange, cold month, grateful for a garage, grateful to the God who put me in this place on this day in this weather he had chosen.
“Forgive me, Father,” I whispered. Then I walked home, smiling and squinting at the sun.
