Time is the Strangest Thing

But do not forget this one thing, dear friends: With the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day.  ~ 2 Peter 3:8

How it can be the middle of March already? Have you seen those little green sprouts in people's yards?

While I'm thrilled for spring and warmer weather to come, it's as if the calendar is mocking me. "You silly woman, you're behind - again!"

Time…the clock, the calendar, the seasons, the rising and setting of the sun. 

Our finite minds need to measure it. Even still, it can trick us. 

For example, when I was in my twenties and even my thirties, I thought my fifties were eons away. 

Eons.

Now that I’m half way through my fifties, I don’t dare make the same mistake and pretend that I can’t imagine my seventies. Lesson learned. I can't stop a new decade or even slow it down.

But I do sometimes wonder how it is that I arrived here so quickly. 

My husband Jeff and I have been parents for 31 years. (The most blessed years of my life for sure) So it makes sense to me to approach this mystery not by age, but by parenting seasons.

If you’re not a parent, I hope you don't mind indulging me this simple analogy . . . 

When our two sons were little and I was a stay at home mom, time did not fly by. 

Repeat. Did not fly by. 

That’s because I was trying to do 100 things in an hour. One hundred seemingly necessary things.

Raising babies and toddlers was precious to me, yes, but undeniably exhausting. I’d fall into bed wondering how I was going to do it all over again the next day. 

When our sons were in elementary school and old enough to be busy with sports and music and friends, time sped up. 

It was great fun to witness their games, their concerts, and have their friends over. There were meals together and stories about school, and chats at bedtime. That parenting season was rich and full, and for the most part, seemed to drift by at an enjoyable pace. 

Which brings us to high school. Time didn’t just fly by. It was more like a blur. 

Our van went in the driveway, out of the driveway, in the driveway, out of the driveway. 

Thank goodness for photos that remind us of all their events, their special moments, their milestones. Those photos assure me, "Yes, it all really happened."  

It's as if time was our king and we were the subjects. Meals together at home happened less often. Moments for just the four of us were rare. 

And college? How did time feel during their college years?

Sort of like watching fireworks. You wait excitedly for them to begin. Once they start, you wait for the next reunion with them to burst into the sky. Those years began with great anticipation and ended with pride, clouded by the disbelief that they were over. 

(I totally sound like my Dad right now! He was a reflective soul who pondered things like time.) 

It's not that time is necessarily our enemy. But it does march on. There's no changing that. And eventually, we all find ourselves stumped at how quickly it passed us by. 

But that's what makes time so precious. We know it never stops for us, and so we do our best to make friends with it.

To give each day a chance to matter.  

With all the kindness in my heart, I pray that today you will witness someone's laughter. Better yet, be the one that makes them laugh. Or dry their tears. Listen for a little while. See beauty and point it out. Sing in the kitchen. Dance with your child. Show appreciation for your mate. Reach out to a friend. Smile at the elderly person in the grocery store. 

Above all, pray. Thank God for all of it. The mundane, the spectacular, the difficult and the easy.

Because all of it marches on. 

The sound of your laughter, your smile

These things are never changing

But Monday I blink, and it's Friday

I wish we could slow it down

Saturday, Sunday, now Monday

Another week starting over

Seconds to minutes to hours

Here's what I've found

Time is illusion

Time is a curse

Time is all these things and worse

But our time is now, oh yes

our time is now

Let us sing before our time runs out

(lyrics from Our Time is Now by Amy Grant)

He Called her Jeanie

(The writer's grandfather. And loving Dad to Jeanie.)

It was 1931.

Babies were not supposed to be born to single mothers.

When a young woman found herself “in that condition”, she was sent away.  

Far away.

Not spoken about.

And there was shame. A lot of shame.

So what about the child? Innocent…having no part in the means of her existence.  

God, in His mercy, had a plan. Long before she ever was, He formed a family of broken pieces. An abandoned child, a couple unable to conceive.

He was a furniture delivery man. She was a homemaker. They had a garden.

She became theirs when she was only three days old. She would be their only child.

Her mother cared for her and taught her things a young lady should know.  Cooking, cleaning, sewing, ironing.

But she was daddy’s girl.

He was the one she went to for everything. He adored her and said yes when mother said no.

He called her Jeanie. His endearing love for her was evident with the adding of “ie’ to her middle name. He always called her Jeanie. Mother only used her first name.

When she wanted a bicycle and mother said no…he bought her one. When she wanted to play the clarinet, mother said no…but he made sure she was in the band. When mother wanted to sew her prom dress, daddy gave her cash for a store bought one…made of the finest satin.

Things that we speak freely about these days were off limit topics back then. Adoption was such a topic. They never told her she was adopted. She learned of it when a family member blurted it out one day.

The icy sting of reality never left. She loved her parents. But now she was curious…and hurting.

She didn’t ask questions. They never knew that she knew. The longing to know her truth grew over the years.

Greater than her longing however, was her love for her father. It would hurt him deeply if he knew she was searching for information about her biological parents. Records from that era were sealed. She was left wondering.

Her daddy lived a long life and closed his eyes for the last time when he was well into his eighties. Jeanie felt lost. Again. Orphaned for a second time.

She faithfully cared for her mother until her passing. But it was him that she missed. He was the one that made her feel loved. And whole.

A law was passed some years later that opened adoption records. She learned who her birth parents were. Teenagers. An unlikely pairing.

Her teen mother later married, having more children. She passed before they could meet. And though contact was made with extended family members, there was no interest in getting acquainted.

Her birth father’s life tragically ended at a young age. No contact was made with his family.

I find it remarkable in this life that some people, who are supposed to love you, can choose to ignore your existence.

While others can choose to love you and leave you yearning for them until your very own last day.

Love bears all things…believes all things…hopes all things…endures all things.

Love never fails.

Love called her Jeanie.

Being a Warrior in My Own Home

Let’s be honest, most of my days are filled with cleaning dishes, entertaining a whiny toddler and putting things back in their places after said toddler blows through the house like a hurricane.

Seriously, toothpaste ends up in the kitchen, socks under the dining table, cooking spatulas in the shoe bucket. I’m thankful our house is a little bungalow or else it would take me hours to go from room to room replacing things.

A good day usually means I get a shower in. Actually, a good day means I get some writing in. I usually opt for the keyboard over the shampoo when given twenty quiet minutes, sorry hubby.

It all seems the exact opposite of being a warrior on a battlefield. Warriors wear armor, shout battle cries, risk their lives and gain glory each and every single day.

I am fascinated with King David’s Mighty Men in the Bible, who have crazy tales of admirable feats. There’s one story in which David says he wishes he could have a drink of water from the well in his hometown. At the time, his hometown of Bethlehem was occupied by the enemy, the Philistines. That’s no problem for three of David’s Mighty Men. They risk their lives, breach enemy lines and smuggle back a pouch of water for David’s parched throat. (2 Samuel 23:15-17)

At another time, one of David’s men, Benaiah, fights with a lion and wins. (2 Samuel 23:20)

And a third battle that fascinates me is when Eleazar stands his ground against the Philistines while his army flees. The Bible says his sword became fused to his hand. Thanks to God, Eleazar beats the Philistines almost single-handedly. (2 Samuel 23:9-10)

Glory and honor. Fighting against a dark force and beating the odds.

Minus the blood and guts, there’s something really cool about being a warrior. It’s being called to fight for something, it’s taking action against a dark enemy, it’s finding courage when there really shouldn’t be any.

So I’ve been toying with the idea that maybe I CAN be a warrior—in my own home. Maybe I’m in training. A young Jedi, I suppose. (I got you, Star Wars fans.)

I fight for my family and I fight hard. I fight to keep our basic needs met—ya know food on the table and babies in clothes, ahem CLEAN clothes, kinda thing. I also fight to keep us physically healthy—doctor appointments, medicine, cleaning to keep the germs away, although notably not my strong suit.

I also fight to keep us doing things that are mentally engaging, and restful and social—fulfilling those needs.

Now spiritually I could do more, but my husband and I pray and pray hard for our marriage, our children, our children’s spouses and futures and more. That’s definitely a battle.

There are many times I want to give up. I want to stay in bed all day and stare at the ceiling, oh that would be beautiful. But I get up. I face another day, another battle and fight sometimes valiantly and sometimes just enough to keep us alive.

But the truth is that my role as a mother at home is honorable. I may not have stories written about me in the Old Testament, thank heaven, but I am certainly a HUGE part of my son’s and my husband’s stories. I may not slay thousands or risk death by battle wounds but if I didn’t do what I do then my household would crumble.

Yes, it’s a much smaller scale but it’s really important. And while I’m changing another diaper, or putting all of my son’s books back on his shelf (again) it doesn’t feel very admirable, but it is. It’s a thousand tiny, small things done with love that lead to one big thing— impacting someone’s world.

One husband, one son at a time.

I can raise my sword to that.

The Dread and the Tactics of Immunization Day

When our children were small, they didn’t much like the doctor’s office.  Thankfully they were healthy kids with only the occasional ear infection, cold, or stomach virus.

The pediatrician’s office was decorated with animals and cartoon characters. Toys and books were scattered about. No amount of window dressing deterred mine from not wanting to be there.  

They knew an office visit would include a lollipop and stickers. The stickers were cool!  Big, square, shiny stickers of the latest kid fare – princesses, superheroes, puppies and kittens! 

But they always wanted to know if the office visit was going to include shots. Every parent’s battle.

Before child 2 and 3 were old enough to reject the idea that shots were good for them, I had the first born convinced of the following: “Shots are good for me. They help me stay healthy and strong. They keep sick germs away from me...and besides they only hurt for a little minute.”  

I can hear her sweet voice in song-like rhythm.

But as things would go, child 2 would have nothing of that sentiment. Shots hurt and she wasn’t having any part of it.

When the nurse brought in the syringes, she clamped up and melted down. The screams were piercing. That little body was far stronger than it seemed and holding her down took every ounce of strength I had.

The nurses were so kind…bless their hearts. As the years unfolded, I would begin my apology as soon as we arrived for the appointment. I knew she wasn’t the only child that kicked and screamed, but it was epic!

Child 3 tried to be brave. He would stoically fold up his shirt sleeve as his eyes welled with tears. He would reach for my hand and I would cover his eyes as he laid his head on my shoulder. He tensed up and winced when the needle punctured his skin.    

I scheduled an appointment for all three of the kids to get their annual flu shots. Although I was dreading it, I thought I’d put a positive spin on things.

I decided to bribe them. Yes, bribe. Indeed it had come to that.

As I loaded them into their car seats, I announced that we had two errands to run. We were going to the store and they were allowed to choose any candy they wanted. Cheers erupted from the back seat with each child proclaiming their favorites.

Then, I foiled their plans. I told them we had to make one stop first. It wouldn’t take long, but afterwards the candy was theirs.

Silence as we pulled into the doctor’s office parking lot.   

"You tricked us! Why would you do this? That’s not fair!"

These were just a few of their sentiments when they realized that our first errand was to get their flu shots. The cheers and excitement turned to disbelief. I thought I was clever, they considered it betrayal.

Child 2 would not speak to me. She vented through comments to her older sister.  “Don’t talk to her. She did this to us. It’s not okay. She tricked us.” 

My clever plot was unraveling.  

The oldest went along with it. She always does. She didn’t really like my method, but as she still does, she keeps her thoughts to herself and complies.

The youngest cautioned that maybe this wasn’t the best idea. So often when he was little I felt I was talking to an adult. Well, when he wasn’t repelling the bedroom wall with his sister’s bathrobe ties, that is.    

Band aids across their arms, lollipops unwrapped in their hands and stickers reluctantly clinging to their clothing, the appointment was over. It was time for the payoff.

I convinced myself that the bright colored wrappers of the candy aisle would perk them up.  

They trudged into the store to select their candy. It was the first time they made it seem like a chore. The ride home was rather quiet with just the faint crinkling of candy wrappers in the back seat.  

Author’s Note:
I read this story to child 1 & 2 who happened to be home the day I was editing it for the blog. Both are now in their twenties.

You would think the appointment was yesterday the way they went on about it. Child 2 would like all of you to know that she still stands by her statements and will never, ever trick her children like that.   

Okay.