faith

Kitchen Sink Prayers

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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I looked out my kitchen window at the sky. The purples, pinks and oranges melted together as if they were exhausted but in a beautiful way. I loaded the dirty dishes as my boys ran around and around. In and out of the kitchen, careful of the open dishwasher. I tilted my head and noticed a crooked bunch of clouds shaped like a heart. Only there was a hole in the middle. I began to slow, sneaky tear cry.

I talked to God in my head and questioned who gets healed. Why not the dying child whose parents have a faith so thick it nearly suffocates all who witness it? Why not heal the women who so desperately want to fill their wombs with a child? Don’t worry about my gingivitis, but could you heal my diseased lungs? Or the starving children? Or the child that hides from an abuser day in and day out? Please heal the broken marriages. Heal the broken hearts. Heal the lonely. The alone. The abandoned. The orphaned. The neglected.

I looked out the window again at the fading sunset. The heart cloud had disappeared. My son walked in, looked at me, reached up and began pushing on my face with his hands. He was trying to physically make me smile by pressing on the sides of my mouth. I must have looked the way I felt inside. Hurt. Forgotten. Unimportant. Not worthy enough to be healed.

It’s a delicate and extremely sensitive matter. Opening up old wounds, not forgotten but semi-healed, from the inside out. Who gets to be healed, blessed, cured, saved and fed?

I wiped my eyes on a dirty dishtowel next to the stove and left a mascara print.

I can’t believe in a god who picks and chooses. I can’t wrap my head around a god that does not heal the woman who could not make it close enough to touch his clothes. I can’t believe in a god that does not love all. That doesn’t feel the hurt, the pain, the breath-stealing moments of all. The emptiness. The loneliness. The desire to do more but to be so physically or emotionally restrained. Tied to a chair. In the middle of nowhere. With no one.

I go to God. Plead with God. With a faith that’s been around the block a time or two. A faith that questions, cries out, begs, grows then nearly gets extinguished by the pain, unfairness, and people who say the wrong thing. A selfish faith that sees the world through my near-sided eyes. What do I know? Less and less.

I know the beauty of a sunset. The beauty of my son’s toothless laugh with his squenched up nose. I’ve felt the love of many, the endless unconditional love. I’ve laughed a million laughs. I’ve held countless hands. I’ve felt the kicks, elbows and hiccups of the babies I’ve held and snuggled in the middle of the night. I’ve chased giggling toddlers. I’ve answered late night phone calls. I’ve hugged mothers. I’ve heard the cries of many. And through it all, I’ve held on tightly to this faith that I can’t begin to comprehend. It’s far too complicated so I just do the littlest and the most that I can. And love through it all. And I pray that God is okay with my confused, wounded kitchen sink prayers.

Disappointed

~ Amelia ~ 1 Comment

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I disappoint myself. At least once a day. Usually multiple times. Some days, there are far too many instances to keep track. I won’t get something done that I really, really needed or wanted to get done. Like yesterday, I needed to mail a package. I loaded it in my car. And drove it around all day, but didn’t mail it. Or later, I had to go to the bathroom really bad. I told myself I was just going to use the bathroom in Barnes and Noble and NOT buy any books for myself. So, I read a chapter of a book of short stories on my way to the bathroom. I liked it. But I set the book down. I didn’t dare touch the cover to my face to feel the book. Whew. It was a close call. I came out of the bathroom and began reading a few children’s books. One in particular made me laugh out loud. Come on. If books had feelings, which I’m certain they do, how could I set that one back down? How insulting. So, I tricked myself into buying that book “for my kids” and nieces. (“The Day the Crayons Came Home”) It wasn’t for me, right??

I make a promise to myself then I break that promise. Constantly. I say one thing and then do another. I know I disappoint people around me too. Which is not surprising because people disappoint me too sometimes. When you hold people to a certain level, and they don’t even know it, they will fall short. Most times, people may not even know they’re disappointing you. That whole communication piece is crucial although sometimes it’s easier to not tell someone they’re disappointing you because what if you tell them? And they don’t care or they get defensive and they keep on disappointing you. When it keeps happening, time and time again, it hurts. People can be downright disappointing.

If you venture outside, you may notice that nature rarely disappoints. The Kansas sunsets are typically mesmerizing. They show up evening after evening. If I take a hike or ride throughout the beautiful forests filled with a million different colors of leaves, I feel inspired and recharged. They never hurt my feelings. When I look up at the moon playing hide and seek behind the smoky thick clouds, I’m enchanted. A late night trickster with the best intentions. Truly the only game it plays is to move in and out from behind the clouds. What about a gorgeous, perfectly unique itty-bitty snowflake hitching a ride up the hill on my scarf? Beautiful and delicate. I would never expect that snowflake to fold my laundry or take the time to read my blog.

And one of my all-time favorites is the ocean. The ocean is constant, beautiful and it never ceases. I don’t expect the ocean to take the trash out. Or pay my bills. Or quench my thirst. I would not be disappointed if I ran out past the shore line, jumped into the waves, fell down and gulped a big mouth full of ocean water to discover that it tasted salty. Oh, so salty. Because it’s supposed to be salty. I can expect that. I’ve experienced accidental gulps full many times. I’ve gagged, coughed it back up and spit it out. But I didn’t hold a grudge against the ocean. No way.

Several years ago, we took our three year olds and one year old boys to the ocean and they played in the sand. Then, the waves invited them in. The boys jumped, fell and quickly ran out of the water disgusted, practically foaming at the mouth and crying because of the unexpected and overpowering taste of the salt water. Whoops. It didn’t taste like bath water or pool water or even lake water. It was painfully different. They had to learn to prepare for salt water every time they fell in with their mouths open. When they rubbed their eyes, it hurt too. They learned that they needed to close their mouths and eyes because the ocean does not change. Not even for overexcited little boys who would play in its waters all day long.

People can change though. I believe it. It’s hard. Uncomfortable. Awkward. Humbling. If they’re open and willing to listen to the hard stuff. If they want to grow, if they want to hear someone else’s perspective, opinions, or counsel.  If they want to be accountable. I don’t think people like to be a disappointment. I would rather you tell me that you’re pissed at me and you want to punch me in my face than to tell me that I’ve disappointed you. I will take most words but those, not those, please.

I have found an enormous amount of freedom and peace in knowing that there are people who readily love me despite the fact that I disappoint them. I find an even greater peace in knowing that God’s love is like the ocean. Never a disappointment. Beautiful, enormous, persistent. I am so very small, in comparison, but I am loved nonetheless in a gigantic non-stop kind of way. No matter how I may disappoint other human beings, dogs, guinea pigs, etc. God readily accepts and loves me. Always. Every day.

Frustrating, tardy, scatterbrained, confused, stubborn, messy disappointing little speck of sand me. Not only does God love me, God humbles me and believes in me. And this motivates me and helps me and challenges me to be better.

I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you. You can tell me sometime. I’m willing to listen and grow. And change and do better, if possible. I’m also willing to admit that I will most likely disappoint you again. Unfortunately, it’s a prerequisite for being in a relationship with me.

Tears in Heaven

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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We started our drive. I don’t let my kids use technology (most of the time) as we shuttle around town. For a reason. We have these really silly imaginative or extremely deep, awesome and sometimes hard conversations in the van. At red lights. On the highway. In our driveway. Or we listen to music.

The other night, one of my seven year old boys asked, out of the blue, from his backseat by the window,

“Can a kid cry in Heaven?”

Oh man.

I think we have more talks about God, Jesus, dying and Heaven in the van than the average family. My kids ask really, REALLY hard questions that most times, I don’t know the answer to. Questions that cause me to think about the most painful stuff as a parent. A child dying. My child dying. Going to Heaven before me. But without me.

Suddenly, a million thoughts floated frantically around in my head like a snow globe that had just been picked up and shaken hard. By a little boy. I suffered from a rare temporary loss of words, I didn’t know how to answer him. So, I dug a little deeper. I asked him a question back, knowing that his sweet answer may cause the huge lump in my throat to expand, making it difficult to talk. Or answer him.

Wait. Maybe we could just talk again about the ten deer we had just stopped to see. As we pulled up next to them eating at sunset, they nonchalantly stared back at us. All of their eyes looked up at us, as they chewed on their grass. My boys thought it was awesome. I did too. One of my boys said he would like to have a pet deer. To which his younger brother replied, “do you want one with horns or not?” No bucks. Good to know.

All of these spontaneous thoughts volunteered to help me change the subject, but I just couldn’t ignore his question or dodge it either.

So I asked him, “Why would a kid cry in Heaven?”

Then out came his too-quick-of-a-response.

“Cause they miss their mom and dad.”

My heart dropped. Or maybe it stopped for a second. And then I was driving and silently crying. His sweet answer physically hurt. His honesty, his innocence. It really doesn’t matter how great Heaven is if you have to go there without your mom and Dad. That’s scary and sad. I got it. I understood him. And so I talked about how God and Jesus and so many others, like Gammie, would hold, carry and love on a kid in Heaven and how even though it seemed like a long time to not see their mom or dad for a little while, they would get to spend forever with them. One day.

Then my son said, “I wanna be a kid when I go to Heaven.”

I quickly replied,

“I don’t want you to be a kid when you go to Heaven. I want you to be a grown up. A lot older than you are. Like Grandma Fritz.”

“No, I don’t want to die like a kid…..I just want to be a kid when I’m in Heaven.”

Oh. Okay. I could understand why he would want to have a kid’s body and energy to live and explore and play in Heaven. Maybe because Grandma Fritz needs help moving, going to the bathroom, or getting out of her chair. She also has a hard time hearing. She’s 94. That’s who they know that may be going to Heaven soon. Its not easy describing how our bodies may look or be different in Heaven in a way that is easy for seven year olds and four years to understand. Or me. And it’s not like I’ve been there to speak from experience. So then, he asked me a few more questions.

“Does it hurt when you die?”

My goodness. Another tough one. I talked about how I hope it doesn’t hurt. How I hope it’s peaceful for Grandma Fritz. But I said I didn’t know. Again.

We had twenty more minutes to drive. The sun had set. The car was dark. And I was mentally and emotionally exhausted. It’s hard thinking on painful things that aren’t supposed to happen. Things that are my worst nightmare as a mother. It’s hard to be separated from my boys for a few long shifts away at work. I definitely don’t want to think about death separating us. Too soon. Before I’m ready. But it will happen. A temporary separation. One day. Hopefully, a long, long way away.

Of course, it’s more fun to talk about pet deer. And taking rides on shooting stars. And the human body, especially the spinal cord. Most days, I would even choose to talk about how to handle mean kids that mistreat and call others names than talking about Heaven and dying. But, for some reason that night, my son needed to know if a kid could cry in Heaven. So, I answered him the best I could.

Then, I started to think about the moms and dads that go to Heaven. Too early, too young. Too soon. Without their kids. How I would cry in Heaven too. Cause I missed my boys. Temporarily. Just a blink of the eye when compared to forever. So, I will keep believing in forever. I have to. Even when it’s hard, painful, confusing or unknown. And a little scary. Maybe there are temporary tears in Heaven. Maybe not.

Either way, I shake up the snow globe of my thoughts again. This time I think on the excruciatingly happy moments of life. I imagine the joy of birth, hearing my son’s first cries. Holding them for the first time. I picture their arms wrapped around me, snuggled up in the rocking chair. I imagine them reaching up and saying, “Hold you, momma. Hold you.” I imagine the joy of seeing my school-aged boys waiting for me to pick them up after a long day at school. I imagine the joy I felt when I hugged my big sister after not seeing her for over a year. I imagine the time my husband showed up at Starbucks when I was working and he had just gotten back from Australia. Or when my best friend flew in town and showed up unexpectedly in my hospital room. I remember the joy of driving home with the windows down from the hospital after weeks of being there. I think of our crowded dinner table, growing up and still, everyone talking, eating, and laughing.

The moments keep coming. Accompanied by the joy felt when experiencing all of these times and a million more. I collect all of this joy. Gather it up, and set it in a special nook in my heart. I hold it tightly. Dearly. This happiness. And it helps me feel a lot better if there are temporary tears in Heaven.

Jesus in the Hospital

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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The thing is that even the most perfect looking, smartest acting, kindest-hearted person has weaknesses. Imperfections. Insecurities. Despite how camouflaged they may appear. Depending on the environment they are in, they exist. Hidden perhaps. Buried maybe. Tucked away in a cabinet or in the closet. On the surface even. You absolutely cannot be walking around this world perfect. So, why do we try so hard to look like we’ve got our acts together? Countless reasons.

I used to carry a sense of shame with having these most awful, disgusting things happen with my body. I was afraid to talk about them. Like I had any control over their path of destruction. You know if diseases were ranked upon their social accepted-ness, I’m quite certain that irritable bowel diseases would not be on the swimsuit cover of “Diseases Illustrated.” Seriously. Let’s just list some of the things I have experienced which in no way compare with what other IBDers are dealing with, specifically kids with Crohn’s and Ulcerative Colitis. See what your natural reaction is to some of these: bloody, foul smelling diarrhea. Extra holes connecting one part of your body to a part that it shouldn’t. Think of your sewer pipe connecting to the water line of your shower.  Going on inside your body. Your small intestine coming out of your body. A daily reminder that your body will not ever be like most everyone else. Wounds opening up so wide that you need a vacuum to suck your skin back together. For weeks and weeks. Not eating for weeks. Tubes in your nose. Tubes in your abdomen, vagina, and butt. Completely raw broken down skin that hurts so badly you can’t leave your house. Not that you even wanted to. Just wanted the choice. Then there’s the worrying about going to some awesome new place because you don’t know if or where the bathroom will be.

I could go on and on. I don’t like to. I don’t think I need to. Though I don’t want anybody’s pity. Pity parties are so lame and never have quite the turn-out you expected. I don’t wan’t to be treated differently. Unless by differently you mean more encouragement, more understanding, more tolerance, more willingness to learn. I want to walk in confidence and know that I am loved for who I am. Not what I have. Not what I look like. Not even for what I have endured.

I was 18. And scared. And so close to dying. But my damn pride and stubborn immature self wouldn’t let the surgeons do what they needed to do to save my life. I had no quality of life. I was wasting away, bleeding so much that I needed transfusions. I  had not eaten in over a month. But, I was damn sure that I didn’t want to get an ostomy bag. People wanted to help. I didn’t want to listen. They couldn’t possibly know. “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do with a bag because you don’t know. You don’t have one.” That’s how I felt about every person that came into my hospital room with their pitch as to why I should get my entire colon removed.

Until one day. In walks a guy I babysat for. I loved him. He was hilarious and he was a real live person sitting across from me, telling me that he had an ostomy bag. He got sick when he was 18. He went to college, got married, and had these four amazing girls. And all of the sudden, I felt this enormous sense of relief. He knew what I was going through. He knew what I could do. Hell yeah, I could still play college basketball. He played college intramural football. And his nickname was “Bags.” Take that.

That’s what I love so much about Jesus. He came because we needed him. Desperately. A real live person. We are so hurt, broken, imperfect, dying. If we admit it. We are all missing pieces. And he came in the most radical way, as if to say, “I’m coming to the people who recognize they need me. The weak ones.” All of us. If you’ve got your shit so together, if you’re playing the role of ever strong, über dependent, got this life figured out, you don’t need Jesus. You don’t need grace. Or healing. Or forgiveness. Or love that is so powerful it comes to your hospital room when you’re mad at the world. It walks in and says, “hey. I’m like you. I get it. This world can really suck, but we can make it better. We can change it.” One hospital room at a time.

A little hope goes a long way. It’s easier to see Jesus in the hospital and to need him. But the thing is, I need him just as much at home. My pride just sneaks in again. And I think I got this. By myself. All alone. Hold up, pride. Sit down.

It takes a village. But not a village of people with their arms crossed, bitchy faces and pursed lips. Thinking they don’t need anyone. Especially not someone like you helping them, guiding them, showing them love. I want to go to the village of open arms and smiles and tears. We laugh together. We cry together. We live life together. Not hidden. Open. Exposed. But it’s kind of scary. And you have to be that really hard word to say, “vul-nur-uh-bul.” Why does it have to be such a hard word to say and an even harder thing to be? Vulnerable. Vulnerable. It doesn’t get easier if you say it or spell it a lot of times. However, it does get easier, kind of like apologizing, if it becomes a practice. A habit. If I could only be vulnerable as often as I bite my nails.

Actually, that might be going overboard.

The thing I’ve learned is that people have opened up and shared really hard, painful stuff with me. And I feel honored and inspired and more connected. Like we’re all experiencing some of the same things.  Like we are much more alike than we are different. It’s like our batteries are charged by each other. Like God created us for each other, to need each other. Help each other. Work our hardest to understand each other. And try our hardest, despite our selfish tendencies, to show love to one another.

I see Jesus people all the time. They don’t even know they’re doing these miracles. Tiny, dignity restoring, life-giving miracles. Miracles that connect us. Miracles that help us know of this insanely powerful love. A love so strong that it barges through the darkness and let’s light seep in. It’s here. I see it all the time. When I’m watching others help strangers with a love so passionate. You can feel it in your bones. And I see it the most when I’m down in the dumps. Feeling needy. Dependent. Not myself.

But slowly, the love pulls me out. Picks me up. And gives me a good nudge. The kind that makes me want to do more. Hope more. Feel more. And care for others more. I would like to think that we all carry this secret power. We just tap into at different moments in our lives. Sometimes intermittently.

This is why I get excited for Christmas. For the lights. Everywhere. Because of the enormous amount of love and sacrifice and forgiveness and grace that the humble babe born in a stable represents. He lives on in each of us. Here. Now. Really. If you start looking, you’ll soon notice there are Jesus people everywhere. In the places you would least expect them to be. Doing these beautiful powerful acts that have the abilty to change the world.

Christmas can be a time of hope, exhaustion, sadness, joy, and a sleigh packed full of many other emotions. It’s celebrated one day a year but the people that are the lights that represent Christmas continue to shine all year long.

Free Will Happens

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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Sometimes I feel out of place. Like I’m supposed to be somewhere else. Doing something different. Something more.  I’m typically pretty realistic and tend to look for and often find the positive in my present situation. Whatever it may be. I think I have a hard time with complacency or stagnant waters. I believe that God intends to ignite a spark, a flame or a fire in our hearts.

Through the gift of the people we experience, God opens our eyes. Changes our perspective. God’s presence sometimes rests on our shoulders. He holds our hands. God carries us too. I also believe God nudges us in our side. In that sensitive spot. Ouch. Sometimes it hurts a little. It gets my attention. And causes me to stop. Wait. Think. Then, figure out why he’s nudging me. Oh yeah. Because I’ve been given a crud ton. Maybe I was clueless, greedy or ungrateful. Maybe I need to do more. Sometimes the nudges go away because I get distracted. Or I purposely ignore them. “Not now, God. Bad timing.” Other times, I get lost in translation. What do you really want me to do, God? Something more. Something different. Something harder. More uncomfortable. It’s a God sort of spiritual growth spurt. And it tends to happen when you’re least expecting it.

Generally speaking, it’s not that comfortable when people, whether it’s our friends, coworkers, family, children or spouses inconvenience us. Somewhat encourage or even force us to adjust, adapt or change. It’s a whole other story when we clench our fists and refuse to be moved or adjusted or altered by our faith. I’m having a hard time accepting the idea that we don’t want to be inconvenienced by what our faith calls us to do. Unless it has to do with ridiculousness like red cups or leggings. We’re nudged to do something about the sad. The painful. The broken. The uncomfortable. The life altering.

We just hate to be re-routed from our destination, even if it’s nowhere near the place God has planned for us to go. We want to put a future location or specific goal or set of circumstances in our Google life map and we just want to get there. Instantly. And on our own. Until we need help. Because we think we know best. But we don’t. And when shit happens that we’ve caused, we blame God. In addition to the “SHIT HAPPENS” bumper sticker, I think there should be a bumper sticker that says “FREE WILL HAPPENS.” So I made one.

I feel like our response to the obstacles, the detours, and the re-routing of our hearts and aspirations is what faith is all about. You can’t pencil in “have faith today at 4:00” onto your calendar. That’s not really faith at all. What if Jesus failed to plan ahead for the unexpected? Oh, wait. What if he chose not to stop, notice, empathize and spend time with those who needed him most? Of all people, he could have claimed he was too busy. He had a lot of prophecies to fill in a short amount of time. His life showed us that we’re all worthy of God’s unconditional love, overflowing grace and transformation. Every single one of us. Everywhere.

If a relationship doesn’t change you or exfoliate you or push you towards growth, what is the point? In the end. Besides being a couch. Just a comfortable resting spot. I want a faith that opens my eyes and sometimes elbows me and challenges me to engage in a life-adjusting, humbling, uncomfortable kind of love that exists. A love that often hides in the most broken places. But it’s somehow so beautiful when you’re a part of it. It’s a connection, a love that we all crave and would go to great lengths to experience.

If we could only take the time to be purposely inconvenienced. Free will happens. You have the choice to use yours for good, for loving others, in seemingly small ways and gigantic ways too. It can be uncomfortable but that’s usually a good sign. A sign of growth. And growth is good.

 

October 11

~ Amelia ~ 3 Comments

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His passion and genuine love for people wherever he goes is inspiring. And humbling. His generosity and willingness to always include others, no matter what the circumstances are, baffles me. To know him or to have met him is to have been excitedly told, “We gotta have you over for dinner.” And he truly means it. We have a constantly growing list of future dinner guests.

His energy and enthusiasm for life rivals that of the three young boys who call him, “Daddy!” as they greet him at the door or happily pile on top of him. His sense of humor and eagerness to laugh makes life more bearable a lot of days. His creativity is limitless, whether he’s in the kitchen, in the studio, or in the backyard. If you’ve ever heard him sing, you’ve experienced the pure beauty and power in his voice. He makes you feel like you should sing too.

He never does anything without investing his whole heart into it. Like how hard he tries to beat me in basketball. It hasn’t happened yet. Although his mad skills on the tennis court repeatedly frustrate me. And silence me.

He has a knack for noticing people who are hurting. He recognizes their eyes or other subtleties. He helps people feel valued in unique small hidden ways and life-altering ways. Whether you’re a complete stranger or a close friend, he will go to great lengths to show you that you matter. That you really matter.

And because of his passion  for others, he readily loves in a way that can sometimes lead people to use him, hurt him, and not appreciate him. But that doesn’t stop him. And it never will. He forgives others in a way that sometimes, quite frankly, pisses me off because I’m a little protective of him. Except when he’s forgiving me, which he does often, thankfully.

To know him and love him is to hold and joyfully unwrap an intangible gift of the greatest kind. It is to somehow grasp and hold a glimpse of God’s all-encompassing, inclusive, forgiving love, beauty and sacrifice. All in a gentle, humble hat-wearing, constantly moving, singing, beer drinking, genuinely caring human form. To walk away from him is to feel a rare sense. To be pulled away like a magnet. It’s the sense of feeling and knowing that you’ve just been with one of the best people this world has to offer. And you want to be near him again.

Today, October 11, it’s his birthday. He was so excited to get here thirty-eight years ago that he scared the heck out of his parents and arrived several months early. Only a few pounds big. He loves telling a good story. So, I assume that’s why he just couldn’t wait until his due date, you know to be a full term big baby. If you know him, you should take a minute and tell him something meaningful today. Or some day soon. Maybe why you’re happy he was born today or how he has impacted your life for the better. It’s the best gift you could give him. That is, unless you have a four pack of Tank 7 with his name on it. Or you could always bring it when we have you over for dinner. Which will be very soon.

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