On Nostalgia

As we gear up to leave Virginia, I find myself becoming more and more nostalgic. I am not sentimental, really, except when I begin to think about all the symbols and remembrances in life, and how some things are like other things -- I guess that's the poet in me. 

I was telling Lindsay and Emily the other day, as I was thinking about moving, that as John Green says in The Fault in Our Stars, "Nostalgia is a side effect of dying." And I think this is true. We become nostalgic about things and places and people and memories because we realize in these moments of change that we are so very mortal, and these moments of change remind us that our lives are short and these changes are little deaths. Our leaving Blacksburg is a little death. We may not come back here, may not see these dear ones again on this Earth, in this life. And so we become nostalgic, because we are dying, all of us, and we want to remember and hold this places and memories and people dear. 

And the same with our little ones. Parents can err on the side of being too nostalgic, of course, and not enjoy each stage for mourning the others -- but it is true in some ways. Jude will never be this naive, this young, this trusting and excited about life as he is today. 

So, what, then? Where is gospel in our living, in our dying? 

Everywhere, reader. We live today in the joy of the gospel, and take the joys and sorrows in the knowledge that Christ is risen, that the reason the Son of God came was to destroy the devil's work (1 John 3:8), and that He is making all things new. 

And here are some of our daily joys. 

 

Blessings to you, dear reader.

Leeks and Onions

Bear with me here, reader.

Thus the Lord saved Israel that day from the hand of the Egyptians, and Israel saw the Egyptians dead on the seashore. Israel saw the great power that the Lord used against the Egyptians, so the people feared the Lord, and they believed in the Lord and in his servant Moses. (Exodus 14:30-31)

Three days later: 

And the people grumbled against Moses, saying, “What shall we drink?” (Ex 15:24)

Two months later:

 And the whole congregation of the people of Israel grumbled against Moses and Aaron in the wilderness, and the people of Israel said to them, “Would that we had died by the hand of the Lord in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the meat pots and ate bread to the full, for you have brought us out to this wilderness to kill this whole assembly with hunger.” (Ex 16:2-3)

And again, still later: 

But the people thirsted for water, and the people grumbled against Moses and said, “Why did you bring us up out of Egypt, to kill us and our children and our livestock with thirst?” (Ex 17:3)

Andrew, Jude, and I are moving to Oregon next month. We currently live in Virginia, 2700 miles away from our future home, future friends, Andrew’s future job at the hospital there. We are busy with all the things that come with moving, plus moving with a toddler running amok in the house, moving almost literally coast to coast. Andrew’s brain is awash in details about moving trucks and plane tickets, and we have piles and boxes all over the house of things we desperately hope to sell at a yard sale this Saturday. Our house is in a constant state of chaos; clutter is just state of being right now, as much as it stresses me out. There’s just not much point organizing a desk drawer I will dump out and pack in a matter of weeks. We are ruthlessly purging, sentimentality thrown aside as we would rather have a little extra cash in our pockets than keep this or that and find place for it in the moving van.

But wait. Let me back up a bit – a whole year, really. To understand this journey, reader, you need to know how and why Oregon. Andrew, my husband, is graduating medical school in four weeks! Wow. He will be a doctor, and we are moving for his residency. A common condition. Except that our original plan, reader, was the absolute opposite of what we are doing now. Just like Jude was a huge God-imposed edit in our ten-year plan, so is Oregon. Andrew wanted to be an internist, do hospital medicine Scrubs-style, and we did not plan to move anywhere except closer to family. We had our eyes on western North Carolina, firmly sure that we would not be leaving the Appalachians we know and love.

But then.

Through a series of events we’ve almost forgotten already, but clearly God’s leading, in March of last year, with much prayer and trepidation, we decided to pursue Andrew becoming a surgeon. Since he will be a D.O. instead of an M.D. (explanation here if you aren't married to one), his options were limited to … anywhere in America except the Southeast. We looked to Ohio, Pennsylvania, anywhere we could be conceivably close-ish to family.

He applied to a program in Corvallis, Oregon for two ridiculous reasons: because he felt like he needed to apply to more programs (so it was purely padding a list) and because the people on the website looked happy.

But then there was an invitation to interview, which he took because it would be good practice for the programs he cared about. Except – he loved it.

So three days after Christmas found all three of us on an airplane, loaded down with Goldfish and books for Jude, making the trek from East Coast to West. We spent two and a half weeks in Oregon; Andrew got his hands (well, his gloves) dirty at the hospital, Jude and I wandered around town in the rain.

We didn’t fall in love with the town the way we wanted to. There wasn’t a magical moment, or any sort of clear epiphany from God, but we did fall in love with the church we found there, and with the people we met. And we saw that everything about the town and the community was so much more what we wanted than any other place we were considering. So, in a slow, tentative, undramatic way, we thought it would be best.

And now, one stressful Match Day later, we are preparing to move there. Three things that we never could have foreseen: We are moving to Oregon with our kid, for Andrew to become a surgeon. My twenty-year-old self is laughing hysterically.

Well, move… somewhere.

We have been looking for a place to live since February, and have yet to show anything for it except a long list of un-returned phone calls, unanswered emails, dead end after dead end. It feels like a Celestial Someone is screening our calls, cutting our phone wires, sabotaging all our efforts to Be Responsible. We have done everything that we can at this point.

And now, I, Israelite that I am, with fresh memories of rivers parting and the taste of manna still on my lips, am grumbling in the wilderness: “Lord, have you brought us here to be homeless?”

I believe; help my unbelief!

I know we will have a place to live, and that it will be right where God wants us to be, for the purposes of our friendships or our own growth, et cetera. But now, everything in me is fighting against my Inner Israelite. I have seen Him change my heart and my life, have seen Him provide over and over for us, showing us that this crazy new plan is what He has in mind for our family -- and I just want to eat leeks and onions. 

I want to say, “God, if you’ll give us a house, then...” – but that’s not faith, is it? It’s superstition. God is not conditionally good based on the state of my health or my son’s behavior or the walls I sleep in at night. God is good, no matter what. If we all three have to sleep in a one-bedroom apartment by the railroad depot, God is good and will take care of us. If we have four bedrooms and a fenced yard, God is good and will take care of us. If God lets the Babylons come, He is still good. If He lets His own Son be murdered, He is still good. He knows what He's doing, and He has much greater purposes than my comfort or materialistic ideals.

I’m so scared to learn this. I want to know God is good when my circumstances are good. I’m terrified to learn that God is good when I don’t see those external things as good, despite all the ways I have done so in the past.

But, come what may, God will be good. Remind me of that. No matter what. No matter what.

The Cup

Some after-Communion scribbles:

The Cup

tide pounding, surf splashing,
brook racing, pulse throbbing,
juice dripping, blood spilling,
rain coming, sea rising,
milk-nursing, sweat sticking,
river parting, honey flowing,
oil running, blood burning,
water rinsing, ink scratching,

hush.

blood leaking, milk coming,
water washing, myrrh scenting,
wine brimming, well-drawing,
mud cleansing, sea calming,
perfume soaking, water purging,
wine sharing, sweat dropping,
blood pooling, blood clogging,
water washing, vinegar stinging,
tears sliding, water falling,
oil covering, rain crashing,

hush.

pulse beating, water springing,
wine gushing, honey flowing,

come.

What this mess on my floor is really teaching me

Watching the newest season of “Parenthood,” and seeing Crosby and Jasmine deal with their cranky newborn, I was reminded of our own days of learning how to be parents, how to be Jude’s parents. It was rough then, and it’s still hard. But not why you think.

Parenthood is hard. Being a stay-at-home mom (or dad) is hard. And sure, you can “know” that it will be hard before you enter the position yourself, and you can even do some babysitting and counseling at summer camp and perhaps teaching – but you still don’t know. Not really. Not like you will.

Because, reader, you can deal with boogers on your shoulder, with poopy diapers and leaky sippy cups, with Cheerios in every crevice and surface of your apartment, with little or no sleep for months (or years), with car seats and tiny laundry and bedtime routines and taking five times as long to go grocery shopping, and that still isn’t really what makes parenting hard. Yes, these things are exhausting, physically and emotionally, and they wear you down. These things are hard, much harder than you know until you are the one in the trenches.

The real reason parenthood is hard, especially if you are home with your child all day, is because it is a constant, inescapable, persistent reminder that your life is not about you.

Those Cheerios and boogers and Legos all over your living room mean that your desire for order is not as important as a busy, learning little toddler.

That stack of books you’ve read fifteen times in a row means that your kid’s thirst for knowledge and your company is more important than your need to fold the laundry or check your email.

That sleep you haven’t gotten since you-don’t-know-when means that your baby’s need for milk and comfort and the warmth of your arms is more important than your own comfort and rest.

Those marks on your belly, that scar here or there, mean that your little one’s need for growth inside of you, and for being born from you, for being alive, were more important than your bathing suit.

Repeating the same words, songs, questions and answers all day long until your mind is numb means that his or her need to learn and understand is more important than your need to feel intellectually stimulated. 

That dinner party you missed, those dates you paid double for (since you had to pay a sitter, too) mean that your child’s need to be taken care of is more important than your freedom.

And that’s it. Your son, your daughter, is more important than you are. And that’s why parenting is hard. Because we are sinners, and we cling with every muscle and shred of fingernail to our autonomy, to our need to feel free and in control of our own lives, and so we struggle fiercely and angrily with this new life, this new person who makes us confront the fact that life is not about us--not even our own lives are about us.

Perhaps this is why America turns up its nose at parenthood and the crazy choice of being a stay-at-home parent: because we value our freedom and autonomy above all else, and the idea that someone would choose to give that up is laughable.

I’m not saying that your baby is the most important thing in the world, or that you shouldn't take care of yourself. In fact, I don't believe anyone is the most important thing in the world, except the Lord Jesus Christ, and that even your marriage should have priority over your children, when you get to a point past the newborn craziness where that is possible. Teaching our children that they are the center of the universe is perpetuating the issue.

I am saying that parenting is hard because it doesn’t allow an escape from the truth: other people are more important than we are, and their needs and desires are more important than or needs and desires. If we believe that the gospel is real, we cannot ignore this. Without kids, we can pretend like the world exists for our pleasure, but when there are children in the equation, it’s just not possible. So we are forced to die to ourselves, every moment of every day.

On a basic level, because our kids need us physically. They cannot feed or clothe themselves, and so they must be taken care of. And when they get older, they need our wisdom and unconditional love and guidance. But on a much deeper level, this is true because Jesus says so. Many times.

We fail, daily. But we also learn and grow, and begin to be able to choose others over ourselves, by the grace of the Holy Spirit, and by the gospel’s work in our hearts.

Your life is not about you, whether you have a kid to make you face this fact or not. We are not our own, but we are serving a King who also died, to give life to others. Jesus died, so that we are also able to die – but in order to live! There is joy in sacrifice, in learning how to love others well, in realizing that the gospel really does change everything about our lives and perspectives. And that’s a much sweeter freedom. 

September Third

From this

To this.

Happy Birthday, Jude!

Intermission

Dear Reader,

I've been gone. You might have noticed, or maybe not. It’s okay if you didn't.

There are a few different reasons why, such as a little boy, but I want to talk about one in particular. I've almost written this post a dozen times, and then decided not to, because it seemed contradictory. But it seems like the time is right. It’s been almost six months.

I decided to stop blogging because it was (and still is) unhealthy for me and my relationships.

I became more concerned with taking a good enough picture of Jude than in enjoying Jude himself. I cared too much about how many people read or commented or liked what I had to say, and was crushed if it wasn't enough. And worst of all, I was reading other people’s blogs, and finding ten thousand reasons why my life, myself, and my son weren't good enough as everyone else’s.  I was even pushing Jude towards milestones he wasn't ready for because of reading about a friend’s child who is Jude’s age and who hit a few milestones before he did.

What the hell.

It had to stop.

So, I stopped it. I left. Mine, and everyone else’s.

I think I stopped myself from explaining why those other times because my explanations always came out angrily, pointing fingers at the world, at the internet and the blogosphere, explaining why everyone should stop blogging because it is selfish and unhealthy. And it is. To me. But not to everyone. Like most good things, it can be used for our good or our detriment, depending on ourselves. And I, I must admit, am the far, far weaker brother in this story. Paul was talking about me.

A friend recently shared this post about how our culture is obsessed with a false idea of adventure, and how we must go and do in order to achieve and live a “full life.” That’s why I stopped blogging – because I was far more interested in creating a perception of adventure, and convincing everyone else that my life was an adventure that I wasn't really engaging the real adventure of my son and my family.

I may be back. I may not. We’ll see.

So, reader, pray for me. Pray for my weak heart that longs for the more, the not yet, and that will never ever find that here on a silly, silly blog. The real more is the daily, the mundane, the things that aren't worth writing about, and you don’t even realize until they've piled up a thousand tiny small ones into one really big beautiful thing called real life.

Bonhoeffer said, “I'm still discovering, right up to this moment, that it is only by living completely in this world that one learns to have faith. I mean living unreservedly in life's duties, problems, successes and failures, experiences and perplexities. In so doing, we throw ourselves completely into the arms of God.”

I hope that’s what I’m learning, too, by living in the world that doesn't include the blogosphere. I am learning peace and contentment, and the presence of the Lord.

My son turns a year old in a week and a half. My husband is almost done with medical school. I am struggling to discern if writing is at all a part of this season of my life.

And God is with us. That is the real more. Let’s cling to that truth, together.

Until next time, dear reader. 

Six months!

I haven't been blogging for a myriad of reasons, but:

 

Our sweet Jude turned six months old yesterday!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He continues to impress us with his determination (or stubbornness...) and to make us smile with his antics and giggles. And he was so patient with me stumbling through taking these pictures.

 

We're so very glad that we're past the newborn stage. So glad.

We can't wait to see what the next six months will bring for all three of us!