the waiting game

yesterday my oldest turned thirteen years old. it is hard to believe that it has been over a decade since he came into this world and made me a mom. i remember so clearly waiting for his arrival. waiting, and waiting…and waiting. he was several days “overdue”, like a library book in need of returning. i managed to endure all this waiting with a carefully chosen therapy of ben and jerry’s and cheese sticks which did little for my swollen ankles or my post-deliver self-esteem.

at the time, the wait seemed endless though in reality it was only a few days. how i regret not savoring those precious days when he and i were as intimately connected as two human being can be rather than wishing them away. i love having him on this side of things but those days are once in a lifetime, never to return.

i am still playing the waiting game, mentally pacing through the days, awaiting my delivery. of late, i have felt a building tension, a strange mixture of anticipation and annoyance. i feel this growing “other” inside of me, longing to break free of its shell and emerge into the world.

before you become convinced that i am possessed by some sort of sigourney weaver type alien baby that will at any moment burst forth and destroy the world, i am speaking of a metaphorical baby who in fact might burst forth at any moment but hopefully not to destroy the world. this inner being which is growing bit by bit and sometimes appears to be only sleeping is my true self, my Christ-created, glorified self. this shell with which i wrestle daily is the alien. the destroyer of the world, the speaker of unkind words, the neglecter of friend and neighbor. this is the dragon-skinned flesh which i long to have clawed away but am helpless to do so.

i know, in my heart, that my day will come. whether it comes in trumpet blasts and triumphal returns or whether it comes in the ceasing of my heart and a return to my rightful home. i can do nothing to bring it one day, one hour closer. i can do nothing to change how long i wait but how i wait matters.

before bailey was born, there were plenty of preparations to be made. things to be accomplished. the same is true of me now. how i spend this waiting time effects my unborn eternal self. how i choose to spend my time, what i ingest in my mind and spirit, my discipline or lack there of, all impact this growing self for better or for worse. i doubt i will be in heaven thinking “gee, i really wish i had caught one more episode of parenthood” and yet there are days i am glued to hulu as if my life depended on it.

thirteen years after bailey’s birth, i look back on those final belly-stroking, gravity-defying moments with fond nostalgia. while they seemed to last forever, they passed in the blink of an infant’s eye. the same is true of these days as well. it won’t be long and my waiting will be over. may God teach me to rest in the waiting and prepare me for the labors to come.

Heaven is Little House on the Prairie

Being a mom calls for many sacrifices. Giving birth, years of sleepless nights, sitting on the soccer sidelines in the freezing rain as well as the blistering heat. So much of your life is given over to the health and well-being of others that your free time becomes precious. I pity the child who calls down for a glass of water when I have “punched my time clock” and crashed in front of the TV for a little Netflix action. And despite the fact that I am the adult and the one who is supposed to know all about dying to self, it still takes a serious act of self-discipline to let the kids watch “American’s Funniest Home Videos” when I want to watch “Masterpiece Classics.” (I actually forced the boys to watch Sense and Sensibility with me a while back. Highlight of the experience? Sam passionately declaring “If Willoughby turns out to be a bad guy, I am going to be so mad!”) No one ever told me that parenthood would require laying down my leisurely pursuits along with all the more anticipated sacrifices. The worst part is that not only do my kids want to watch their shows but they want me to watch with them.

This also goes for whatever books they are reading. Silly me, I thought that once most of them were reading on their own, my time with books well below my reading level was over. So I have read books about the offspring of the Greek gods, books about the adventures of children in underground worlds, books about a world full of wizards and witches (okay, Harry Potter is awesome. I just didn’t need to read the series three times.) When I suggest books that I liked as a kid, all I get is blank stares and polite silence. But a few weeks ago, I caught a break when Bailey’s class was assigned Farmer Boy for book club. The Laura Ingalls Wilder books are everything I love rolled into one: farm life, history, moral lessons and amusing antidotes about childhood that magically capture life from a child’s perspective without a hint of condescension. I have tried for years to get the kids to read one of these books and now here was my chance. I loved the book so much I broke the cardinal rule of book club: No reading ahead. Sorry Bailey.

One can’t read Farmer Boy without being struck by how hard the Wilder family works to provide for themselves. Basically, the majority of the book is taken up with detailed descriptions of how they grew their food, how they made their clothes, etc. And I couldn’t get enough of it. They seemed so full of purpose and directions. I found myself longing to be transported into their world, a world in which there seemed little room for ambiguity.

While I still have dreams of owning chickens and livestock, the reality is that I am town folk, at least for now. But someday, even if I have to die to get there, I will get my little farmhouse. I will work all day and enjoy the fruits of my labor. Everything I do will have purpose and meaning. Only in this reality I won’t have to put up with the lack of indoor plumbing or stay up late worrying if the corn crop is going to freeze.

As strange as it might sound, I long for a Heaven of work, not rest. The white-cloud-and-harp Heaven is for the birds. I want a Heaven in which we can work but never tire, a heaven free of sickness and anxiety but full of chores to be done. So much of what wears me out in this world isn’t the work itself but rather my uncertainty regarding the meaningfulness of that work. I long to be in the presence of my Creator so that I might receive clearly and from His owns lips, my to-do list for the day, or possibly my to-do list for the next thousand years. Either way, when I pass through those pearly gates I will be ready to roll up my sleeves and dirty my hands with the soil of Heaven. Maybe that sounds more like Hell to you but to me it’s sounds like Paradise.

What if No One There Likes Me? (and Other Thoughts on Heaven)

With all the stir lately regarding Rob Bell’s book on hell and what heresies Bell may or may not be promoting, I have chosen to confront some of my own “heresies” regarding, not hell, but heaven. I am not sure where Gandhi is spending the hereafter but I am confident I will be singing with the angels in the sweet by and by. This is, for the most part, something I look forward to but must confess, I have a few misgivings about passing through the pearly gates. So I thought in a spirit of authenticity which I am sure Mr. Bell and his emergent friends will appreciate, I would like to share a few of my heaven fears and hopefully I can convince myself of their errancy.

1. I am a big bluegrass fan and love to listen to men with names like Sparky singing in rattly voices about the day when they will fly away from their lives of toil and sorrow and be with Jesus. The trouble is that as stressful as my life is at times, I like it here. I love my husband and kids; my family; Costco pizza (both cheap and delicious) and Diet Coke. I am blessed that in heaven I will be reunited with many loved ones but if I were to die today, I fear I would miss out on seeing my kids grow up not to mention all the things I still hope to accomplish, see and do. I suppose this is arrogance on my part. If God has numbered all my days then surely He has given me enough to achieve all that I am meant to. And if I trust in His love for me than I can know that when I crossover the river Jordan it will be to something better, better even than the love of my family, the soft fleshiness of my kids’ hugs and even of hot Costco pizza for $2 a slice.

2. Okay, so now I am arriving in heaven. Jim has done quite a bit of research on near-death experiences and for those who are believers, they all seem to start off pretty well. Grandmother is there and maybe my favorite dog. I just died so odds are my body wasn’t feeling so great on earth and that is now all a thing of the past. A significant number of these experiences, however, also include a life review and this is the part that has me squirming in my heavenly robes. First of all, I hate looking at myself. I don’t like having my picture taken or my voice recorded. I run to catch the phone as quickly as I can in order to avoid hearing myself on the answering machine. Now here I am with Grandma and Murdock (I was a big A-Team fan growing up) and Jesus and we are all sitting down to watch my life’s home movies. All the times I yelled at the kids, rolled my eyes behind Jim’s back, the time I kicked a kid in the shin at Christian summer camp. I don’t want to say that this is my idea of true hell but it certainly has a purgatory-like element to it. Of course, Jesus already knows these things. He was there when they happened. They were the reason He was tortured, nailed to a cross and died. Grandmother babysat me enough to know I am no angel, so I guess that just leaves me (and the dog, who I think will love me anyway). My fear isn’t exposure to others but rather finally being confronted with myself—my selfish, corrupted self. But the life review isn’t the end. Confronted with my unworthiness in its full glory, I get to see Jesus with His mercy in His full glory. That seems well worth the embarrassment of everyone seeing me cheat on my second grade math test.

3. My final fear is that no one will like me in heaven. I have lots of heroes to meet up with in paradise. I have visions of myself walking the streets of gold, map in hand, tracking down all those who went before me; a heavenly version of “See the Stars’ Homes.” “On your left is Jane Austen’s palace—built for her by Jesus, of course. And coming up on your right is Charlotte Brontes’ residence.” I have read these women’s books like letters from a friend, but who am I to them? Or what about my relatives? The Bible says there is no marriage in heaven but I like hanging out with Jim and what if we get to heaven and he just wants to kick back with his homeys, Berkeley and Edwards? How do we get face time with Jesus? Is there a sign up sheet? A seniority system? For this fear, I can only hearken back to times of true fellowship with my sisters and brothers and that feeling that the Spirit was binding us all together. If there are no tears and no sorrows then there is no loneliness or envy. Still, just so you know, if I get there before you, I call Austen for at least the first hundred years.