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.

Another Reason You can be Glad I’m not God

You would think that with a father who could grow geraniums in the Sahara, I might be able to keep a house plant alive longer than the time it takes to drive home from the store. You might think this, however, you would be wrong. (I also have a mother whose sweet voice is the soundtrack of my childhood and yet I, sadly, can’t carry a tune in a bucket.). Since dropping out of our community garden project a few years back due to an overwhelming Spiegel thumbs down on kale and kohlrabi, Jim and I have attempted to cultivate a modest garden of our own. A few raised beds, brimming with peppers and tomatoes, a scattering of herbs and cucumbers. Nothing to give the Golly Green Giant a run for his money but hey, we try.

As is typical of most projects, I enjoy the prep work far more than the day-to-day maintenance which is generally required in order to keep living things alive. The raising of our children is the main except to this rule, though sometimes I definitely enjoy the idea of them much more than the reality. I live for online research and trips to the farmer’s market for more humus, whatever that is. Then the summer wears on and honestly, between baseball games and trips to the lake, I forget there is stuff growing out there. After weeks of neglect, I discover cucumbers the size of Larry Boy and tomatoes which seem to be sun-drying themselves on the vine.

So the over-reactionary, Laurel and Hardy version of Amy goes running for the hose and proceeds to drowned everything in site, again hopefully with the except of the children. It is so hard to find that natural balance between panicked downpour and neglectful drought. Slow and steady may win the race but my pace is definitely something more akin to fast and furious. 

Unfortunately, this is often my approach in spiritual matters as well. I decide to memorize scripture. So in the course of an afternoon, I buy a book, download one of those beautiful Ann Voskamp memorization guides, commit to memory the first five or six verses of Colossians and set a course for spiritual enlightenment. And…a week later, the book is already dusty on my bedside table, my beautiful memorization guide is at the bottom of my workout bag and I have forgotten three of the six verses.

Not so with God. He is the steady rain that falls and refreshes without fail. He is the sunshine that warms without ever burning too bright. It may not always feel this way. It may sometimes feel as though you are dying for lack of rain. It may feel as though you have been abandoned to the elements. But He is there, waiting for you to feel your need of Him. Waiting to wash away the panic in the gentle downpour of His love. Peter tells us “With the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day. The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. Instead he is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance” (2 Peter 3:8-9). You see, it isn’t us waiting on Him but rather Him waiting for us. We aren’t dying for lack of His care but rather it is He who waits for us to ask.

Mislabeled Butterfly

I just got a Groupon offer for laser nail-fungal removal. Really?!? Not only would I have been happy to go through life never knowing that such a thing as laser nail-fungal removal existed, but I am deeply offended that Groupon would think I am in need of such a service. What in my Groupon buying history would indicate that I might have a fungus-infected nail in need of removal? (Groupon also must think I am the hairiest woman ever given all the hair removal offers I am sent.)

This isn’t the first time I have felt mislabeled. Somehow my Pandora stations always end up sounding dark and gloomy, more reflective of a moody teenager than the content thirty-something I wish to be. Netflix is always trying to convince me that I am a Asian-Shakespearean-Adaptation watcher when I am looking for Forties Era-Lighthearted-Comedy. On the inside, my wardrobe is all color and light while my closet is all greys and blacks. Hmmm. I am sensing a trend here.

Every once and a while, I need to shake things up and thumb my nose at the moody, depressing Asian film watching, black clothes wearing girl I apparently am. So this winter, when the Indiana overcast skies were closing in, I added a little color to my life, or rather my head. It seemed like such an innocent bit of fun but months later I, along with my faithful hairstylist, am still suffering the consequences. The fake color is still hanging on while my real color is desperately trying to take root. (Think Pepe Le Pu stripe of ash blonde down the middle of auburn with a touch of brown). Above mentioned faithful hairstylist says there is nothing to do but wait it out…and wear lots of hats.

I can’t help but think this is a picture of so much more than the fallout from one of my impulsive decisions. So often I feel like my hair looks. Somewhere in the middle of transforming into my true nature. I have a streak of glory, moments of obedience followed by long waves of fleshly let downs, days of defiance. I am all gooey and undone inside my chrysalis, no longer a caterpillar but not yet a butterfly. Mostly darkness now but waiting to “burst forth in glorious day.”

There is no telling how long the process will take but I can do something to help it along. The choices I make string together in a pattern. Just like my movie choices and Pandora thumbs up create a template for my likes and dislikes, I can choose right over wrong, selflessness over selfishness, and create a pattern of righteousness. Little by little these decisions will grow. Little by little so will I. I may be a gooey mess today but one day my butterfly with emerge.