Baby Steps

I took to motherhood like a duck to water. 

Which is not to say I didn't make mistakes. Every single day, and many times a day. 

During the days in the hospital with my firstborn, when all the crises - or things that appeared to be crises - arose, I remember thinking that I just wanted to get him home and be a mama to this little one. I felt like if I made a mistake, the hospital wouldn't discharge us; I wouldn't get to just go home and love my child. 

When they turned us loose, this mama duck was ready for the pond. 

Thus began years of learning, of wondering and trying and praying and sometimes guessing; of making mountains out of molehills and molehills out of mountains; of watching that little lad and those children who came after him as they slept and as they woke up beaming with joy - or occasionally burning up with fever; of savoring and wishing this moment didn't have to give way to the next, that chubby, dimpled elbows didn't have to disappear, that the charming mispronunciation didn't have to give way to the more sophisticated but mundane. 

But every day gave way, as my friend Joan promised, to new blessings. Baby speech gave in to thoughtful observation. Stumbling toddler steps became sure strides and independent decisions. And motherhood took on new hues, complex and vibrant. My own confidence grew, punctuated by the interrupting moments when I faced my errors and prayed that God would redeem the day. 

On April 16, 1981, I sat on my bedroom floor, pattern pieces laid out on fabric around me. I was cutting out an Easter outfit; my husband was on a four-day trip and was expected back soon; and my little one was trying to get to me. Knowing there were pins in the fabric and scissors lying around, and eager to finish my task, I reached out to lift his little approaching body off the fabric and to set him outside the busy area where he could destroy my work or be injured. I don't know if it was the third time or the ninth, but after I picked him up and placed my not-yet-ten-month-old son outside the work zone and onto the safe carpet, I let go of him, leaving him on his feet. And he. walked. back. 

It was surreal. For the moment, the garment I was making didn't matter. The rest of the day was filled with standing him up again, with seeing if he could add another step, with showing Daddy when he came home, with our unabashed excitement. Yes, children learn to walk everyday, but not our child!  I'm not sure I really thought such a day would come, and it had. 

The rest of the week was fun, as we watched our young achiever practice his newfound skill. When Sunday morning arrived, I proudly dressed him in his new sweet red-and-white Easter outfit, all finished by then and ready for him to wear to church. His daddy took pictures. I tried to get our little boy to walk to me in his pretty suit, but he seemed too tired. All throughout that day, he wouldn't really walk. 

I was a young mama. This child had only been walking a few days, and instead of thinking, "He's fine, give him a break," I worried. I don't know what I was thinking, but it concerned me, probably more than it should have. 

As the new week progressed, it became clear that my child was sick. I don't remember for sure, but I think it was an ear infection, and with a doctor's visit and antibiotics, he was soon back to his cheery self, perfecting his game and walking all over the place in a month's time. 

A week or two after Easter, we got the pictures back. Back then, of course, we had to turn in the film and wait. But as I looked at the images of my beloved little boy, resplendent in his Easter clothes, a sense of shame rose up in me. 

His eyes, usually so lively, looked weak and tired. The baby I'd insisted on setting repeatedly on his feet to walk for me looked ill and drained, his cherubic cheeks too red. I hadn't known yet that he was sick, but in the pictures it was painfully obvious. 


Guilt, your name is Mother. 

It wouldn't be the last time I would feel the remorse of having missed something that should have been obvious, of having been caught up in the moment to the point of missing the larger picture. It would happen more times than I'd want to predict in the ensuing years, because parents, even parents who fall naturally and easily into this blessed task, sometimes trip over their big, webbed feet and fall splat on their wet, duck-billed faces. 

I'm so thankful for grace. That I could bring my failings humbly to the One who saw fit to make me a mother, and know that His mercies are new every morning; that He could redeem that day and many, many more to come when I would fail in trying to raise this child and others who would be entrusted to my stumbling efforts. 


Yesterday my firstborn son turned 37 years old. It's been delight and relief to watch as God has over-arched my often poor attempts with His larger purposes; as He's brought my son to a point in his life where he is a dedicated follower of Christ; a devoted husband; a father blessed five times over; and a man who takes the responsibilities God has given him with utmost seriousness, knowing that our Father is patient even in our failings and never leaves our side as we purpose to serve our families and to be faithful stewards in such a sacred calling.


Happy birthday, Joshua. Thank you for your patience with an inexperienced mother. I love you; I pray for you daily; and I'm more thankful for you than I can put into words. May your feet continue to walk in His paths, your face remain resolutely set toward His.  

April Salute (I Miss You, Daddy)

I had a compassionate father. 

I can remember whenever I was sick, how he'd gently tell me he didn't want me to be sick - and I believed him. I believed that it truly saddened him that I felt bad. He was not a man who said things he didn't mean. 

I can remember how stirred he was as he held each of my babies for the first time, and the deep joy I felt as I watched such a bond take root. The words he shared with me at those moments gave me a new glimpse into his heart for the vulnerable. It wasn't the first time I'd seen that tenderness; but it was, each time, a new facet of this man I was honored to call Daddy. 

This is a week that glistens with heartache. The two closest people I've lost - my son and my father - both passed away in April. Luke was born the day before Palm Sunday and passed away almost three weeks later. The eighteenth anniversary of his death, this year, was on Easter Day. That it fell that way was sheer encouragement. Being reminded of resurrection all day long - there was no better way to mark my son's life and to remember the sorrow of losing him. 

As our little preemie lay in his NICU isolette, I remember one ride up to see him. My parents were in the van, and Mom - her Grandma heart torn and aching, but her dedication to her husband always on full alert - made a comment about Daddy needing to eat. Daddy was 74 at the time, and I responded, probably offering to stop for food. Mom told me then (he probably didn't want her to) that Daddy was fasting, in prayer for Luke. 

How Luke would have taken to him, this man who saw his grandson so briefly but who loved him so much. I am sure of that - he and Grandpa would have been friends. Mind you, each grandchild was Grandpa's friend, from the moment of their meeting. But this premature infant who would almost certainly have had multiple challenges, had he survived - I know his grandpa would have had his back. 

When our son passed away early on a Friday morning, my husband and I were with him, along with his exceptional nurse; a remarkable doctor; our faithful pastor; and a close and steadfast friend. These four had patiently accompanied us through the heartbreaking hours of the vigil of separating from our child. My parents were at home with our other children; and when we called Mom and Dad, it fell to them to deliver the blow that would break their young hearts. I do not want to think about how painful this task was for these caring grandparents. 

Later that morning, in a conference room, most of our little boy's siblings, in turn, cradled him in their arms for a few moments. Only one of them had been able to hold him before he passed away. Some of our supportive friends held him, too - and so did my mother. I know it was difficult for her to embrace her lifeless grandson, but she chose to do it. I'm so proud of her. And proud of my dad - who chose not to. They were both filled up with pain - the pain of losing a grandson, the pain of seeing their daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren broken - and they handled it in different ways. 

My parents took us out for breakfast afterwards - after we'd all had to walk away from that hospital with our arms stripped bare. A few days later, Mother, Daddy and my sister stood at the memorial service, their hearts rent - but my eyes were too blurred, my pain too vivid, to even appreciate theirs. Much later, I realized how they had been hurting as they held us up. 

Then, almost three years ago, my father was taken away from us - two mornings after Easter. Why Easter, again? 

But a better question - what if it weren't? What if Daddy had died on April 22nd, and Luke on April 16th - and there were no resurrection at all? My pen would be dry - for this heart and its musings are fueled by my hope in Christ. With joy I anticipate seeing them both some day - and bowing down with them before the One we will all be there for - the One who gave His all and gained forgiveness and eternal life for those who believe and trust in Him. 

The morning my father died, we left Hospice without him - I state that obvious fact because it was so very hard to do - and, as we had that morning fifteen years before, we went to a restaurant and ate breakfast. 

We just keep on going, you know? We put one foot in front of the other and we do all those things we just have to do - like eat. And we kind of do it on autopilot. But you, my friend, as you read these words, probably know that. We're in this together. Life can wring us out. 

I don't set all these heartaches into print for sympathy. I write them because the writing, even the sharing, helps me; and because we walk this road together, and maybe God will use my poured-out heart to strengthen yours. I don't need sympathy. I'm fine. Eighteen years later and three years later, I'm doing well - because God carries His children. Because God used a man who loved Him and who loved his family, as part of His means to equip me for this journey. I am grateful. The prayers my daddy prayed, believing, for me - indeed, for his wife, his children and their spouses, his grandchildren and their families - are still being answered. That truth comforts and delights my soul, and it encourages me as a parent. 

One of the most difficult things - parenthetically - is the thinking, the mental reliving, the wishing. The more I experience death and observe others I love as they experience it, the more I see that remorse is what eats us up. As believers mourning the loss of other believers (or of young children we hope are under a special grace), we trust that they live on. But death can leave such unwieldy guilt in its wake. It can leave our hearts weary with coulda-woulda-shouldas so persistent, they can haunt us until our Lord calls us home. Regret haunted me after Luke died; and it happened after Daddy passed away. Part of me just wanted to go back and live those last days again - and do it better. 

Perhaps you know where I'm coming from. I think it happens to many of us - our grieving mind remembers that one thing (or numerous things) we wish we'd done differently, and it berates and tortures us. Sometimes, it's a completely irrational reasoning. As we feel so helpless over the circumstance, does feeling guilty make our brain think it's actually doing something? 

All I can say to address it is - God wins. He gave His Son to conquer death, and it makes no sense, when we know our Victor, to listen to the taunts of the one He's soundly defeated.

O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. - 1 Corinthians 15:55-57 

Our enemy would pull us down, even as he lies trapped in the mud with a foot on his neck. Let's not let him; let's not give him the satisfaction. 

Back, though, to my compassionate father; his tiny, beloved grandson; and trying to capture my thoughts as I journey through another April. Through my dad, and through the love he deeply felt and generously poured out for his family and for the young and the sick and the needy and the defenseless, I glimpsed my heavenly Father. Time and time and time again. Thus, from childhood and even now in my father's absence, when I read in Scripture that God loves me even as a father loves, I know in the depths of my heart what that looks like. 

It is an inestimable legacy.

"No man is so tall as when he stoops to help a child." 

As a father shows compassion to his children, 

so the LORD shows compassion to those who fear him. - Psalm 103:13

Through These Glistening Tears

Not long into my morning 

I learned the news 

That my friend was gone. 

More than twenty-four hours later

My brain still can't assimilate it;

My heart still refuses to take it in.

She wasn't sick - that I knew of.

She was young - always young. 

Always so much younger than her decades

Would attest. 

We loved her. 

We didn't see her daily, 

But she was daily a part of us 

As close as the phone, 

And how I loved to call her,

Her concern and understanding 

And availability

Always as dependable 

As her unforgettably rich  

"Hello?"

Somehow as the morning ebbed 

We wrung out our tears

And marched on, 

One numb foot after the other.

I spent a little while with her family,

Sat in her house and soaked up 

Her absent presence - 

The whole thing made just as much sense 

As that contradictory line of print. 

How could she not be here, 

In this home that still breathed her personality in and out? 

I could see her in the faces of the ones

She'd emptied herself to fill up

- As she had for me and mine. 

I saw their tear-streaked,

Stricken cheeks, 

Felt their utter disbelief.

I touched her car outside,

Sat near the places inside 

Where she'd been 

When she was called away. 

I watched the tiniest ones 

Who were part of her, 

As one lay on the couch 

Confused

And the other crawled, 

Blissfully unaware, 

And laid his head down 

Peacefully

Only a few feet from where 

She had lain hers down

Hours before

As though, even then, 

He was soaking her up,

Just as she'd held him 

And breathed in his scent 

So many times

In the ten months she'd known him. 

My heart struggled, 

As did the hearts of her bereaved,

To make heads or tails of it

To believe what none of our hearts 

Wanted to accept: 

That she was gone. 

And after I'd imposed, perhaps, too long, 

I left them to their 

Sacred grief 

Left them to reorder their world

As I drove on, reordering my own. 

When your heart is on your sleeve 

Skinless, raw,

It feels everything it brushes up against. 

Your ears hear things they might have heard a day before, 

But they sound different. 

Such was the rest of my day. 

Nothing was normal, 

Nothing ordinary. 

I stopped at the store 

And ran from one end to another 

To gather my few things,

Headed to the front

And got a call from home

That sent me scurrying to the back again

And there, wanting to soothe the ache in me

With something easy, I looked for favorite chips

And couldn't find them.

And somehow, right there,

I had an unlikely conversation with a caring woman

Just about her age

Someone I'm pretty sure God put there 

To open up to me in ways you 

Just don't 

When you're standing in the snack aisle. 

Her number is in my phone now.

I didn't tell her about my day

Or my loss

But still she was there 

An unmistakable friend -

The kind you don't meet every day. 

And I walked away wondering if that 

Was why I couldn't find the bag of Fritos. 

I hurried to the check-out 

And ran my few items through

Partway

Until

Frustrated 

I realized my card was nowhere to be found,

And the cashier froze my sale 

As I went and combed the store 

Corner to corner 

To over in this corner

Head down

Looking

Praying:

Lord, I know that sometimes small things seem big

And things that are really big seem small

But this seems big to me

And I know You have better things to do 

But will you please help me find it? 

And when I'd looked in every aisle I could remember traipsing

Kicking myself

For my carelessness

I knew that there was only one thing left to do: 

Go to Customer Service - 

And if they didn't have it

That was it. 

I envisioned the wearisome drill - 

Having them put the groceries back

Calling the bank

Stopping the card

Ordering a new one. 

At Customer Service

An associate was standing outside the alcove

And I asked her

Did anyone turn in a bank card? 

And she looked at me and said

Were you over at that check-out? - 

Motioning over to where my groceries still sat - 

And I said 

Yes. 

You put your card in the payment machine. 

We tried to catch you. 

What??

I'd run away, my card right there 

Where it was supposed to be.

And I remembered then

Slipping it in. 

I laughed and told her 

That I didn't even mind feeling dumb

Because I was so relieved to have found it

But even as I went back and finished my transaction

I knew 

It wasn't really stupidity;

It was the kind of thing that happens 

When my brain gets overloaded

And mine had had a day. 

So I gave myself a break

Thankful the situation was resolved. 

As I headed to a different store

To find the chips I still thought I needed

My heart's microphone was still on loud - 

The mundane things I heard all vibrant with meaning. 

As I walked through the parking lot, 

I saw a young mama

Carrying her child to their car 

The little girl apparently let down because they'd

Put the cart back

And the mama told her, patiently, 

Honey, we can't keep it. 

We only borrow the cart

And then we have to put it back. 

That's just how it works. 

And my soul heard it clearly: 

That's just how it works. 

You only got to borrow her. 

We only have the people we love 

In our lives for as long as the Lord allows. 

You were never going to get to keep her. 

And as I came back out 

A recently-dropped pacifier lay on the asphalt.

I motioned to the car beside it,

But the driver had seen it too

And it wasn't her family's. 

Somewhere a baby is sad, I thought,

But that's just how it works. 

Pacifiers, like so many things,

Are temporarily in our lives,

And some little child may be adjusting

To life without something he thought he needed to keep

Forever

Just like we are

Today. 

It was one thing after another - 

Reminder after reminder to my grieving heart 

That God knew 

That He knew and understood

Better than I did 

And was hovering close to help me see. 

Off and on throughout the day

I thought of our pastor's sermon

The day before:

How he had impressed upon us that 

We need to make more of Christ

And a lot less of ourselves 

And, with my self filled up with hurt, 

I wondered 

How? 

What do I do with this sorrow?
How do I use it to make much of Christ? 

And as sure as He is God and I am not

He made the answer clear: 

By pouring myself out as she did.

She touched so many lives 

Not just touched 

But undergirded - 

Invested herself

Long term

In her family

In others that she made family.

She simply loved. 

She didn't try to impress anyone. 

She just gave 

As naturally as she breathed

Without apparent thought of whether 

She could keep it up.  

She prayed and cared 

And lived out her faith

In the most real and humble 

And unadvertised

And sincere ways. 

It's who she was,

And I am made better for knowing her. 

Once home I sat at the piano

Where I'd sat so many times

With her

Where she'd gently and patiently taught us.

I opened my hymnal 

And played a few hymns. 

I don't play well; 

I started learning as an adult 

And seldom spent enough time practicing,

But she never gave up on me. 

She cared about so much more than my technique

My amateur ear

Or my often-uncooperative fingers. 

Oh, she could hear each errant note I played 

- And she let me know. 

But as she sat beside this student 

Whom many teachers probably would have found not worth their time

She always found encouraging things to say. 

She kept from cringing at my mistakes

And found successes shining out in my stumbling efforts. 

When I first came to her, I loved the hymns - 

They had taken root in me in childhood - 

And in her I found a kindred spirit 

Who helped me learn to play them better. 

Flipping through the pages,then, 

I found this, 

One of many favorites, 

Written by Frances Havergal around 1874, 

And there in its ancient verses

I found her. 

Take my hands and let them move

At the impulse of Thy love.

Take my feet and let them be

Swift and beautiful for Thee, 

Swift and beautiful for Thee.

I remembered her hands, 

Moving effortlessly across the keys; 

How her tireless feet 

Driving her van 

Brought her all the way out here to our house 

To teach us. 

Take my voice and let me sing
Always, only for my King. 
Take my lips and let them be 
Filled with messages from Thee, 
Filled with messages from Thee. 

I could hear her joyful voice

Lilting spontaneously as she showed us

How to play a song, 

How her lips spilled out gentle encouragement

During the hardest of times. 

Take my silver and my gold,
Not a mite would I withhold. 
Take my intellect and use
Every pow'r as Thou shalt choose, 
Every pow'r as Thou shalt choose. 

How she gave of her money, 

Her prayers, her time, and her wisdom

To help my children in so many pursuits

Through the years; 

How she gave us lessons at low rates 

Out of passion and love

For music and for people. 

Take my will and make it Thine, 
It shall be no longer mine. 
Take my heart, it is Thine own, 
It shall be Thy royal throne. 
It shall be Thy royal throne. 

Her will? I only remember her wanting to serve. 

Her heart? His.  

Take my life and let it be
Consecrated, Lord, to Thee. 
Take my moments and my days, 
Let them flow in ceaseless praise,
Let them flow in ceaseless praise.

I'm not implying she was perfect, of course; 

She'd have never let me say that, anyway.

But looking back on the two decades we knew her, 

I can see that her life was one of consecration to Christ; 

And the minutes and hours He gave her,

Their number known by Him from the beginning, 

Truly flowed in steadfast praise. 

Up close, my family witnessed it.

Take my love, my Lord, I pour
At Thy feet its treasure store.
Take myself and I will be
Ever, only, all for Thee,
Ever, only, all for Thee.

Now my friend,
Having given so much,
Is ever
Only
Wholly
With her Lord.

And my family
Her family
Those hers by blood
And those kindly taken in
As we were

Are left
To remember the things she did
Daily
Humbly
Quietly

And to carry on
In making much of Christ
And less of ourselves,
Deeply investing ourselves in others
As He has
So deeply invested
Himself in us.