Miss Beth awoke at 11:00 PM and as I soothed her, I too fell asleep. That is, until 2:30 AM when insomnia started. No disaster precipitated the insomnia, other than perhaps peri-menopause? I haven't known insomnia like this since the first trimester of all my pregnancies.
One of my downward-spiral thoughts: What am I doing spilling my heart on the Internet? I should look into printing this off and then hit "delete blog".
The story of the soldier who snapped in Afghanistan weighs heavily on my mind lately. Never before has the toll of war hit me so hard. Am I off base in thinking we simply don't have enough soldiers to fulfill our commitments? More than one or two combat tours is unacceptable. The scars run too deep and affect too many people intimately. Recent evidence indicates that soldiers' combat-related disorders aren't given enough weight by superiors, and often a disability classification is denied, despite the soldiers struggling to make a living with their deeply-felt physical and emotional scars.
If we send them to defend us, shouldn't we take care of them upon their return? Shouldn't we deeply appreciate them and their families, regardless of our political feelings about war?
This soldier's wife, she spilled her heart on the Internet in her own family-adventures blog. After major newspaper outlets began delving into every aspect of their lives, a few sentences from her blog were published, which have since been taken down. I can't even imagine what this wife is going through, knowing her husband will either be put to death or spend his life in prison. How will she explain it to her children and how will she make a living? What if they show her face, and her two children's faces, in the newspapers? Will they dare do that, these news outlets with the low ethics standards? This family is surely at risk for assassination.
While I don't anticipate any of us being fodder for a news outlet, I'm still taking a risk with my words here, even with fictitious names.
I tossed and turned about this, and about the number of people I know who are struggling to make a living. Some skill sets have become obsolete, and many more are in less demand because of outsourcing and the state of the economy. My eyes roll back thinking what the cost of education has become, compared to wages. My $26,000 in student loans borrowed for an undergraduate degree followed by a teaching credential back in 1984-1990, has risen to between $60,000 - $72,000 for a comparative education and credential.
There are no guarantees for anyone and how do we deal with that reality? How do we live a life with no earthly securities? Savings accounts, investments, and college degrees aren't guarantees, as we've seen in the last several years.
And what will I do for a living after my husband, eight years my senior, retires? His work keeps him in the best physical shape possible, but still, that doesn't mean he won't suffer from a disease or injury. Last week I renewed my California teaching credential for another five years; it's easier to get a credential in another state if you have a valid one somewhere else.
Life...it's sweet, isn't it?
But the blessings around every corner, they don't always outnumber the hardships.
In the wee hours, the answer came to me. This is why I write brave. Because our stories matter. Our stories point the way for those coming after us, and for those in the trenches right now. Definitely when my children venture into the world, I'll print off the best of this blog and then hit "delete blog". My grandchildren won't know me long before I die, but they'll have this accounting of my heart.
Will it matter? Will this picture of my life, with all its nuances and sorrows and joys, help them move forward bravely in the face of hardship and after loss? Will they learn to give thanks, to weep at His feet, to love sacrificially?
My words here, the pagan world will twist them, painting me a religious lunatic who woefully misled her children. This remote thought scares and saddens me, but the other side is this:
When I read brave stories telling of real life--sorrowful, complicated, messy life--I'm changed.
Those stories help me move forward in many difficult areas. They remind me I don't suffer alone. They remind me to rejoice with those who rejoice, and suffer with those who suffer. They remind me that joy is there for the taking, even when my impulsive ADHD son kills his new pond fish by scooping them up with the net far too frequently, to study them. Or when he scribbles with ink on the table basket I keep the napkins in, or on the decorative baskets I keep the crayons and pencils in.
Brave stories help me to love, to forgive, to see my own depravity. They compel me to give my fellow man room to make mistakes, to be human, to be aggrieved descendants of Adam and Eve.
When we water down life with protective words, we don't spill wisdom. We aren't changed through the catharsis of expressing sorrow to arrive at Truth.
My words here are my worship, my listening-to-the-Holy-Spirit time. I could write privately in a journal, but I need the connection with other hearts. That connection is one of His graces.
I need every grace he offers to navigate this most uncertain journey, with adjustments around every turn, like wrinkles, insomnia, and mood swings...all things I can't will away but must embrace.
Rejecting God's story for us leads to bitterness; embracing and giving thanks lead to joy.
I want that soldier's wife to know this right now. I want you, my heart friends, to know. And I want to keep preaching it to myself and to my grandchildren over and over.
Embracing brings surrender and in surrendering we die to ourselves to inherit His vertical love.
And then when our hearts are so full they're bursting, we can pass Him out horizontally.
This is the meaning of life as I know it...
...becoming engorged with Him and passing our abundance along.
One of my downward-spiral thoughts: What am I doing spilling my heart on the Internet? I should look into printing this off and then hit "delete blog".
The story of the soldier who snapped in Afghanistan weighs heavily on my mind lately. Never before has the toll of war hit me so hard. Am I off base in thinking we simply don't have enough soldiers to fulfill our commitments? More than one or two combat tours is unacceptable. The scars run too deep and affect too many people intimately. Recent evidence indicates that soldiers' combat-related disorders aren't given enough weight by superiors, and often a disability classification is denied, despite the soldiers struggling to make a living with their deeply-felt physical and emotional scars.
If we send them to defend us, shouldn't we take care of them upon their return? Shouldn't we deeply appreciate them and their families, regardless of our political feelings about war?
This soldier's wife, she spilled her heart on the Internet in her own family-adventures blog. After major newspaper outlets began delving into every aspect of their lives, a few sentences from her blog were published, which have since been taken down. I can't even imagine what this wife is going through, knowing her husband will either be put to death or spend his life in prison. How will she explain it to her children and how will she make a living? What if they show her face, and her two children's faces, in the newspapers? Will they dare do that, these news outlets with the low ethics standards? This family is surely at risk for assassination.
While I don't anticipate any of us being fodder for a news outlet, I'm still taking a risk with my words here, even with fictitious names.
I tossed and turned about this, and about the number of people I know who are struggling to make a living. Some skill sets have become obsolete, and many more are in less demand because of outsourcing and the state of the economy. My eyes roll back thinking what the cost of education has become, compared to wages. My $26,000 in student loans borrowed for an undergraduate degree followed by a teaching credential back in 1984-1990, has risen to between $60,000 - $72,000 for a comparative education and credential.
There are no guarantees for anyone and how do we deal with that reality? How do we live a life with no earthly securities? Savings accounts, investments, and college degrees aren't guarantees, as we've seen in the last several years.
And what will I do for a living after my husband, eight years my senior, retires? His work keeps him in the best physical shape possible, but still, that doesn't mean he won't suffer from a disease or injury. Last week I renewed my California teaching credential for another five years; it's easier to get a credential in another state if you have a valid one somewhere else.
Life...it's sweet, isn't it?
But the blessings around every corner, they don't always outnumber the hardships.
In the wee hours, the answer came to me. This is why I write brave. Because our stories matter. Our stories point the way for those coming after us, and for those in the trenches right now. Definitely when my children venture into the world, I'll print off the best of this blog and then hit "delete blog". My grandchildren won't know me long before I die, but they'll have this accounting of my heart.
Will it matter? Will this picture of my life, with all its nuances and sorrows and joys, help them move forward bravely in the face of hardship and after loss? Will they learn to give thanks, to weep at His feet, to love sacrificially?
My words here, the pagan world will twist them, painting me a religious lunatic who woefully misled her children. This remote thought scares and saddens me, but the other side is this:
When I read brave stories telling of real life--sorrowful, complicated, messy life--I'm changed.
Those stories help me move forward in many difficult areas. They remind me I don't suffer alone. They remind me to rejoice with those who rejoice, and suffer with those who suffer. They remind me that joy is there for the taking, even when my impulsive ADHD son kills his new pond fish by scooping them up with the net far too frequently, to study them. Or when he scribbles with ink on the table basket I keep the napkins in, or on the decorative baskets I keep the crayons and pencils in.
Brave stories help me to love, to forgive, to see my own depravity. They compel me to give my fellow man room to make mistakes, to be human, to be aggrieved descendants of Adam and Eve.
When we water down life with protective words, we don't spill wisdom. We aren't changed through the catharsis of expressing sorrow to arrive at Truth.
My words here are my worship, my listening-to-the-Holy-Spirit time. I could write privately in a journal, but I need the connection with other hearts. That connection is one of His graces.
I need every grace he offers to navigate this most uncertain journey, with adjustments around every turn, like wrinkles, insomnia, and mood swings...all things I can't will away but must embrace.
Rejecting God's story for us leads to bitterness; embracing and giving thanks lead to joy.
I want that soldier's wife to know this right now. I want you, my heart friends, to know. And I want to keep preaching it to myself and to my grandchildren over and over.
Embracing brings surrender and in surrendering we die to ourselves to inherit His vertical love.
And then when our hearts are so full they're bursting, we can pass Him out horizontally.
This is the meaning of life as I know it...
...becoming engorged with Him and passing our abundance along.
4 comments:
You heart is in the right place... Oh, it makes me so sad too.
Duane, so nice of you to stop by and comment. I love your work and I will pray re your upcoming trip.
I don't know how to say this lightly....this blog post was meant for me. I started my blog when Jonathan died...I had wanted to do one for my family but never had. I could not let this season of my life go by unrecorded. I started pouring my heart out on the computer-- many really emotion post. At first I thought some one will stumble on this someday and be blessed....I sure was-- to read the stories of other baby loss moms. I have even prayed on email for someone to accept Jesus because she read my blog. Yesterday I got a letter for my Mamaw she is pretty much my mom because she raised me. She said how embarrassed she was by my blog and how I was making a big deal over something I need to get over. To say I was hurt would be an understatement, I sat last night seriously ready to press delete. I Am so thankful for your post it confirms what I know is true. Life is messy and the people that truly help others-- are transparent. Is the brave stories quote yous?? May I use it? I am so blessed by you today by your kind comment and this AMAZING post. A million thanks my friend.
Tesha,
I was a first grade teacher when I lost my Isaac at 20 weeks. I remember sitting on the playground with another first grade teacher, who had had a miscarriage years before. She told me something similar. "Many women have miscarriages and you just need to get over it and move on."
I was dumbfounded at her hardness of heart. There was nothing to say at that point. I never brought it up again at work, and I only brought it up at that time because she asked about it.
I am sorry for what your Mamaw said and I hope you never hear something like that again.
I was in deep pain for two years, and that may have been shortened by having a healthy baby 15 months later. I don't know how that grief would have played out had I not had a baby to hold 15 months later. I have a memento of Isaac in one of my drawers. I no longer tear up when I see it, twelve years later, but I wonder what my life and home would be like with him here, and my other baby, whom we lost at 10 weeks. I wonder what their personalities would have been like, too. You never stop wondering how it would be different, but the deep pain, the kind that puts you in knots and makes it hard to focus on anything else, that does go away with time. I will pray faithfully!
Yes, the quote is mine and you are welcome to use it. Thank you for stopping by here. Your story will bless many so keep on writing it. The words are more likely His than ours, much of the time.
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