The Best Kind of Independence

"Mommy", she asks, touching my cheek, "Why are you sad?"

Beth's intuition? It proves I'm no actress.

I start the day smiling and I pretend to be engaged, but she looks right through and sees my heart.

"Mommy isn't sad", I say with a kiss.

But emotionally weary? Yes.

A phone call heralds prayed-for news. Beth's white blood cell count down to 18,000 from a high of 24,000. A sigh of relief escapes me, but I still have husband's incarcerated inguinal hernia hanging over me. I want to feel celebratory about her improving condition. Who wouldn't celebrate this news: no more worrying about leukemia or tumors?

But there's no will to celebrate, so heavy my weariness.

I'm not the only person who experiences one crisis after another. And I know the spirit benefits from intensity. Few things drive us into His arms faster, than a heart revved with what-ifs.

The last few wedding anniversaries--July 3rd--we remembered too late to celebrate. Who does that? Both spouses forgetting an anniversary? It speaks of intense circumstance.

Beth's first day of pool therapy at the hospital, the calendar tells me. Her first time in a pool. Though it promises to be joy-filled, I dread it.

I dread the rush to get everyone fed, dressed, faces wiped, hair combed, socks and shoes on...so we can load into the van at 9:15 AM.

I dread the ride to the hospital and the 50 times my OCD child will need me to say, "No, the elevators won't get stuck."

I dread waiting with three jealous children, forced to watch their little sister have fun in the water with engaging toys. We need the boys' swimming lessons money for surgery. I have no heart to tell them yet...that the doctor and anesthesiologist, together, will probably need $1800.

No other child wants arthritis here, but they all want physical therapy.

"I'm sorry, Lord", I pray during the drive. "I'm sorry for my lack of gratitude and for my weariness. Turn my heart toward you today, Lord. Change me into a joy-filled vessel of thanksgiving, at your service." 

And a few hours later, He delivers me. Through ministry. Didn't God say the greatest commandments were to love Him and each other? When we obey our troubles don't melt away, but our self-involvement does. And isn't self-involvement the greatest joy killer? We are called to love, not fret. We can never know all God's plans and fretting arises from a desire to be in charge.

Loving keeps us busy and as we love, He continues to fill.

Soon after arriving home, Lexie, our new neighborhood friend, comes to the door. "Can I come in and play and stay for dinner today?", she pleads. 

My weary heart wants to say no, but out of my mouth comes this: "Well, Honey, dinner is still hours away.  But, sure, you can stay if your mom approves."

"Oh, she never cares."

It's not my cooking skills, I know that. Lexie just loves to eat and wants to feel part of an intact family...and the prayer time intrigues her.

"Hi, everyone", she greets my children. The older three she finds sprawled by their Lincoln Logs with two structures in the works.

"Lexie!", my girls exclaim. 

"We thought you were grounded for the rest of the year?", Peter inquires.

"Oh, I begged my mom and she let me off. I don't really like Lincoln Logs. Can we put them away and get out the Playdoh? I'll get it while you guys put these away."

My children stare at me as she goes into the dining room after the Playdoh toys, which she loves but Peter and Paul have outgrown. Do they think I should object to her pushiness?

I say nothing.

Peter, learning little by little how to handle such a friend, tells her, "Lexie, we'll play Playdoh for twenty minutes, but then you have to play Lincoln Logs with us. Okay?"

"Okay", she lies.

I try not to notice her legs, filthy and cut all over. The epitome of a tomboy, but also someone whose ADHD brings self-inflicted wounds. The ADHD brain requires constant stimulation, sometimes giving rise to extreme behaviors.

I try not to look shocked when she tells me they are back living with the mother's volatile boyfriend. There's nothing to do at his house so they come to their grandma's a lot. This explains her intermittent visits lately.

Much of what she says is a stretch or a downright lie but I've learned a secret. Whatever the topic, if the story never changes, then it's true. The volatile boyfriend thing remains constant each visit.

Today she tells us a cut on her knee bleed for an hour and she almost died from blood loss. Fifteen minutes later she retold the story, claiming it bleed for two hours.

"But Mom", Peter doubts. "Wouldn't she have died?" I nod quietly to Peter and motion to pray for her. 

Used to my signs, he nods.

Later he tells me Lexie should watch the Veggie Tale movie about lying. He likes her company but feels it's his duty to tell her she can't say "Holy crap" or "Oh, my God" around here. I initially gave him permission to ask her not to use these expressions here, since we didn't want the girls copying her.

But I never expected him to really hold her accountable like this--gently, but consistently.

She didn't know there was anything wrong with these words, she tells me today after saying "Holy crap" a third time and hearing from Peter.

"I understand", I say. "It's hard to get out of the habit when you probably hear them frequently at school. But thank you for trying because we don't want the kids to say them. They're not cuss words exactly, they just don't sound very nice."

I hate doing this but awhile back I concluded I have to balance my own children's needs, with her needs.

She seems strangely glad to hear something she didn't know...that these weren't ladylike words.

She stays for hours but we set a timer on the oven; she checks in with her mom every 30 minutes.

Halfway through her visit, 7-year-old Landon, a boy who recently began visiting his grandmother on our street, knocks on the door. All boy, he plays Lincoln Logs and trains with Paul while I fold clothes and listen to all six of these children in my living room.

How did I suddenly get six, Lord? We used to have no one on this street except teenagers. I marvel at this and keep folding.

Last week Peter shared sad news from Mataya (Landon's cousin). Her aunt died. We know Mataya because her grandmother takes her to Vacation Bible School every year, and she also goes to AWANA. She visits our street only occasionally through the school year, but recently we've seen her more.

I think about the cousin relationship here while I fold clothes and I wonder if it is Landon's mother who passed. But I reject this notion, since Mataya didn't add this important part.

But when Peter asks Langdon where he lives and if his mother is picking him up from his grandmother's house and how long can he stay, Landon doesn't answer. He's strangely quiet and doesn't look up.

It's awkward.

Lexie comes to whisper in my ear. Landon's mother died.

Somehow I know this isn't one of her lies and my heart wants to scream....Noooooo, God! Not a 7-year-old child!

The awkward moment passes. Peter forgets his question and he and Lexie look up poison frog photos on the Internet.

I watch Landon closely after this, wanting to scoop him up in my arms but knowing it wouldn't solve anything. He'd hate the attention and the emotion and he doesn't even know me well.

I apologize about Peter's questions, telling him he's welcome here anytime. He never looks up, withdrawn but still engaged with the Lincoln Logs. 

I'm reminded of a glass room. Grief is like a glass room where everyone on the outside is seen living a normal life...giggling, laughing, interacting. But the person inside the glass? They can't engage because pain is a constant companion, giving them a reality no one understands. Laughter doesn't fit. And so the glass house stands. A year, two years.

I pray because my heart burns fire and I don't know what else to do.

"Lord, may this child come often and play here and get momentarily distracted with new toys and new friends. May he come so I can pray over him and we can love him."

I know his grandmother is a Christian and I want to reach out to her in her own grief, but I don't know her. I decide to pray about how to reach out and when.

She comes to the door after this, friendly, but wanting Landon to come home. He lives with her now, I surmise. She knows I'm a Christian and I'm sure that is why she lets him come at all. She's cautious with the children, much like me.

He leaves and Lexie stays longer.

At five o'clock I say I must start dinner and could they all go to the playroom where I can watch them easily?

Lexie's request for dinner? Steak or chicken along with corn on the cob.

"Do you like spaghetti?", I inquire, thinking they must have more money than us.

She does and she takes great pleasure in helping, like my own daughters.

I think about someone else's child getting burned in my home, but I don't want to withhold the love and attention so I give her a long handmit and let her stir the lean turkey sausage and put four spices in.

Peter wants to help too and they put spaghetti into the pot, spilling much on the floor while trying to break it in half. Strangely, my heart is focused entirely on ministry and the mess doesn't register.

After dinner they all play on the slip n' slide, beating the awful humidity and my air conditioner that won't keep up with the heat wave. 78 degrees is the best air conditioners do on a day like today.

Late at night, extra exhausted, I clean up the pots and the broken, spilled spaghetti, thinking over my day.

The previous night I suffered from insomnia, wondering how God would provide for the hernia surgery. I knew he would provide, but I wanted to be able to pay for it ourselves. I didn't want a check in the mail, unless it was signed From God.

Yes, everything is from Him and I know this, but I still want it my way.

I think of the morning, which seemed like eons ago, when Beth asked why I was sad.

How many times did my husband's surgery and our inability to pay come into my mind today? After Lexie and Landon came over, that is?

Zero.

Love Him, number one. Love one another, number two.  It's what we were meant for.


On this Independence Day, let's remember not to complicate our lives here. Not to fret about tomorrow and sabotage the joy God has for us.

It's only when we live out our purpose, that we truly live.


Matthew 22:36-40
“Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?”

Jesus replied: “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’

This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.”