Peter, he makes us all cry. He stomps and shouts and knocks down a table chair. He pokes brother with a pencil.
And Paul, the poked one? He won't fight back. We can't be everywhere so we try to teach Paul to fight back. Bullies only bully passive people. But Paul doesn't want to fight. The Bible doesn't talk about fighting back. It's a hard sell.
My Peter? I love him, but I hate what he does to the family. As my Paul stresses about my stress and tries to be perfect to offset all the brokenness, and Mary cries softly because of the turmoil, I lift my hands up to God.
Why must we live so broken? We wake up in the morning and we've already failed.
Will Peter accidentally kill someday? How will we make it through? How can I make it right for everyone? How can I live with someone so mean, so stressful, so irritating, and rise above it and keep a smile for the other three?
I turn 46 today. Peter, I hug him goodnight and he asks if I will die soon.
"Of course not. Why do you ask that?"
"But your face looks old."
I must look crestfallen, because he immediately apologizes.
"That's okay, Peter. I know I look old, but it will be okay. People live a long time now. My grandmother lived until age 88 and Daddy's dad is still living alone and caring for himself at age 87."
It will only get worse now, the age thing. They will all notice and eventually say the same thing. I didn't want to be an old momma. I didn't choose to grow up in a pagan home. I didn't choose to be ignorant of the Truth until age 31, when He opened my eyes and gave me Life. I didn't choose to get married so late.
At the park on Sunday, I follow curious Beth around. She collects rocks and we marvel outloud at the smooth ones, the sharp ones, the rough ones. She loves to collect and observe like a scientist, though she can't say scientist correctly yet. She just knows she loves it, that s word that won't rattle off the tongue.
In my purse there's a script for a speech evaluation, which I only obtained because the speech pathologist shares an office with Beth's physical therapist. We can do them back to back, thankfully.
She digs holes and gets dirty, she follows geese. She delights in the outdoors, even though walking is painful. Climbing is painful. People stare because she is so thin. I watch the pain in her eyes as she goes from standing to kneeling. She hates kneeling and avoids it whenever she can, but it's part of her physical therapy. I encourage it whenever I can.
I see another little girl, about three. She's master of her body and she's a healthy weight and I feel a stab in my heart. Why not for Beth, God?
There is grace, I can't deny it. Grace will see us through. It always does, but mornings like today, when Peter wakes up on the war path and I wake up to age 46, days at the park like yesterday when I see the contrast, I just don't want this reality. I want an easier reality. A sunnier reality.
I have begun a dear friendship with someone who suffered paralysis at age 22, while three months pregnant. She didn't want her wheelchair then, and she doesn't want it now, at age 66.
And yet she is beautiful beyond words. Full of grace, compassion...a gentle and quiet spirit. She is a work of His grace. Visit her beautiful blog here, and know her beauty and grace.
I want to be like her, and I know this is the way. To live the hard life and embrace it, not shake fists at it. To give thanks for it even.
When I want to lock Peter out of the house, I think of her sweet face, her sweet heart with its quiet, gentle beauty. And I send him to his room instead, setting a bell for thirty minutes. Can I love him again in thirty minutes? Time out is really so the parent can get the love back.
Peter didn't ask for multiple disorders and it's my job to love him in all his imperfection. To be Jesus to him even in the moments of deep brokenness.
As I wrote last...the outcomes? They're up to Him. I need only embrace the hard and stay the course He's given me in the Bible. Grace will show me the way.
As always when I write, acceptance comes.
And Paul, the poked one? He won't fight back. We can't be everywhere so we try to teach Paul to fight back. Bullies only bully passive people. But Paul doesn't want to fight. The Bible doesn't talk about fighting back. It's a hard sell.
My Peter? I love him, but I hate what he does to the family. As my Paul stresses about my stress and tries to be perfect to offset all the brokenness, and Mary cries softly because of the turmoil, I lift my hands up to God.
Why must we live so broken? We wake up in the morning and we've already failed.
Will Peter accidentally kill someday? How will we make it through? How can I make it right for everyone? How can I live with someone so mean, so stressful, so irritating, and rise above it and keep a smile for the other three?
I turn 46 today. Peter, I hug him goodnight and he asks if I will die soon.
"Of course not. Why do you ask that?"
"But your face looks old."
I must look crestfallen, because he immediately apologizes.
"That's okay, Peter. I know I look old, but it will be okay. People live a long time now. My grandmother lived until age 88 and Daddy's dad is still living alone and caring for himself at age 87."
It will only get worse now, the age thing. They will all notice and eventually say the same thing. I didn't want to be an old momma. I didn't choose to grow up in a pagan home. I didn't choose to be ignorant of the Truth until age 31, when He opened my eyes and gave me Life. I didn't choose to get married so late.
At the park on Sunday, I follow curious Beth around. She collects rocks and we marvel outloud at the smooth ones, the sharp ones, the rough ones. She loves to collect and observe like a scientist, though she can't say scientist correctly yet. She just knows she loves it, that s word that won't rattle off the tongue.
In my purse there's a script for a speech evaluation, which I only obtained because the speech pathologist shares an office with Beth's physical therapist. We can do them back to back, thankfully.
She digs holes and gets dirty, she follows geese. She delights in the outdoors, even though walking is painful. Climbing is painful. People stare because she is so thin. I watch the pain in her eyes as she goes from standing to kneeling. She hates kneeling and avoids it whenever she can, but it's part of her physical therapy. I encourage it whenever I can.
I see another little girl, about three. She's master of her body and she's a healthy weight and I feel a stab in my heart. Why not for Beth, God?
There is grace, I can't deny it. Grace will see us through. It always does, but mornings like today, when Peter wakes up on the war path and I wake up to age 46, days at the park like yesterday when I see the contrast, I just don't want this reality. I want an easier reality. A sunnier reality.
I have begun a dear friendship with someone who suffered paralysis at age 22, while three months pregnant. She didn't want her wheelchair then, and she doesn't want it now, at age 66.
And yet she is beautiful beyond words. Full of grace, compassion...a gentle and quiet spirit. She is a work of His grace. Visit her beautiful blog here, and know her beauty and grace.
I want to be like her, and I know this is the way. To live the hard life and embrace it, not shake fists at it. To give thanks for it even.
When I want to lock Peter out of the house, I think of her sweet face, her sweet heart with its quiet, gentle beauty. And I send him to his room instead, setting a bell for thirty minutes. Can I love him again in thirty minutes? Time out is really so the parent can get the love back.
Peter didn't ask for multiple disorders and it's my job to love him in all his imperfection. To be Jesus to him even in the moments of deep brokenness.
As I wrote last...the outcomes? They're up to Him. I need only embrace the hard and stay the course He's given me in the Bible. Grace will show me the way.
As always when I write, acceptance comes.
