Letter to my 3-month-old son

Justus Thor,

As soon as you were born, you lifted your head off my chest.  You held yourself up with your strong little neck as you blinked and looked into my eyes.  It was a moment I'll never forget.

My mind couldn't wrap around how I was staring at a little person who was half me and half your amazing daddy.  A little person who I instantly knew I would gladly die for without a second thought.

Your little fingers and toes are so very miniature and perfect.  It's incredibly hard to explain why a mom finds those things so breathtaking.

You're such a serious and observant fellow much of the time, but you smile with your whole body.  Your cheeks and your whole face squish up until we can hardly see your eyes at all, and you kick your legs out as you crunch in half like you're doing a major sit-up.  At the same time, you squeal with delight.  It lights up a room and makes me laugh.

When you're sick, you hate sleeping alone, so sometimes I will pull you close to me and marvel at your adorable little face as you dream.  I think to myself that I know I'm biased, but to me you are just the cutest thing that ever lived.  And while you sleep you stir with a frown and reach out your hand to feel if I'm there.  If your hand touches my arm, you keep it there and go instantly back to sleep.  But if your fingers find nothing but the air, your little coughs are interrupted by whimpers because you want to be close to someone.

Little one, I am overwhelmingly filled with joy to steward your little life for a season, but you are not mine.

I call you "mine" in the way that a jeweler might call "his" the priceless jewel he has been commissioned to polish, set, and protect from thievery.  You are on loan.  You do not belong to me.

I once heard it said, "The day your baby is born is the day you begin letting go."  

As much as it waxed profound and tugged at my heart strings, I knew I could not accept it as true.

You have never been, and never will be, mine to let go.  I shared this with your daddy when you were four days old.  You, like everyone and everything else in my life here on earth, are held in the open, outstretched palm of my hand.  You and all the rest in the hand are God's... to place there, to take back, to rearrange and mix around and use and tweak.  May I never clutch my fingers up and over you, necessitating a painful lesson in having my hand pried open so that I learn to let go.

I pray often that I may never mistake selfish possessiveness for love.

May I never mistake sentiment for love.

May my love for you be pure-- no ordinary human love, but the wise and self-sacrificing love of Jesus that I don't have in myself alone.  That love can be poured out from Him, through me, to you.

Possessiveness besets many a parent.  I pray that I will have no greater joy than knowing that my child walks in the truth, even if your walking takes you far away from me...  because it's not about me.  It is all-- this cosmic, unfathomable story of the ages-- about our precious Savior.

And if your life follows Jesus to some distant country and people who have never heard the Gospel...  I pray that the tears in my eyes will never affect you more than does the image of the nails in His hands.

Life will hurt you, little man.  And many times I will ache for you with the knowledge that I cannot protect you from it.  Know this:  Jesus is the only one Who will always be there for you.  Grab onto Him and cling to Him like a life raft outside a sinking vessel... like your very life depends on it, because it does.

Know that all the junk this world has to offer is just that: junk.  You can take it from me, or from Scripture, or you can take it from people who have guzzled from the silver chalice of all the most enticing things of earth and in the end only find themselves more empty.

Don't follow your heart.  Your heart will lure and deceive you and break itself into a thousand pieces if given half the chance.  But don't crush your emotions as only foolish and wrong.  Weigh and measure them up against the truth that is exclusively found in God's Word.

You are precious and beautiful, but you are not an "angel."  You are more than an angel.
Children of God understand things that Scripture says angels do not:  "Angels long to look into these things."  Nor are you a saint.  You are full to the brim with a sinful nature that pits itself against the Lover of your very soul.  Yet, though your sins are as scarlet, they can be white as snow.  That is a promise of God.  The "saints of God" are simply those of us who have been cleansed by His blood.

You are not an angel.  But I pray with all of my heart that you will be a saint.

I am limitlessly proud of you, but not so blind as to think that you are the most gifted baby who ever lived.  On a simply human level, you will be exceptional in some ways, average in some, weak in others.  I will cheer you on and my heart will burst with happiness for you with your every success.

Nonetheless, dear one, know that at the end of it all, my feelings for you have nothing to do with your achievements.  I frankly don't care about how you stack up against other babies.  I will not chart and track your progress as if you're a lab experiment.

You are and will be well above average in many areas-- this does not make you "more than."
You may be very average or even below in others-- it does not make you "less than."
All of it matters not.  God made you.  And who He made you is perfect.

There is only one Person I hope you know:  Christ.  

There is only one kind of person I hope you grow up to be:  His.  

There is only one cause I long for your heart to wrap around:  His Kingdom.  

There is only one kind of woman I could wish for you:  a daughter of the King.

There is only one particular place I hope you live:  seated with Him in the Heavenlies, your eyes never wavering from the perspective of the eternal.  

And there is only one destination I wish for you:  Heaven.

Be strong, precious young man.  Listen to your father and emulate Jesus.  Grow in the grace and knowledge of our Lord and Savior.

I love you always and forever, no matter what.

Momma

Do we demonize the excellent wife and mother?

Pinterest wars.  Facebook wars.  Health food vs. budget wars.  Mommy wars.  Wife wars.  (Is there such a thing?! ...If not, I'm sure there will be.)  Child-raising philosophy wars.  Moms-with-fit-bods vs. moms-with-not-so-fit-bods wars.  Haters on both sides of the aisle, UNITE!

FACEPALM.

Among all these, a theme emerges.

We as human beings sure love making ourselves feel better, don't we?

Don't we love to justify absolutely everything about ourselves, even if it means ridiculing others?

And we certainly are given to extremes.  Don't we generally respond to our own failure either with vehement denial or with the fatalistic attitude that says there's no point in trying?

Remember the outrage when this mother of three joined the "What's Your Excuse?" campaign and was immediately met with a barrage of accusations from infuriated moms who said she was "fat-shaming?"  I remember seeing her poster before all the controversy and thinking, "Wow, hot momma body!  Go her!  It is possible!"

Sorry.  Didn't realize I was experiencing fat-shaming.

Oh, don't get me wrong.  Of course there are things I don't like about my body.  But clearly, that's not Maria Kang's fault.  While she's not the norm, I found her example inspiring and motivating.  It reinforced my positive vision of how I could stay healthy and fit during and after my own pregnancy.

It's not just this story.  Every other day my Facebook news feed attests to the fact that we women are quick to defend and excuse ourselves.  Apparently, we do not often enjoy the success stories of others, because they make us feel like we have an inferior life.  We say that no one posts pictures of their life as it really is, that every photo is airbrushed, that the love between that one couple is just a sham and they probably scream at each other all the time...

And so we counter with "reality."  (We like to call it "honesty," because if there's one thing we love more than making excuses, it's making excuses and convincing ourselves that they are, in fact, virtues.)  We pat each other's backs for having at least semi-stable marriages; for barely managing to feed our children and get through the day without strangling them.  We tell ourselves that we're doing the right thing by "living life slowly," ignoring the fact that our slothful lack of diligence drives our husbands crazy.  We kid ourselves that we simply have our priorities in order, and that's why the house consistently looks like the apocalypse.

Oh yes... we romanticize and even spiritualize our shortcomings.

We stand together, rallying against those nasty women who must be faking it because they can't really be doing it all, sniping with cynicism that "No mom looks that good without surgery" and "No one's kids are that obedient."

And why not?  Because, as every one of us should be able to admit, it makes us feel better about ourselves.

The problem couldn't be within ourselves... Nooo.  The problem is all those people who "make us feel bad."  They are largely responsible for our own insecurities.

Let's be real with ourselves for one moment and acknowledge a simple truth:

Whether another person's life makes us feel guilty or inspired has less to do with them and has more to do with how we choose to respond to it.

*crickets*

The woman whose heart is secure in Christ-- both in Who He is, and her value is His sight-- has no need to lash out at another who is succeeding where she tends to fail.  Rather, she knows how to genuinely "rejoice with those who rejoice" (Romans 12:15).  She refuses to succumb to bitter jealousy.  She takes the humble stance which admits that perhaps she could learn from someone else.

She can change.  The woman for whom Jesus' applause is the highest applause there is can also accept the areas she truly cannot change without cutting down those who are shining brightly in those same areas.  She has a "we" mentality, not a "me versus them" mentality.  She doesn't take offense at everything, nor see every other woman as her competition.

Every woman I know agrees, "Oh, I hate how women compete with each other."  Yet there are women by the masses spitefully posting articles and blogs that pit themselves against the women who have it all together.  Maybe it's the spiteful women who are actually the competitive ones?

The irony is almost amusing.  A woman whose living room is a wreck feels ashamed about it because she sees a picture of Pinterest mom's pristine living room... so she posts something passive-aggressively bashing moms with pristine living rooms, making Pinterest mom feel like a jerk and ashamed for having a clean living room........

You haven't justified yourself very well, mom-with-a-wreck-of-a-living room.  You're just prideful.  You don't want to look bad or feel sub-par.  And you feel defeated, like you couldn't possibly do any more than you already are, so you decide that no one else can, either.

Here's the thing... If you genuinely feel that it's okay to have a wreck of a living room, you won't have to justify yourself to moms with clean living rooms.  If you don't feel that it's okay, but you feel bad so you just try to tell yourself and the world that everyone has a wreck of a living room, maybe you should take a step back.  Swallow your pride.  And learn from the moms with clean living rooms.

Oh, I know this is all very anti-trending.

Don't get the idea from this post that I don't fully understand both sides.  Don't we all have good days and bad days?  Don't we all soar wonderfully in some areas and face-plant miserably in others?  Of course.

The question is this:  How should we respond when we see someone succeeding where we face-plant?

Aside from the Biblical mandate-- which is to love that person, and rejoice with them!-- here are some practical ideas.  (Believe it or not, I meant this to be more constructive than a rant...)

1.)  Recognize that this other woman is not "making" you feel like a failure.  No person can do so against your will.  Don't assign blame for your feelings of inadequacy.

2.)  Choose-- choose!-- to take what you can from her example, and leave the rest.  Let go of the stuff that does not apply or is not feasible for your situation.  Think genuinely to yourself, "Good for her!"  And put a smiley face with it.

3.)  If said woman is actually gloating about her victories (assuming this isn't something you've merely imagined), resist the urge to take her down a notch.  Remind yourself that it's between her and God.  Her attitude is likely not personal, even if it is prideful.

4.)  When you fail, as absolutely everyone does, own up to it but do not beat yourself up.  Know that we are all human... umm, we are literally, hilariously, dust.  (Psalm 103:14)  Simultaneously, do not give up.  Don't give yourself such a break that you excuse laziness, bad habits, or a general trend of being a drag on your husband.  Have the intestinal fortitude to own up to mistakes, not brood over them; and move onward and upward with purpose.

5.)  Whenever possible, learn from the strengths of others.  If you struggle to be organized (hey, my hand's in the air!), seek out that mom at church who does it well and make yourself a student of her skills.  For goodness' sake, we all want to be our sexiest for our husbands!  Why not ask that mom how she lost the weight and got back in shape so quickly after pregnancy... instead of sighing with despair or hating her for what you simply assume is just genetics?

6.)  Evaluate how much time you spend gazing at other people's lives-- and be honest about the reason behind it.  Perhaps you do spend too much time stacking yourself up against others.  While your attitude may be the main issue, it could be that you obsess over things or demand truly unreasonable things of yourself.  Know yourself and live accordingly.  Maybe you need to chuck those magazines in the trash.

Ultimately, who should we look to for how we live our lives?  It might feel comforting to commiserate with others who subtly legitimize our failures.  But why are we looking to them as our standard in the first place?  There's a heck of a lot more in Scripture praising the virtues of an excellent wife (Titus 2, Proverbs 31) than about how to give ourselves a break when we're a crappy one.

Maybe we should all read those passages regularly.  The Proverbs 31 woman inspires me.  Titus 2 reminds me of how significant my job is; of the massive, eternal ramifications of how seriously I take my role of wife and mother. (It's attached to the reputation of the Word of God!)  That's exciting stuff!  These passages call women to things that are "excellent" and "noble."  It is a call from what is to what can be.  It is wonderful when a woman works hard as she gives all of herself and endeavors to pursue and accomplish what God calls her to be and do.  Don't take jabs at such women.

The key is Jesus.  If we want to please him, we will not be satisfied with being mediocre women.  We will recognize that many times we will fall short, yes.  But we will not be satisfied with it.  We will learn from it and look to Him for the strength to do better, not collapse into a puddle of despair because our life doesn't look like so-and-so's.

Who are we living for, anyway?

Let's live for the approval of Jesus.  Another wife or mother having it all together is no threat to that.

Ode to Winter

The Wisconsin Winter will always be an arch-nemesis in my eyes.


Oh, I know it's an overstatement to most. Winter is thought of as a season-- difficult and cold at times, but wonderful all the same. The thing is, people usually say that from an insulated house with forced-air heating. They probably get all their groceries from a store. Which is perfectly fine and great. But if they'd ever stared it full in the face and wrangled with it for their very survival, they'd come away with a different perspective.


Winter can never be just a season, a temperature or a period of time, for me. It is a villainous character. I will never be able to see it as anything but a foe to be fought every, single, year... Fought with the knowledge that, time after time, we will stoically suffer defeat.


A big defeat, by our miserable enemy that is foul and intimidating and especially crushing, mostly because it always wins. You can survive Winter. You can't beat it.


Scenes from my farm-life childhood still affect how I view the seasons now. Autumn would come-- yes, that season all the hipster girls, and actually probably just the majority of females, fawn over and celebrate with  burnt-orange outfits, pumpkin spice lattes and cozy scarf hashtags-- and a sickening feeling would hit my stomach.

It was this prickly, panicky sensation of the urgent. Adrenaline and a little fearful motivation, mixed with the feeling you get when you begin to lag behind in a race. Because Fall was a nasty little messenger that liked to announce and then rub in our faces the impending coming of Winter.


In the face of its trash-talking, I missed the beauty of falling leaves. The crisp, chilly air everyone else seems to enjoy was like a knife in the back of everyone living off the land, twisting its way more uncomfortably into our brains, reminding us of all we did not have ready before The Great Oppression would hit. The gales that sung melodies to others were haunting and terrifying to us. "Before the snow flies" may have been my dad's most commonly-used phrase around those times.

"Gotta get a lot more firewood before the snow flies." 
"Gotta train that horse before before the snow flies."
"Gotta get the siding on the barn before the snow flies."

And then, it flew. Beautiful and new and refreshing, at the very first... only to quickly over-stay its welcome. Over the numbingly dreadful course of monotonous months, it became an unwanted tyrant with an agenda to kill life, destroy dreams and mutilate every last little shred of hope or happiness we might cling to. The initially-pretty white became a blinding, hypnotizing, overbearing, depressing white.


We shoveled its endless snow.
We were up in the middle of the night, trying to build a windbreak, to keep it from killing our cattle.
We trekked through its depths, day in and day out, and somehow it always crept into our boots and wet our socks.
We suffered near-frostbite at its unmerciful hands.
We crossed our fingers that there was enough food in the cellar to get us through its pervasive, unrelenting lifelessness.


There's a deficit of LIFE in Winter. We all know the kinds of things that tend to typify something that's alive; something that has lifeblood of some sort coursing through its veins: Color. Growth. Vibrancy. Some degree of warmth.


None of that in Winter. In Winter, you feel like the only cell of life on a frozen, dead planet. In fact, you feel like the entire frozen planet wants to make you frozen and dead, too. Like everything is working against you. And you start to resent this entity that you can't grab, can't strangle, can't sock in the face-- but it can sure do a number on every tangible and intangible part of you.


You step onto the mat with the opponent you can't see. He clocks you upside the chin, bashes your face in, picks you up, bodyslams you, and proceeds to beat you to a bloody pulp on the floor. Every little defeat for you is not enough for him. There must be more...


You're not supposed to "kick a man when he's down," right? But Winter doesn't play by the rules. He's never satisfied with momentary torture. He taunts, "Yeah, you survived that round. Guess what!? It's not a matter of 'rounds.' We're gonna be in here for MONTHS."


Death, death, death. There's a lot of deadness about Winter. And it always feels like it won't be happy til you're dead, too. Maybe a little part of you starts to succumb when it injects this creepy, insane feeling into you: "What's the point?" ...Of anything. It doesn't have to make sense.


What's the point of making dinner? It's Winter.
What's the point of doing laundry? It's Winter.
What's the point of trying to go anywhere? It's Winter.
What's the point of getting up this morning? For what? IT'S WINTER.


And everybody thinks "cabin fever" is kind of a joke...


But something happens between you and Winter.


While you will forever hate it, there is a sick part of you that starts to love it. You've been in and out of the ring with it so many times that it has seen every one of your small victories and big losses. And that makes it a part of your life and experiences. It kind of shares in something a lot of other people and things don't share in.


You love it for who it makes you. You love it for how it sharpens you and makes you iron-will-strong; knocks the feebleness out of you and replaces it with backbone... genuine, bona fide muster, solid with experience... chutzpah. You embrace how it has made you less dependent on anything and anyone but God. You really develop this addictive, masochistic need to emerge every Spring with that triumphant attitude, a huge grin smattered across your pasty-white, illness-ridden face with hollow eyes, that says:


"You never stopped howling, but you never made me go away. So really, I have won. Take. THAT."


Then the sun comes out. And the snow-- the visible manifestation of that invisible, hateful foe-- begins to melt into water. It trickles into the ground and the brown, matted grass gasps breath into its suffocated lungs and drinks it in. It turns a rich, bright shade of green you seriously can't find anywhere else in the entire earth. Tiny, pale green buds form on the trees that once looked like eternally dead carcasses. The crocus flowers peek out bravely and your soul exults at the color and the LIFE. The horses that did no more than hobble for the last seven months get spunky and silly and frolic with energy in the pasture.


You know there is a Summer of backbreaking work ahead of you, but it will be laced with beauty and adorned by breathtaking sunsets, swims in the creek, watermelon in the backyard, and the satisfaction of a hard day's accomplishments.


To breathe in the Spring air is to breathe in the most healing fragrance; it is balm for your body and soul; it is life-water... such that you cannot remember if Winter was ever real or just a long-forgotten nightmare.


You would do anything to see this again.


And so you stay. Winter will be waiting. And you will take him on.