A few years back I wrote a post for Mother’s Day, and I really can’t add anything to what I thought then. So instead of repeating myself, please go back and reread “What I Want for Mother’s Day.” Then scroll down and enjoy some glimpses of motherhood as seen through my lens.
I thought our kids left too soon, but elk calves only stay with their mothers for about a year.
We interrupt this regularly scheduled blog to announce the arrival of our third granddaughter, Gwendolyn Elise. She was born this last Tuesday, March 25 to our younger daughter, her husband, and Gwen’s big sister Willow. As grandma, I’m totally stoked. Whoo hoo!!!!
Gwen’s arrival, besides being an occasion of great joy, was the culmination of months of waiting, praying, giving up, letting go and letting God—and being reminded that God does not disappoint.
It all came to a head when Pete went to a men’s retreat. In the secure environment of that gathering, he ended up telling the entire crowd something personal about me. It seemed an appropriate issue to share—everyone was sharing at a deep level, praying for one another, and being encouraged.
But when he came home and told me what he’d made public, I was totally mortified: “You told them WHAT?!” How could I ever again face anyone who had been on that retreat? It was humiliating. Who else would they tell? How many of our friends would find out? I hadn’t done anything sinful—it was just an intensely private issue.
Pete was totally apologetic, and I forgave his innocent mistake. As a couple, we had never before considered what was appropriate to share with others, and what was just between the two of us—or at most a trusted friend or counselor. Until that point, we just sort of assumed the other person would somehow intuitively know what could be said in public.
Are you a Christian? How about that person over there? They say they are—but are they really?
This question isn’t just an intellectual exercise—it has eternal significance. Will we see our beloved family member in Heaven? Should I believe that politician’s claim to faith?
A couple of weeks ago, in my post “Just Believe,” I stated,
I sadly suspect that many who claim the title “Christian” have merely given intellectual assent to the fact that God exists, and that Jesus lived, died, and lived again. They think they’ve got their “fire insurance” and that they’ve made peace with God, when in fact they don’t even know Him.
This begs the question—how do we tell the difference? Is it even possible for us to know whether or not a person has “accepted Jesus”?
Today is Valentine’s Day, the day we celebrate love. We’re bombarded with opportunities to declare our passion. Flowers and chocolate, some pretty steamy Valentine cards, Victoria’s Secret displays all focus on romantic love, or is it romantic lust? But for some, this is a difficult time. Not everyone is in a romantic relationship. Does lack of Special Someone mean you’ve completely missed out on love?
Pete and I took a vacation. We really couldn’t afford the time or the cost, but we did it anyway. This past year was intense, to say the least. It seems we went from one crisis to the next. Both Pete and I were looking a bit glassy-eyed, and we hadn’t had a decent conversation in months. We needed time with one another and time with God, so the day after Christmas we packed the car and headed east. We didn’t come back until we were ready to face life again.
So, here we are back in Colorado, substantially poorer and with almost 6,000 more miles on our car. Was it worth it? You bet!
What is our eternal destination? While there have been some prominent church leaders proposing their own interpretation of the Bible on this topic, I always assumed that most Christians agreed on the basics—heaven and hell are real, and only perfect people can live in heaven. Since no one is perfect, we have to rely on Jesus’ perfection on our behalf. Otherwise, we consign ourselves to hell. Pretty orthodox—or at least I thought so.
With the recent death of my dad, lots of people are expressing their condolences. I really appreciate all the kindness we’re receiving—everyone has been so wonderful! What I find surprising, however, is how many people just assume that my dad went to heaven.
Pete and I have spent much of the last week and a half in emergency rooms and hospitals. After years of gradual decline, my 91-year-old dad took a sudden nosedive. He’d been enjoying his new living arrangement, going to the hall parties, filling up on his favorite foods, smiling a lot. Then one day we went to see him and he was curled up on his bed refusing to get up. In spite of bed trays and persuasive nurses, he refused to eat or drink. Then he fell… and fell again, hitting his head.
While we’ve been anticipating this point for years, it was still a bit of a shock. Suddenly Pete and I were faced with huge decisions. Rather than create an advanced directive, where every possibility is considered and plans decided ahead of time, my dad had assigned the two of us joint “durable medical power of attorney.” The idea was that, knowing my dad and his end-of-life preferences, we would be able to flex according to the circumstances.
This Sunday we’re all supposed to celebrate mothers. On the surface it seems like a great idea. After all, we all have or had a mother. When you think about the daily sacrifice that goes into raising a child, setting aside one day a year to express our appreciation and thankfulness seems inadequate, the very least we can do.
But for many of us, the idea of motherhood isn’t that simple. As Facebook recognizes, relationships are sometimes complicated. Life is messy.
I’ve been unwell the past few days—a bad reaction to a new prescription preceded by either a worse reaction to another new prescription or a 24-hour virus. My mind has been off wandering aimlessly around some abandoned part of town while I got to spend 48 hours in bed, waiting to feel better.
Normally, I’d be giddy with the thought of spending some time lounging around, reading books I’ve wanted to read, with no responsibilities and no interruptions. But when every part of your body is on strike—my skin even protested the gentle spray from the shower, and more so the towel afterward—and the thermometer says 102.3, lying around loses its luster.
Compost 