You Do it for the Kids...

My husband commented as we pulled into our directed parking spot, "It's weird, I never understood why Parker would spend his weekend finding things that he thought the boys would be into.  I thought you should just make your kids fit into whatever you want to do...which is mostly to drink beer and watch t.v.  But now, I get it.  It's totally fun to do stuff that the kids like to do."

"I know," I responded, "it's why parents go crazy at Christmas.  You don't actually care if your kid has whatever toy you got him.  You just can't wait to see him all geeked out on Christmas morning."

So we spent the morning looking at trains.  Big trains, old trains, new trains, and life size toy trains.  I never thought I'd spend so much time looking at trains without a word of complaint.  (In fact Tommy was probably more geeked out than Monster)

We do it to see his excitement at being allowed to climb on the back of a real. train.  We do it to see his smile as he waves to those already on the train, and those standing on the side as he takes his tide.  We do it because for the rest of the day all he can say is "choo choo!"  We do it, despite, and maybe even because of the melt down that happens when we finally return home instead of back at the "choo choos."

And it makes me wonder what blessings God is excited to give us.  What joys and treats and happy moments he so lovingly creates with the sole purpose of seeing our smile, our excitement, our joy.  Does he get excited as we do?  Does he smile and chuckle and endure what would ordinarily be mind-numbing boredom exclusively to make our joy complete?

I hope my expressions of joy and happiness and gratitude make it worth it for him.  I hope he smiles at my laughter and happiness and enjoyment of his gifts.  I am reminded to let myself be geeked out about life's blessings.  If only to make God smile.

The Other Side of the Conference Table

Many moons ago I started off as a high school English teacher. I was 22, but looked even younger, teaching at an inner city high school in Brooklyn, NY, which was a far cry from the Midwest suburban educational experience of my youth. I can still vividly remember my feelings of terror and intimidation during my first year of dreaded parent teacher conferences. The details of the parents’ faces and the content of the conversations are mostly a blur. I will forever remember the father who sat across from me, arms folded, with a stern and somewhat disappointed look on his face as he asked me how exactly I was going to challenge his advanced level son and prepare him for the state Regents exam. Aside from him, however, very few of these many conferences really stand out. What I can recall as easily as the day I lived it is the racing heart and sweaty palms, the stuttered conversation, the many “ums”, and “wells” I inserted into my speech, and racking my brain to clearly communicate all the things I knew about each student. I remember feeling like I wasn’t even really sure of what I was saying; I was just trying to fill the 20 minutes and get through the conference. It was as though all the hours and hours I spent with them had never happened and I couldn’t think of a good example of why this kid was getting a D in my class (which almost always had to do with the fact that he hadn’t turned in a single homework assignment in my class all year). I just remember feeling defensive and wrong. Most parents didn’t challenge me and yet I felt as though somehow they were seeing through me, through my inexperience and inability. I could imagine the conversations between parent and child when they returned home. “That Miss Kehoe sure doesn’t know what she’s doing, does she? I should call the principal tomorrow and see if I can get you transferred to another class. Dr. Rampersad has a lot more experience. AND a PhD! If Miss Kehoe wasn’t white I’d have thought she was another student in your class.” “Yeah, she’s dumb. I should probably start a fire in her class tomorrow to show her a lesson. Then I’ll fall asleep and refuse to wake up. It’ll be awesome.”

Ahh the horrors. I wanted so desperately to show these parents how much I cared about my job, about their son or daughter, how much I wanted them to learn. And I sat tongue-tied, intimidated and scared.

Last week I had a chance to sit across the table during another parent teacher conference. Only this time, I was the parent. Monster is in school now and every Tuesday and Thursday he spends the morning in Ms. Brandi’s class learning and growing and transforming before my very eyes. I sat across from Ms. Brandi for our first parent teacher conference and I felt scared, intimidated, and tongue-tied. I found myself racking my brain trying to think of an insightful question, wanting so desperately for this teacher, who is likely younger than me, to approve of me. To approve of my son. I worried that she could see through me and realized I have no idea what I’m doing with my hearing impaired son and most days I feel inadequate and ill prepared for the task of raising him. And I found myself awkwardly emotional as I tried to convey my appreciation for this teacher and this school. They are doing all the things I can’t. They are teaching my son to listen, to hear, to communicate, to understand. They are nurturing him and loving him and giving him all the tools he needs to thrive in life despite his hearing impairment.

As I recall this experience I am struck by how very similar my conference experiences were as both the teacher and the parent. It had never occurred to me, those many moons ago, that the parents who sat across from me could have been just as nervous, overwhelmed, scared and intimidated as I was. Or that Ms. Brandi could have been feeling some of those same emotions as I had been during our conference.

And it’s moments like these, when I come face to face with the reality that we are all really just the same, that my insecurities and fears are really no different from someone else’s, that I could weep with relief that I am not abnormal. I think we all walk around assuming we are the only ones who have ever thought these thoughts and felt these feelings. We let that isolation sink us deeper into negative self-talk. Reminders that the voice that lurks deepest inside our heart is more alike to one another than different is good for me. It quiets that voice when it tells me to be fearful and it opens up my heart to allow God to speak peace and love and freedom.

Restless

It's a rainy day. A dreary, rainy day. Dreary, rainy days make me feel restless and contemplative. I find myself walking around with an unsettled fire in my belly. I find myself thinking about the ways I'm still so insecure. The ways I'm still not comfortable in my own skin. The ways I'm walking through a life that isn't quite what I want my life to look like. The way I'm not quite the woman I want to be yet. And for some reason dreary, rainy days, more than any other type, leave me longing to be on the other side. Longing for completion. Longing to not be a work in progress. Or at least not in this type of progress.

I'm tempted, on rainy days, to fix this longing with a new outfit, or a new hair cut, or a new book that will somehow provide me with a simple three step solution to the life I've always wanted. I'm tempted on rainy days to overhaul my whole life. Run to whole foods and buy only organic, healthy foods. Run ten miles as soon as the rain stops. Get a whole new wardrobe and throw out the yoga pants and hooded zip ups that comprise my uniform. I'm so tempted on rainy days for the quick fix substitute to fill the aching in my heart.

I'm not as inclined to do the one thing that I need to do on days like this. Rest my restless heart in the arms of my Creator. Open my bible and drink from it's well. Let my heart bleed onto the pages of my journal. Sit with myself and all of my incompleteness. And then bask in Grace.

Because I don't do any of this with discipline and consistency, doing the one thing that I know will fix my restless, rainy day spirit doesn't seem like the fix. It seems far easier to run out to target and use my credit card to fix me. At the very least I'll feel happier for a little while.

Today the pull away from what I need most feels stronger than ever. My heart is so torn. There is an internal tug of war going in. The fire in my belly roars to be fed with a deeper Fire. My hard heart screams that it is pointless. Which will win? Where will I go on this rainy, dreary day?

Candice

Can I brag on my sister-in-law for a second? Guys, this girl is amazeballs. I don’t quite know if I’ll be able to adequately explain why I am so in awe of Candice, but I’m going to try. Cause it needs to be said.

First of all, this girl prayed that her husband would want to go to Africa. Her heart was filled with the desire to go to Africa and do something significant for God. But she took one look at her precious 8 month old, and precocious 2 and-a-half-year old and realized, sadly, this wasn’t quite in the cards right now. And instead of resigning herself to her fate, a little resentful of her needy small children and overall tied-down lot in life (as I would have done…) she starts praying that her husband would want to go to Africa and do something significant for God. Because, as she sees it, it’s kind of a two for one deal. They’re a team and if he goes, it’s her adventure too.

And of course, as God works in these ways, a few months later a trip to Africa presents itself. Her husband, unaware of her prayers, thinks maybe he might like to go…on a two-week trip…to Africa…leaving behind his wife and two small children. And instead of saying, “No way are you leaving me alone with two small children for two weeks! No way are you going on the adventure that I dreamed up! NO WAY are you leaving me behind!” (as I would have done…) she excitedly said, “YES! Go! Have fun! Do amazing things for God! We’ll do whatever it takes to get you there. I’m so behind you on this one!”

And then he goes. And instead of pouting and whining and hibernating for two weeks with two small children, feeding them whatever take out she fancies and ordering whatever she wants on amazon.com, because she deserves it (As. I. Would. Have. Done.) she decides to spend the two weeks with her friend Bethany whose husband is also in Africa. So she can help Bethany out. Bethany and her three boys.

While her husband is gone she decides to take her two small children four hours north to her husband’s family farm weekend. By herself. And on the way home from this exhausting weekend where she was a single parent her precocious two-and-a-half-year-old gets sick all over herself. Candice has to pull over on the side of the road, strip her down, clean her up, and get her back in the car, waking the eight month old in the process. And instead of losing her cool when her husband calls from Africa a few minutes after this fiasco, yelling at him for leaving her behind with the aforementioned fiasco which is somehow his fault (AS I WOULD HAVE DONE) she is thankful that he called at that moment instead of a few minutes earlier. Because if he had called when she was cleaning puke, she wouldn’t have been able to talk to him.

Candice is cut from a different cloth. When I was in the hospital having my baby she cleaned my whole house and washed my sheets. When I had to run our church’s VBS Candice came with her then sixteen month old (and sickly first trimester pregnant self) to watch my 8-week-old son for the week. While staying at Bethany’s this week she cleaned her bathroom and weeded her garden. She doesn’t sit down. She is always doing something to help someone. Candice has unlimited patience for her kids. Unlimited patience and sweet, sweet love. She is respectful and patient and loving. When I am telling my kid to knock it off and quit crying like a baby she is calmly and lovingly explaining to hers why it’s not ok to cry when you don’t get your way and that it hurts her ears to hear those cries. In short Candice is amazing. I don’t know very many people like her. She is humble and a true definition of servant hearted. Unfortunately these gifts often go overlooked and underappreciated; it kills me because every time I think of her I’m overwhelmed with gratitude.

Truthfully, Candice is pretty much everything I’m not. I would always rather sit and chat instead of do dishes. Or sit and surf the Internet. Or lie down and nap. I don’t want to clean my own bathroom much less someone else’s. And if what I do is going to go unnoticed or underappreciated…I’m not likely to do it.

One thing I am sort of good at is using encouraging words. So I write this to honor Candice and hopefully make sure she knows that all she does is noticed and appreciated. Cause seriously guys, she’s amazeballs.

The Whistle

When Monster was a newborn I heard the sound of a crying baby everywhere. Even when he was dead asleep I swore I could hear him crying. Even when I was at work and Monster was miles away with his beloved Granda, I heard him crying. My husband says he heard it too so I know I’m not crazy. Or maybe we’re both crazy.

These days I hear the high whistle of hearing aid feedback. No matter where I am, no matter if Monster’s aids are turned off, batteries out, I swear I can hear that whistle. The whistle, when I am actually hearing it and not imagining it, is a sign that something is not right with Monster’s aids: they aren’t sitting correctly on the back of his ear, the mold isn’t pushed into his ear canal tightly enough, or, most likely, he has pulled them out in protest of boredom while strapped into his highchair/stroller/car seat. The whistle screams attention to the problem and pulls me into action to fix whatever is wrong. The whistle is actually, kind of, a good thing.

Except when I hear it all those other times. When Monster’s aids are tucked away for the night, turned off and resting in anticipation of another day of amplifying sound for my son, the whistle screams attention to what? My inadequacies? My failures? The fact that I constantly forget to incorporate sign language during the day? Or the guilt for the hour spent at the pool that could have been spent elsewhere with Monster’s hearing in tact? The looming sense that something is still not right? That something else will go wrong?

Just like Monster’s imagined cries were a constant reminder of what was not going right at home, the damn whistle is my reminder that I’m still afraid. The whistle I hear everywhere raises my level of stress, sends my blood pressure skyrocketing and leaves me frantically searching for the root of the problem in need of a solution, neither of which I can identify.

I hate that damn whistle. I hate not knowing the future for Monster. I hate learning sign language. I hate that I am already stressing about whether or not Monster will wear his hearing aids in school pictures. I hate that I even care about school pictures! I hate wishing that this wasn’t our forever permanence. I hate that I’m still mourning things that I didn’t realize I had to mourn.

I hate the whistle because it interrupts the normal moments with a reminder of what is our “new normal.” Family meals are interrupted with cleaning food off of his aid and reinserting it back in his ear while saying loudly and sternly, “NO! Hearing aids stay IN!” and Monster shakes his head no to show he knew all along. Quiet moments in the car turn into stress-filled minutes trying to wrestle the hearing aid out of my son’s mouth while still keeping my eyes on the road. Moments snuggling and wrestling with Monster are broken by the whistle when the contact jars his aid loose.

I know it will get better. I know his aids will someday simply just be a part of him. I know, I know, I know we are truly so blessed. This is minimal. This is a small price to pay for my son.

But I still hate the whistle.

Why U2 was the Most Worshipful Experience I've had in a Long Time...

This summer I went to the U2 concert. (I know, I know. Yes, you should be jealous, ‘cause it was freakin’ awesome). I’ve loved U2 since I was 16 years old and my first real boyfriend (who was not my boyfriend yet) danced with me to “Sweetest Thing” and later declared it to be our song. I don’t usually tell people that this is when I first fell in love with U2. Usually I tell people I fell in love with U2 when I bought their “All That You Can’t Leave Behind” album in the era of Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera. Those guys were actually singing about something. Clearly the latter story seems like a bit “deeper” reason to love U2.

I thought about this as we waited for the concert to start, watching the giant screens flash statistics. How much money was being spent world wide on illegal drugs, how many people had died unnecessarily of hunger while we sat their sipping beers, how many children had been born to members of the crew while on tour (17 by the way). At this moment one of the women in our group turned to us and said, “That’s the one thing that I don’t like about U2, all their political stuff. Sometimes I just want to sit back and enjoy my rock concert.” Hmmm. That’s actually one of the things I love most about U2. They care. They aren’t just self-involved rock stars. Or maybe they are and they’ve just kept up an incredible act all these years. Either way, they are beckoning their fans to a higher calling. They don’t let their concert goers sit idly by resigned to their role as mere rock fans. They think more of us. They invite us to care too. All while enjoying an amazing rock concert. I don’t mind paying $10 for beers to participate in all that.

And last week I discovered another reason why I love Bono, The Edge, Larry and Adam. The U2 concert was perhaps the most worshipful experience I’ve had in a very long time. From the moment I sat down in my seat my heart fell into anticipation of God’s presence. I found myself noticing Him everywhere. Soldier Field felt as though it was brimming with hearts that cared about the same thing God’s heart cared about. As I sang along to Pride I was singing about Jesus, the one man who came in the name of love. Belting out “in the name of love/what more in the name of love”, I realized these words were worshipful. I was singing those words to God. The warm, perfect summer air was thick with God’s presence. Sunday Bloody Sunday was my heart’s cry to God.

And it was at that exact moment my mind began to articulate this idea of feeling closer to God, filled with more adoration and worship of Him than I had in a long time that my husband’s cousin Becky turned to me and said “This is better than any church service I’ve ever been to.” And all at once I felt both wholeheartedly in agreement and deeply conflicted. Hadn’t I just been thinking the same thing? And yet, this wasn’t a church service, and while I don’t know where Becky stands with God, I do know her conflicted relationship with the church. And it made me sad. It made me sad for her and the thousands of others in this stadium that sang along without knowing the power behind those words. And it made me sad that people, myself included, are finding a more powerful experience with God at a rock concert than they do at church.

I work in a church. I’m not in charge of worship I work with students. But I am constantly trying to help create experiences that draw my students closer to God. And I’m constantly trying to convince them that God is, in fact, at church. And, I’ll admit, sometimes I have to convince myself of the same thing. Why is it that my heart feels more in line with the heart of God at a U2 concert than it does at church? What are we doing wrong? Why did God feel closer at Soldier Field than He has at church in a long time?

Maybe it’s just my church that feels irrelevant. Or maybe it’s just me. Lately I’ve had a hard time singing worship hymns that feel so dry when everywhere I look I see things that make my heart long for God’s intervention. There is so much hurting, so much pain, so much corruption and evil that I’ve never in my life wanted so much to see Jesus move in actual, tangible, concrete ways. I read the Gospels with a desire to see how Jesus would respond today. What would he say to our modern day Pharisees? (And whom would he identify as one?) How would he heal the woman next door who’s so addicted to drugs and alcohol that most days she barely functions? What would he say to the girl who was kidnapped, trafficked and now sells her body because she knows no other way? The more I learn about injustice, the more desperate and useless I feel. The more I see what is dirty and rough and hard in the world, the more complicated I understand the situation to be. I have more problems to bring to God and fewer answers than I did when I became a Christian 10 years ago.

And perhaps that’s why U2 was such a jarring experience for me. For the first time in a long time, I felt myself crying out to God straight from the depths of my heart. And my voice wasn’t alone. I was in a stadium full of people asking God the same thing. And that felt really worshipful. “How long, how long must we sing this song?” How long indeed.

Ears to Hear

As I stood in the parking lot of the children’s hospital, moments after the life changing words “severe hearing loss” my mind got stuck on all the words of love my son had never heard. Thirteen and a half months worth of sweet whispers and “I love yous.” Thirteen and a half months worth of messages my heart sought to speak.

Today, Monster has hearing aids, and I’ve wasted no time making up for the months of silence. I say I love you in as many ways that I can, as many times as I can. I tell him he’s good and he’s loved and he’s treasured. I tell him all the things he didn’t hear for the first year of his life.

However months into his diagnosis bedtime is still the part that breaks my heart. Perhaps it’s because just about every “going to sleep” moment of his short life involved a routine that was inundated with sounds. From the Rock-a-bye Baby! U2 album that my husband and I swore was completely necessary in Monster’s ability to fall asleep, to the bedtime stories I just knew were filling him with rich language and imagination, to the prayers for his character and heart for God, all of these rituals were as much for me as they were for him. There was comfort in those sounds, in the routine that sent my son into slumber. For a few nights after we found out he couldn’t hear I still continued to press play on the stereo even though it wasn’t at a decibel Monster could hear. It felt so wrong without it. Too quiet. Too empty.

I think, though, that the larger reason that made bedtime so difficult had to do with the words I had always chosen to leave my son with. Since he entered my life I have laid him in his crib with words that spoke to his worth. We love you. Mom loves you, Dad loves you, Nona and Granda love you. God loves you. You are good and sweet and kind hearted. You are loved so, so much. For thirteen and a half months silence resided where I thought had been powerful words of love.

I wasn’t the only one sending Monster off to dreamland on affirming words of love. Unbeknownst to me, my dad, Monster’s primary caregiver on days that I work, had also spent the last months giving Liam a message of worth before he went to sleep. As he puts it, “The last thing he should know before going to sleep is that he’s good and he’s loved.”

And that right there is why bedtime is still heartbreaking. Monster doesn’t wear his hearing aids to sleep. He is unable to hear anything just before I lay him in his crib. In those last fleeting moments before I leave him for the night silence resounds. We have a new bedtime routine. Now we read our stories and say our prayers and then take his aids out. We go upstairs and turn off the light. And I hold him close and kiss his ears three times. And then we rock back and forth as I continue to say those same words I always said. I know he can’t hear them, but for some reason I can’t hold them in. I can’t bear to not say them. I have to believe, someway, somehow Monster has ears to hear what I need him to know. Maybe his physical ears can’t do that, but I continue to communicate these words of love that hopefully he’ll feel in his depths, words that his heart will hear. For myself, and for him.