Nights and Shining Armor

                As I look across the room, my heart is warmed and my spirit is settled. I feel safe, content, calm, and my heart is filled with joy. I have a peace in the depths of my soul that I’ve never known. Every part of my being is encompassed with a love so great, there are no words to describe it. Across the room is the person with whom I am completely at peace, who has seen into the depths of my soul, and who understands the essence of my being. 

                 
                I don’t even know how it is possible, but it has been the best and worst few years of my life. This year marks 27 years of living with daily, debilitating migraines, and chronic pain. I am no longer able to work at this point and it takes almost all of my focus to fight the pain that is my constant companion. These last few years, I’ve watched life as I know it spiral into long days and nights of fighting for sleep, praying for relief, and frequent tears. But I’m also here to tell you that grace sustains me and the hand of God still holds me fast.  

                 It’s commonly accepted that all little (and big) girls dream about falling in love, having their dream wedding, and then living happily ever after. There are dreams that a dashing prince or a knight in a suit of gleaming armor would swoop in and whisk one away to a life of happily every afters. I wasn't one of those little girls. I was far more interested in frogs and dirt. Growing up, my friends Annie and Abigail would come to play and we would sit and talk about weddings. Annie had a notebook with sections for each of us in which she wrote our wedding plans. There were wedding colors, flower selections, and dress designs along with bride’s maid and groom selections. My section was planned by Annie. Thank God I didn’t marry the guy she picked.  As I grew up, I didn’t give any of it much thought. I wanted children, so my plan was to adopt. 

                 By the time I was in college my interest in guys piqued. I could see the value in having that kind of relationship. But I wasn’t the kind of girl guys looked at twice. I had a lot of friends that were guys, but that was largely because if they studied with me, they passed their classes. Looking back, I realize that I began to believe that no one would ever want me. I didn’t have the characteristics that society said were desirable. I wasn’t pretty, I wasn’t charming, I wasn’t sexy, and I couldn’t flirt to save my life. I was blunt, more than a little stubborn, and determined to be my own person on my own terms. I did well in school and I had a good poker face, so everyone thought I was fine. Really, I was struggling to breathe. My family was falling apart, my older brother had just died, and my whole world was crashing down. I was desperate to be wanted and loved by someone. I needed someone with whom I felt safe. When was my Knight in Shining Armor coming to take me away on his white horse??? I needed him desperately. This desperation did lead to some bad decision making on my part during those years. But God, in His grace, protected me from any lasting consequences of those decisions. For that, I am truly grateful. 

                I spent my young adult years teaching and growing. I will not lie and say it was easy to be alone during those years. It was not. But I did learn the value of singleness and how to be content. I did not date during those years. At one particular school that I taught at, I honestly believe that I had more of an impact on my students BECAUSE I was single and didn't date. It was a hard lesson to learn, but the rest of the story is sweeter because of it.  Following God's path is always more rewarding than following one's own.  

                When I moved back to Abilene in January 2014, I had no idea how my life was going to change. It started with a phone call as I drove across the desert, trekking my carload of belongings from New Mexico back to Abilene to start a new chapter of my life. I had a friend, more of an acquaintance really, that I had known for several years. We first crossed paths a lifetime ago when I stopped by an old workplace to say hello to friends. It was a hurried exchange: me introducing myself in passing and him politely saying hello. As the years passed, we occasionally saw each other at the home of a mutual friend. We would say hello on Facebook, or briefly chat about our lives. We had a lot in common and although we rarely saw each other, we fell into an easy familiarity. I don’t even know how or why we happened to be on the phone that day. We talked about my move back to Abilene and he causally invited me to stop by his workplace when I got into town and say hello. I don’t know what made me do it, but he was my first stop as I pulled into town. As we said our hellos, I was struck with his warmth, welcome, and genuine pleasure at seeing me.  He really did enjoy my company.

                January turned into February and thus into March. We were spending almost all of our free time together. I was attracted to his gentle spirit, calmness, and the fact that I felt at peace around him. I was safe with him. He knew everything about me, and I was still safe. Looks didn't matter, age didn't matter, chemistry didn't matter. As I drove to work one morning, I suddenly knew this was the man I was supposed to marry. He took longer to be convinced. So I waited and prayed. In the midst of all this, my health continued to decline to the point where I had to give up my job in early July and was living in another friend's living room. I had no where else to go. I was daily plagued by doubt and fear. If we married and I still could not work, how could I contribute to our income? How would I do my God-given job as a wife if I couldn't get out of bed without the risk of falling? My biggest fear was that Clint would no longer love me when he fully realized that he would most likely have to care for me for the rest of my life. Or worse, that he wouldn't be able to say so, and just quietly push me out of his life. We got married in November of that same year. The fear and doubt followed me still.  
              
              I grew up in a multi-abuse home. This is also known as a "multi-trauma" home. It is exactly what is sounds like. In my home there was sexual abuse, spiritual abuse, verbal abuse, psychological abuse, and physical abuse. I personally experienced all but the physical abuse. Having grown up this way, it sent me into a tailspin when someone offered to love me, give me a home, and take care of me. All of that PTSD from my previous life came rushing back like a dam had broken. I thought I would drown and take him with me. This continued about 8 months into our marriage. We finally asked for help from a therapist who helped us work through how we were both feeling about things. He especially helped me see that I was driving Clint away by not trusting him to love me. During all of this, Clint never stopped trying to reach me through love, gentleness, and protection. He was the culmination of Ephesians 6:11-18 where Paul speaks about putting on the armor of God so you can withstand attacks from the devil. If you really break it down, that's exactly what was happening; Satan was trying to destroy me and our marriage.

             Something else distasteful arose out of all of this abuse. We already knew that we could not afford a traditional wedding. Nor for that matter did I have the strength and energy to plan one. The real problem is that the perpetrator of most of the abuse is an immediate family member. I absolutely could not have this person be a witness to my marriage, or even be in my presence on such a special day. Sadly, this meant to us (at the time) that Clint's family and the rest of my family couldn't be there either. I know that this hurt my dear in-laws and possible some of my family. For that, I am truly sorry.

            We were married two years ago on Thanksgiving Day. We had the ceremony in my dad's apple orchard in High Rolls, New Mexico. My dad officiated. We wore jeans. I wore a linen top my mother in law gave me. I carried a bouquet of red silk roses and red geraniums that my aunt made. We took some pictures afterward and then had Thanksgiving dinner. It was very low-key.

             Two years of marriage may not qualify me to give advice, but I think we have lived through more in two years that most couples do in a lifetime. So if you don't want to read what I have learned then stop reading here.

             I have learned that building a good marriage is incredibly hard work, but it is totally worth it. I have learned that if you and your spouse communicate differently and it's not working, ask for help. We have couples counseling at least twice a month because we communicate on two different levels and it helps us speak each other's language. I have learned that the sexual activity shown in media is not at all how it is in real life. In real life it is awkward and strange at first. It takes practice. Good comes later, and really good comes even later than that. I have learned that neither my husband nor myself are mind readers. Say what is on your mind. I have learned that honesty and kindness are two of the most important ingredients for a strong marriage. Finally, extend grace and forgiveness freely. You will both need a lot of it.

            Let me close by speaking to the single women who might be reading this. Go look at the title again. You might have thought that was a typo. It isn't. I want you to remember something. There are no knights in shining armor coming to take you away. But there are dark nights you have to walk through. Don't be afraid of them. They are there to help you grow. Let me say it again, there are no knights. But along the way there are men. Good men who are willing to stand up and put on the armor of God and be there for you. I found mine in God's perfect timing. I can't wait to hear your stories.
           
                

           

Ronnie

     Dear family and friends; you may have seen the blue and pink filter across my husband's or my profile picture on Facebook. No, we are not having twins. The pink and blue represent the women and families who have lost a baby or infant. This isn't about people wearing pink to show support for those with breast cancer. This isn't about wearing blue to raise awareness about diabetes. In this day and age, there are colors that depict almost every condition there is. Except for pregnancy and infant death. Why is this issue less important than the others? Millions of women are keeping silent. I read a statistic analysis that said that from 1-2 weeks there is a 75% of miscarriage. From 3-6 weeks, that percentage is lowered to 10%. So, is my pink and blue ribbon going to change any of that? No, it isn't. But it does provide an opportunity to raise awareness when people ask us about it. Why is this so important to us? Because, we too have been lost in the labyrinth of darkness that pregnancy loss brings.

     Not that long ago, I called my husband at work to let him know what was happening. In retrospect, I probably should have waited until he was home to break the news to  him. But I needed to hear his voice and to listen while he prayed over us. When he got home, I remember him holding me in his arms while we both sobbed. What hurt me the most was the fact that I didn't even know I was carrying a baby. I'm largely house-bound and don't get much exercise, so I attributed the weight gain to not getting enough exercise. I also missed two periods, which I attributed to the stress of having chronic medical issues. For 18 years I've been told by various doctors that I can't even get pregnant. The daily nausea and vomiting should have been a clue, but I have chronic migraines. Nausea and vomiting is just par for the course. I didn't know. That's all. I just didn't know. 

     At first, I was incredibly sad and angry at God. Then I remembered that God is big enough to take my anger. I remembered that HE is the one who carries our transgressions, heals the sick, and let the captive go free. I was reminded that God is a God of miracles and life. If He made the life that is gone away from us, then in His perfect time, He can make life again. Does this make me less angry? Yes, it does. Does it mean mean the sadness and longing have gone away? No, I think that has become a part of me. But it gave me some much needed perspective. I want to share a very personal letter that I wrote to our unborn baby.

Dear Baby,

     I know that you will never get to read this letter. But I'm writing the things I would tell you if you were still with us. I'm writing so that I will never forget. I'm writing to remember. First and foremost, I want you to know that I've loved and waited for you for most of my life. When I was 5, someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. My answer was "the mother of my children." That was my biggest goal in life, to be your mother. 


     I will miss holding you in my arms and singing to you. I will miss watching your daddy read to you and put you to bed. Your daddy would read you fairy tales that are magical and exciting. I would have read you Tolstoy, Austen, and probably some Poe for good measure. I will miss dressing you in the cute clothes that your grandmothers and aunts would have sent you. I will miss watching you play with the army men and Legos that your uncles would have given you. I will miss seeing the pride on your grandfather's faces when you hit your first home run. I will miss the smell on your head that only babies have. I would trade diaper changes and 2 am feedings with joy if it meant I still had you. But I don't. I don't have any of that. 

     I like to think that you would have been like your daddy. He is loving, kind, gentle. In fact, he is not just the guy who holds me when I cry, makes me laugh, and brightens any room he walks into. He is my best friend. Just knowing about you made him realize that he was capable of loving deeper than he ever realized. You have an amazing daddy. I just wish you had known him. But you didn't. You didn't get that chance.

     We would have turned the guest room into your room. You could have gone to sleep watching the glow in the dark stars that are all over the ceiling. You would have had a wonderful childhood. We would have taken you to the symphony, the zoo, NASA, and exposed you to music and literature from the first days of your life. I wish so much that we could share these things with you. But we can't. Because you aren't here.
 
     There are so many thing I wish I could say to you. I wish I could tell you how much we loved and cherished you. Maybe someday there will be other babies and children that we love, but none will ever replace you. We will always remember you and talk about you. You hold a very special place in our hearts. I want to tell you about your name. We named you Ronnie. It is a Gaelic name that originated from Hebrew. It means "Mountain of Strength." Your last name, Morgan, means "Great Brightness." You are the legacy of many generations of Morgans and Tuckers. Had you lived to meet them, you would have been surrounded by an overwhelming abundance of love, honor, integrity, and faith in God. As much as I want you here with us, you are in a far better place. You are daily in the presence of the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. You are in the presence of the God of Clinton and Martha. You are exactly where you are supposed to be. But that doesn't make me miss you any less. 

     We love you baby Ronnie. You will always be in our hearts and never far from our minds. I don't understand  why we lost you and I probably never will. But here I stand with unshakable faith and I can say with Job "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.  Blessed be the name of the Lord."  (Job1:21)

Broken Walls

I've always considered myself to be a strong person.  I roll with the punches, I bend but not break, I excel under pressure.  Those who read this and know me can attest that I have one of the best poker faces around when it comes to pressure. 


I don't know where I got the idea that this was the person I am supposed to be.  I think it happened as a child and I became so good at it, that it just stuck.  The problem is that I became so good at it, I don't know how to NOT be this person. 

Realizing that I am preaching to the choir, I have to say something.  Brokenness is not a bad thing.  As a society, we place great worth on being strong.  We preach the message to our sons from a young age that they can't cry,  they should be a man, and they should grow a pair.  We reinforce with our daughters that women and emotions are an irrational thing.  We make jokes about how girls cry about everything, and no one understands it.   It is a deep and perverse part of our nature.  The problem is that it also teaches us to put up walls. 


I'm not an expert on many things, but in the area of putting up walls, I have every advanced degree possible.  I begin to put up walls as a child to protect myself from what was going on around me.  It was a natural response to what was going on in my life.  The problem is that no one ever taught me to take the walls back down.  So for most of my life, when I felt hurt, scared, or alone, I built a wall.  When I felt confused, betrayed, or threatened, I built a wall.  Don't get me wrong, I can look back and see some ways in which my walls kept me safe.  But I can also look back and see even more how the walls kept me from growing.  The walls fulfilled a purpose for a time, but they kept me from learning to trust myself and others, they kept me from learning how to fully commit, they kept me from ever being in a place where I had to let myself be vulnerable.  

There is a whole book inside me about being vulnerable; the pros and the cons :)  But this isn't what I want to say today.  Today I'm thinking about brokenness.  At some point in my wall-building career, things started to fall apart.  Sometime in my mid twenties, I suddenly lost the ability to hold everything together and I started to break.  It began one day when something happened and I absolutely couldn't stop crying.  I had such an over the top reaction to a fairly insignificant incident that I thought I was going crazy.  I literally did not stop crying for over 6 hours.  I don't even remember which friend it was, but some dear soul sat there for 6 hours and let me break.   As I spent the next few days trying to put that reaction into perspective; I realized that over the course of 20 something years, I could count very quickly the times that I had actually broken down and cried.  It wasn't many.

As time went on, it was like the dam over the River Martha had suddenly sprung hundreds of tiny leaks.  It seemed that almost everything in my life gave me occasion to break down in tears.  The annoying part was that some of it was things that had never made me cry before. Migraines?  Rarely reduced me to tears.  Now I couldn't stop.  Work conflict?  My specialty.  Suddenly I cried every time I got angry.  Family drama?  We've had it for years, but suddenly it was more than I could take.

I distinctly remember a period of a few years when I literally felt like I was watching my whole life fall to pieces in front of my eyes.  In reality, it was not my life being broken, it was me.  Over the course of time and with the help of some very close friends who took me as I was, no questions asked, and loved me in spite of myself; I started to slowly see that living life behind my walls of security was really not a life.  I slowly, VERY SLOWLY, began to open my self up and let myself be vulnerable with people.  Most of the time, it totally backfired and I ended up a huddled mass of confusion, hurt, and rejection; Right back at the foot of a wall ready to be built.

Over time, choosing to be open and vulnerable in all areas of life because a little easier.  With certain people, the walls started to come down.  With others, it was a much slower process that involved a daily choice to let them see the real Martha.  It involved learning to trust that people could choose to love me in spite of who I was or how I saw myself.  Did it work every time?  Absolutely not.  Did it get easier?  Not really.

At the ripe old age of 31, I can look back on those years and see how the brokenness changed me.  I can see how I am more capable of loving than ever before, because now I'm not consumed with the fear that I will be rejected.  I am more able to accept people as they are, because I want them to accept me as I am.  I can look beyond the ugliness and hatred of some people, because when I am that way, I hope they can see beyond that with me.

More importantly, I am beginning to learn to embrace the brokenness.  Sure, there are days or months where it seems like my life is going to hell in a hand-basket.  There are certainly days that all I can feel is pain and loneliness.  There are plenty of days where I feel despised and rejected by the people that I love.  But the difference is, now I can see where brokenness leads.

One of my favorite examples of brokenness in the Bible is King David.  The man did unspeakable things.  He had his best friend killed in battle so he could have his wife.  He lied, and took what was not his.  There is more to the story, but what is interesting is David's reaction to having his sin uncovered.  David didn't try to run and hide or to blame his wrong doing on someone else.  No, he faced his flaws and brokenness and let it make him a better person.  Psalm 51 is famously known as David's Lament after being confronted with his sin.  It begins with confession and repentance.  But my favorite part is verses 6-17
                              "Behold, you desire truth in the inward parts: and in the hidden parts you will                         make me to know wisdom.  Purge me with hyssop and I shall be clean: wash me and I shall be whiter than snow.  Make me to hear joy and gladness; that the bones that you have broken will rejoice.  Hide your face from my sins and forget my iniquities.  Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.  Cast me not away from your presence; take not your holy spirit from me.  Restore unto me the joy of your salvation; and uphold me with your spirit.  Then will I teach transgressors you ways; and sinners will be converted to you.  Deliver me from blood-guiltiness, O God, God of my salvation; and my tongue will sing aloud of your righteousness.  O Lord, open my lips and my mouth will show forth your praise.  For you desire not sacrifices, or I wold give them, you do not delight in burnt sacrifices.  THE SACRIFICES OF GOD ARE A BROKEN SPIRIT: A BROKEN AND CONTRITE HEART, O GOD, YOU WILL NOT DESPISE!!

I add the emphasis and exclamation points because to me, this is good news!  God doesn't need or even want my strength, resilience, fortitude, and the fact that I'm tough as nails.  All He wants, all He needs is my brokenness.  He is looking for broken vessels to use for His glory.

My brokenness is like colored glass.  Alone, it's just glass.  But broken and put together by a master, it becomes a beautiful stained glass window.

I am not yet an expert in brokenness, but if things keep up, I will be soon :)  Yes, I still fall apart when something in my life breaks.  Yes, it is still the worst feeling ever.  Yes, I still try to hide my brokenness, even from the people who love me most.

But I am learning to embrace those parts of me.  I'm learning to let  my brokenness show (or I as I some times say, I'm learning to let the crazy out).  If I cry or show negative emotion in front of you, it's because there has already been a battle in my head about whether the risk of rejection is worth the reward of learning to be vulnerable.  I'm learning to take down the walls.  

Just today, I caught myself saying "When does this stop??  When does something in my life come easily and without brokenness and heartache??"  Then something prompted me to remember the end product of brokenness.  Do I get what I want or what makes me happy?  Maybe, maybe not.  Do I someday feel "normal" (which is really just a setting on your dryer.  In case you were wondering)?  Maybe, probably not.   Do I ever reach a place of complete peace and surrender no matter what?  I hope so, because then I'll know that I'm on my way being not just a broken vessel, but a broken vessel that can be used for glory.    In the end, it makes every crack, every hole, and every gaping wound worth it.

Hands

I wrote this many years ago on my lunch break between classes of 6th graders.  I don't know how it never made it to this blog, but here it is now.  I left it the way I wrote it, but someday I want to add to it.  

  The hand is a magnificent thing to think about.  Its design and range of function are astounding.  Our hands make us who we are.  They do the work to get us where we are in life.  Our hands feed us, groom us, and pick up after us.  They make up the bulk of what we do for our professions.  Some hands cook, others write, still others make music.  The list could go on and one.  They save lives, they bid on the stock market, and they run factories.  Whatever you do, it’s likely that your hands are actually doing the manual labor. 

            Your hands convey feeling and meaning.  You gesture, you touch people, and you point.  Your touch can tell some one you care about them, or it can turn them away.  Your gestures can either be friendly or abrasive. 

            Your hands tell a lot about you.  They can tell what kind of work you do, how hard you worked, and when you’re old; they can tell what kind of life you lived. The first thing I notice about a person may be their eyes or their personality, but the thing I remember about them is their hands. 

            If I’ve known you for at least 10 years, I will always remember your hands.

Abigail has good piano hands with stubby fingernails.  She’s the only person I know that cuts her nails shorter than I do.  Rachael has hands like mine, but prettier.  Her fingers are longer and more tapered.  Her hands used to always be dirty, because they were playing with my hands :~) but now they are neat, clean, and have a wedding ring on them.  Tammi had funny hands.  When I was little, I called them “doing hands.”  She was always doing something.  Cooking, cleaning, playing the piano or helping me with puppet shows.  Her hands told me that she loved me. 

            Mom’s hands were always full of a baby.  Or a paddle, or a textbook, or food, or medicine, or whatever else her children needed at the moment.  She has classic “mom” hands.  Brenda has those hands too.  But Brenda also has chemo hands, and they remind me of some of the scariest months of my life.  But they mostly remind me of food and clean laundry :~)

            Annie has great hands.  I don’t even know how to describe them.  Maybe “best friend hands.”  She’s been everywhere and done everything with me; even the parts that involved the sewer.  Now we’re grown up and she has nurse hands.  They are small but very capable.  She’s never dropped a baby. 

            The boys are another story.  Matthew, Ben and Nathan; mostly your hands were always stealing something of mine.  Or they were pestering me.  One time Matthew’s hands stripped me of my robe and left me at the roadside for dead.  Then Ben’s hands came and saved me.  Of course, it was a play, but it mirrored our lives together.  Matthew, I miss your hands.  My favorite memory of your hands was when you handed a baby Savannah to me for the first time.  Ben your hands have always been there to back me up and spur me on.  By the way, Caiden has your hands.  Nathan, your hands were always beating stuffed animals or shooting something.  I remember your hands while you were learning to read and write.  You always had to follow along with your finger while we read.  You had baby brother hands :~)

            Dad, I saved you for last, because your hands were the most memorable.  I used to be afraid of your hands.  They were big and hairy, and you gave really hard spankings.  I only got one from you, but it made an impression.  I remember many times, sitting and watching your hands while you wrote sermons.  It was fascinating.  I remember learning how to fix cars, install toilets, mix cement, burn hamburgers, and how to hold a violin.  You made me learn how to cast, bait a hook, and a whole host of other nasty things I didn’t want my hands doing.  But they’ve come in handy.  I’ve watched your hands comfort countless dying cancer patients, dedicated hundreds of babies; and marry and bury more people that I can count.  You may not think this much of a legacy, but if it’s the only thing you ever leave me with, it’s enough.  But I have one question about your hands.  Why do you have that one funny nail with the bump?

            I’ve gone through all the hands I have time for during one lunch break.  If I kept on we’d have pages of extended family extremities.  I asked myself two questions, which hands are the best, and which hands do I want?

            The best hands are defiantly Grandparent Hands.  Mema, I didn’t get to you, but you have great hands. Grandparent hands tell the best stories, have the best advice and make the best pie. 

            Which hands I want is a slightly harder question.  Having given it a lot of thought, I still don’t really have an answer.  I just have my hands.  They have their own story.  But you know what?  I really, really hope that I grow into my mother’s hands. 

Bucket List

I promise to return to serious blogging shortly.  

One of my favorite movies is "The Bucket List"  I decided long ago to make a bucket list (although when I was 10, it was just a to-do list).  For those of you not familiar with the movie or the concept, a bucket list is a list of things you want to do before you die.  Having been ill for a few months and unable to do much of anything,  I've had plenty of time to work on my bucket list.  I decided to share it so that whoever wants can help me add to it, accomplish a goal on it, or copy and steal it.  Some of these items are old, some I've recently added.  These are in no particular order of importance, although some of them are definitely more important than others.  

1.  Own my own business (and make it succeed)

2.  Go to the circus at least once

3.  Read the complete works of Jane Austen (Done, many times)

4.  Learn how to dance

5.  Go to music school (2006)

6.  Ride a giraffe

7.  Own a home

9.  Adopt a child

10.  Go on a mission trip (Done, Mexico a couple of times)

11.  Learn to speak a foreign language fluently

12.  Work in a soup kitchen

13.  Make a difference in someone's life

14.  Write to a complete stranger (Yesterday)

15.  Run for public office

16.  Go on a cruise

17.  Go to England with my dad.

18.  Preach a sermon

19.  Write a book

20.  Read "War and Peace" (2000, 2011)

21.  Take the MCAT

22.  Go to Africa

23.  Go on a safari

24.  Backpack through the Grand Canyon

25.  Learn to hang-glide or para-glide

26.  Learn to make moonshine (2013)

27.  Make a quilt (1998)

28.  Graduate from college (2006)

29.  Go to medical school

30.  Have a pen pal (done, a lot of them)

31.  Write a blog (doing)

32.  Change the world

33.  Protest something

34.  Kiss a boy

35.  Own a horse (done, when I was a kid my siblings and I saved up and bought two horses.)

36.  Do something illegal (I speed,  all the time)

37.  Have one day with no physical pain

39.  Tell someone about my faith (done)

40.  Live in Alaska

41.  Learn to surf

42.  Work in a Level 1 Trauma Center

43.  Buy a grandfather clock

44.  Meet a Holocaust survivor

45.  Meet Pat Monahan from Train

46.  Go to a live concert (Done 2011 Maroon 5/Train with Priscilla Wiggins)

47.  Write a song

48.  Learn to play the guitar

49.  Be in Times Square at midnight on New Year's Day

50.  Drive a race car

51.  Meet the Queen of England

52.  Ride a train

53.  Scare a fainting goat

55.  Go on the ghost tour of Alcatraz

56.  Own a Diabatic Alert Dog

57.  Live by the ocean

58.  Buy a car (2013)

59.  Get married

60.  Grow a rose garden

61.  Buy a cuckoo clock

62.  Run a marathon

63.  Deep-fry a turkey

"If you're bored with life and you don't get up every morning with a burning desire to do things - you don't have enough goals"   ~Lou Holtz

Living Stones and Refined Gold

Pain is something with which I am intimately familiar.  There are many kinds of pain that range from physical and emotional to spiritual and mental.  I've dealt with chronic physical pain since I was a child.  I've also had my fair share and then some of the other types of pain.   One of the questions I wrestle with is why?  Why does God allow me to be in pain?  Why does He allow me to go through painful circumstances?  Can't He see that I've had all I can take and that this isn't fair??

After many years, I think I may have found an answer to my question that satisfies me.  But I can't give away the answer, you'll have to build a cathedral with me first.

 To build a cathedral, you can't just run down to the hardware store and buy some giant stone blocks and arches.  To build a cathedral you have to find a quarry of the right kind of stone.  Chances are you will then have to transport huge chunks of stone quite a distance to your building site.  After you get there, then you have to spend years carving perfect pieces that fit together just right so that you have a structure that can support it's own weight.  Do it wrong, and it all falls apart.  After much work and time, you finally get to make your cathedral beautiful.  You must carve each bird, picture, face, and word that you want to adorn your cathedral.  All of this takes time.  A lot of time.  When most of the the great cathedrals of the world were built, the men who started them did not see them finished during their life time.  Can you imagine spending your entire life working on a project that you may never see finished?  It's frustrating just to think about it.  One of my favorite verses is found in 1 Peter 2:5  It says, You also as a living stone are being built up into a spiritual house with a holy priesthood so that you can offer up sacrifices to God that are pleasing and acceptable.  (The Martha Translation).  You know what that means?  It means that I'm a cathedral.  I am a living stone.  I am being continual shaped into something more beautiful by every single circumstance and person I come in contact with whether it be good or bad.   I am being shaped by pain.

It's a foreign concept to us that pain and suffering can be a good thing.  It goes against our humanity to embrace suffering.   It is the opposite of everything our body and mind says is right and good.  But imagine the freedom that can be found in seeing a higher purpose to pain.  Even the most petty annoyances can be used for good.

Still not convinced that your pain and suffering are a good thing?  Then let's refine some gold.

Gold doesn't just show up in a pure form.  It has to be refined.  There are many ways to refine gold, but all of them involve separating the gold from other compounds or impurities.  Gold is also the most malleable of all the metals.  One ounce of gold can be beaten into 300 square feet.  One of my other favorite scriptures is 1 Peter 1:7.  It says "The trial of your faith, being much more precious than gold which is temporary, though it be refined with fire, will be found unto the praise, honor, and glory at the appearing of Jesus Christ."  (Also the Martha Translation)  This verse seals the deal for me. This tells me that no suffering is pointless if I belong to God.  No pain is meaningless.  No fire of life will kill me, it will only refine me.  It will all be used for the glory of God, if I let it.

There is no promise or guarantee that following Christ will be easy.  In fact, it won't be.  If it were easy, it wouldn't mean as much.  There will be pain and there will be suffering.  It may be physical, it may be emotional, and I can guarantee that some of it will be spiritual.  But there is great beauty to be found if you look.   Whatever form your pain takes, whether it be the sharp chiseling pains of being sculpted or the the burning pain of being refined, let it be used for something good.  Let God take the pain and use it to make you into something beautiful that has far more worth than gold and will last long after the last cathedral has crumbled into dust.

Un-parents

I started to write this post around Mother's day and decided to wait and finish it for Father's day.

While I'm all for celebrating the men and women who are parents, these holidays make me a little sad.
It seems that these days are specifically focused on the parents who have contributed genetic material to form a human being.  But what about the rest of us?  You've heard the saying "Any man can be a father, but it takes someone special to be a dad."  I'm sure there is a counterpart to that saying about mothers.

You may be the best mother or father in the world, but I guarantee that you didn't do it by yourself.  Look around you.  There are teachers, coaches, aunts, uncles, family friends, Sunday school teachers, grandparents, and many, many more who support our and allow you to be an amazing parent.  Don't believe me?  Stay with your kids 24 hours a day for two straight weeks and no one else around and see how difficult your life would be.

Someone is picking up the slack from your rough days and days that you just want to hide in the closet from your kids.  Someone is not only spending the majority of the day with your children 5 days a week to educate them, but they are also teaching your child to be a responsible and kind person.  When you are not around, there is someone else answer your child's questions about how babies are made, what holds water together, and how far away are the stars.  When they are older, there is one more trusted adult to encourage your child to make wise choices, not date idiots, not get drunk and drive, to make good grades in school.  When your child fails (and they will) there is one more person who will storm the castle with you and help rescue your child.

Single parents or working parents seem to have a tendency to hold a grudge that someone else is doing this for their kids.  I promise you that even if you were with your kids every waking hour of every day, there are still questions your child will be more comfortable asking someone other than you.  Don't look at this as a slap in the face, look at it as a blessing.  There is one more person in your child's life that would do anything for them.

Sadly,  in today's culture there seems to be a stigma attached to being childless, especially regarding women.   Some people can't have children.  Some people haven't met the right partner to have children with.  Some of them had children and lost them.  I'm here to tell you that to us, none of that really matters.  What matters is that there are children in front of us in whose lives we can make a difference; even if it is small.

Don't make the mistake of thinking that we are always happy this way.  What hurts even more than the fact that we don't have our own children is hearing the snide and catty remarks from parents.  "Wait until you have children of your own."  "You'll think differently when you have your own kids."  "Your opinion doesn't matter, you don't even have kids." "You don't understand how hard this is."

Stop treating us like babysitters.  Stop assuming that we quit caring the minute we walk out the door.  Stop telling us that we know nothing about raising children.  We have plenty of other things we could be doing in our lives, but we are on this journey with you because we choose to be.

In some cases, we know your kids better than you,  especially if you have a trophy child (just for show).  In some cases, we run unseen interference between you and your child.  In some cases, all it takes is to have another adult backing you up with your kids.  In all cases, your child is just as important to us as our own child would be.

Donating genetic material doesn't make you a dad anymore than going through child birth makes you a mom.  Parenthood is sacred, and it's about the state of your heart.   Whether you are single or married, rich or poor, barren or otherwise, parenthood is about giving your time and love to someone.  It's about nurturing and comforting.  It's about learning and growing.  It's about cooking meals and kissing scraped knees.  It's about reading and storytelling.  It's about discipline and mercy. It's about innovation and practicality.  It's about being part of a child's life.

So as you celebrate the days set aside to honor you for being a parent, take a moment to thank the un-parents who always have your back and who are silently smoothing the foundation and laying the bricks to help you raise the best thing that ever happened to you.