Archive for the The Journey Category

The tree sparkles with lights. The ornaments from Christmases past remind me I am home. I am safe with my familiar rabbit angel and my little brass bell. When I feel the inclination, I open my music box egg and listen to the plinking sounds of “Joy to the World.” The candy canes dangle delightfully. They look perfect from a distance, red and white striped. They are a sweet treat for a cold winter’s night. But the sad truth we recently discovered is that once you begin to unwrap them, they fall into pieces. This is especially frustrating for my young son who was expecting a solid piece of candy to hold in his hands. Instead he ends up with a heap of shards. I suppose someone dropped the box while in the delivery stage but it was not noticeable when I purchased them—something my boy reminds me every time he approaches the tree.

I was talking to a friend recently. She is a jolly old soul whose quick wit and joyful demeanor have done much to brighten my life over the years. She was the first to encourage me when my son enlisted in the Marines. Her husband was a Marine in his younger days and she empathizes. She is steady like a rudder, always guiding the conversation to cheer and support. She affectionately calls me “Kiddo” and is fast with a grin. She was wishing me a Happy Holiday when she said, “My family’s spirits are a bit dampened this year. My brother has bladder cancer.” She said it as an aside and I suppose I could have brushed it off but for my sincere affection for her. I considered what I should say in that moment and my words failed me.

She is not unlike that candy cane—so pretty and sweet in her simple way, but once you remove the wrapper, the cracks emerge. And I begin to wonder. Why do I expect a “happy holiday?” Is it the years of Hallmark Holiday specials that have primed me for the great happy ending? Is it the knowledge that gifts are coming on December 25th—as if a trifling present can wipe away the tears brewing in my heart? Not to say that I’m sad. I’m not. But many people are. When the words “peace, hope, and joy” are being thrown around like a strand of popcorn garland, do we somehow become so desensitized to them that we forget the meaning behind the syntax?

Another friend is single and in the golden years of life. She does not have children but takes great delight in giving gifts to others. She never complains, and is in fact, the first to encourage. So when she recently said to me, “I just don’t feel the holiday spirit this year,” I paused. What is this holiday spirit we are supposed to feel? And if lacking, where is the magic dust I can buy to sprinkle around my heart to make it feel more, well, whatever it is I’m supposed to be feeling?

My son is home for Christmas and has proudly graduated from Marine Boot Camp. It is such a happy time in my home. He tells us story after story of all the wonders of his experience over the past few months. He grunts like the drill instructors, leading me to wonder if he should occupy that position one day. And in serious moments he says things like, “My drill instructor said something that I really took to heart. He was right. And it made me want to try harder.” And in those moments I see the fruit of my ceaseless prayers, and I feel this swell of pride and love such as I have never experienced before. But even then I feel the parting. The moment is not far off when I will wish him goodbye, and my heart cracks, just like those candy canes on my tree.

This past Sunday our pastor was ill at the last minute. In what I assume to be a frantic moment, he called a member of our church to step in and preach. This young man stood before our little congregation and very humbly said, “This is probably not a proper sermon, but rather, let’s call it a devotional because I’ve had very little time to prepare.” And then he began to read Isaiah 9:6.

For to us a child is born, to us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

He began to talk about his experiences as a father. It was truly delightful to hear him speak about his young children and his “parental failures”. But not one time in the message did he mention the child who is not present; the little girl they lost a few short years ago when all of the light drained out of their lives. But his words held special meaning for me because I know about the anguish they experienced. So when he spoke about our great hope made flesh in the form of baby Jesus, it meant something. It’s not an old wives tale or a magic dust I can sprinkle around my heart. This hope is real. It is tangible. It is present, even amongst the pain of my life and those around me.

I suppose we could get into a debate about Santa Claus and Jesus, and why people celebrate Christmas with the giving of gifts. Even my young son asked me the other day, “Why does Santa bring presents but Jesus doesn’t?” It caught me off guard and I didn’t know what to say. Talk about epic parental fails. But I remember now… The reason Jesus doesn’t “give us presents” is because he IS the present. He is the great gift—the promised one of old, the beautiful Prince of Peace, the one who will one day wipe all of the tears from our eyes and erase all of our boo boos. He will eradicate bladder cancer and “lack of holiday spirit” and even the loss of our loved ones. It is this “hope” to which I cling and which gives me an abundance of “joy.”

So today if you are hurting, if you feel the loss of that person you loved, if the physical pain is overwhelming, if your emotional burdens threaten to drown you, take heart. There is hope for you too. His name is Jesus. He was born in a manger. He grew up and gave up his life on a cross. And then he rose again from the dead so you could be saved from eternity without God. That’s hope I can believe in and I hope you will too.

Of the increase of his government and of peace there will be no end, on the throne of David and over his kingdom, to establish it and to uphold it with justice and with righteousness from this time forth and forevermore. – Isaiah 9:7

I’m an odd duck. I’ve never claimed to be otherwise. I get excited over the smallest things. Like the little dance I did over the small brass rabbit I saw in the case at the thrift store. It was brown from years of neglect; tarnished and cast aside. Obviously I felt it was my duty to rescue it. My husband polished it up and now it sits in the windowsill for me to delight in every time I’m doing dishes. Since we do not have a dishwasher, I spend a lot of time at the sink.

Yesterday I found a picture of 2 unicorns glazed onto a slice of wood. Grant’s Farm is stamped on the back which obviously makes it very valuable. Instantly I began singing the theme song to “The Last Unicorn” I proudly carried it home and proceeded–much to my husbands horror–to hang it in my bedroom. We had a nice little debate about decor and color and “old junk” so I simply set it on my dresser instead. Evidently my husband’s taste in art is not as evolved as mine. I write all of this to illustrate that I not only have exquisite taste, my husband is the luckiest man alive. Some women want diamonds. I just want a 50% off sale at The Salvation Army.

I’m recovering nicely from my bout with bronchitis so this morning I hopped on my bike so I could enjoy the 60+ degree weather. The streets were wet and slick; a result of rapidly thawing cement and condensation. Wet streets terrify me because I had a fairly significant bike accident a few years back making a hard turn on wet asphalt. I was half tempted to turn around and go home, but then I saw the sky and felt the warm breeze. Like I was really going to waste it because of a little wet-street-phobia. As if! I pedaled and huffed my way up a few hills and waited for my lungs to constrict. They didn’t, so I pressed forward.

I really enjoy riding my bike because I’m having trouble walking with my bad knee and arthritic toes, but I don’t ever want to give up and go back to Hopelessville. Yesterday I had a conversation with a fellow at work in the break area. He is dealing with a tough diagnosis that is complicating his life. I channeled Pollyanna and told him to look on the bright side of things, it could be so much worse. I told him about the days I spent in the hospital following my sons diagnosis with Juvenile diabetes. Sure it was scary, but I told him straight up, “I was just so glad it wasn’t cancer. I have several friends who have lost children and at least I can manage diabetes.” He was kind and did not poke me in the eye(though I’m sure he wanted to). He said, “You’re right. But I just really want some chocolate!” Don’t we all, my friend? Don’t we all.

I was lamenting the extra 15 pounds I had to pedal up a hill when I looked over and saw one of my son’s favorite things, a cemetery. Yes, he is of the lineage of odd ducks. No, I do not encourage this morbid fascination. Still, because of his interest I can’t pass by a cemetery without looking at it through his eyes.

“Mom, where are the ghosts?”

“Mom, do you see any zombies?”

“Mom, can we go visit the cemetery?”

“Mom, I want to see a dead body.”

“Mom, you are so mean!”

So as I was riding past, I considered what a lovely place the cemetery can be. The sun was shining through the tree limbs and there were flowers near many of the graves. And for whatever reason, I thought about all of the people laid to rest there, and how their families must miss them, and how glad I am that none of them are popping out of their graves. Life is filled with so many beautiful things; the absence of the un-dead is certainly something to be celebrated.

But that is not what made this morning so wonderful. I was pedaling through one of my favorite parks when I looked up to see a wide expanse of dark wings. At first I thought it was a blue heron, but the absence of the long, loopy neck queued me to pay closer attention. The bird landed in a tree next to the trail and I gasped. It was the first time I had ever seen a bald eagle live and in person. It absolutely took my breath away. I suppose I really shouldn’t be such a nerd about it. After all, I know they hang out around the rivers in the winter. But did I act like a complete boob any way? Sure. I wobbled on my bike and shouted at a couple who were walking their dog, “Hey, did you see the bald eagle? There’s a bald eagle up in that tree! Look! Look!” And to my relief they didn’t scream, or run, or pull out any mace. They got excited too. And all I could think was, “What an unexpected streak of glory!” For I have never seen anything like that bird flying through the sky. It was truly majestic.

Yesterday I told the woman at The Salvation Army Store that I never want to grow up. I want to enjoy unicorns and rabbits. I want to ride my bicycle, and smile and wave at strangers. It makes me happy. That is why I keep a Holly Hobby picture in my cube at work that says, “The Time to be happy is now!” Dark thunderclouds have a tendency to rumble through my life, so when there is a break in the gloom, I celebrate. Dear reader, you should too.

My son was around 7 years old when he told me what he wanted to be when he grew up; a lawyer. This thought comforted me. I thought, “My son is smart. He’s independent. He likes to argue. He will be a GREAT lawyer.” And then he hit puberty, discovered girls, and refused to do his homework. I never gave up hope that he would land on his feet, but it was shaky for a few years. He was a typical teenager, more worried about current social issues than his future. I remember when we were best friends and I remember when we weren’t. I don’t know how I went from being fun to a nagging “helicopter parent” but it happened and it was horrible.

People tell me I’ve done a great job raising him but I tend to focus more on my failures. I yelled when I should have encouraged. I pacified when I should have scrutinized. I worried when I should have prayed. I believe all of this is just part of being human. After all, I’m still learning how to do this parent thing.

I remember the day I thought I lost him. He was trying to tell me something and I was busy with a task and the next thing I know he shouted, “You never listen to me!” and stormed away. After that he stopped talking to me. I was crushed. I would ask questions and he would shut me down. I was so frustrated. And it was a major turning point in our relationship. I honestly didn’t know what to do. I was angry. He was angry. But we still needed each other.

I was having lunch with a friend one day when we ran into some friends of hers. I knew them from work, but not well. I remember that I was a little annoyed because I wanted to talk to her about some things but running into her friends made that conversation impossible. Still, I listened attentively and participated in the conversation when I could. To be honest, I felt like third wheel as they talked about their children, their work, and life in general. Since we were talking about children and theirs seemed to have turned out so well, I said, “Can you tell me some good parenting advice? I’m struggling a bit.”

I remember the couple smiling fondly at each other. The husband said, “I’ll give you two of the best pieces of parenting advice I’ve ever received. First, treat your children like they are guests in your home.” Then his wife said, “Second, love them for who they are not who you want them to be.”

I remember pondering those words for days. In the end, that chance encounter changed my entire perspective on parenting, and I’ll be candid, my attitude towards my oldest son changed. I began more actively helping him pursue his passions and stopped pressing him for information he wasn’t comfortable sharing. I told him I loved him more and nagged him less. Did I do it perfectly? No. But a change in perspective really helped. I knew he wouldn’t live with me forever, and I didn’t want him to leave while resenting me.

So when he told me he wanted to serve our country and join the Marines, I threw all of that parenting advice out of the window, and proceeded directly to the total freak out. I pleaded with him. “Don’t do this to me!” I tried to manipulate him, “You do know you will have to kill people?” I gave him the silent treatment. And as if to frustrate me even more, when I pressed him on why he wanted to do this terrible (in my opinion) thing, he would only say, “I think it’s what I’m supposed to do.” My machinations worked for a while but one day he went and enlisted anyway, and my carefully constructed house of cards fluttered in the wind. I was devastated.

I’m such a grown up, right?

The one thing I did tell him was that if he decided to join I would support him 100%. I promised that he would never, ever hear me say another bad word about The Marines. You see, I don’t have anything against the armed forces, I just didn’t want to lose my son. I was selfish and weak, and I was afraid to go on this journey of worry. I didn’t think I could bear it. But much like I used to believe I would die without cookies, I have learned that I will not die of worry over my son either.

I have been following his journey with great interest and have written him encouraging letters 2-3 times per week. I have told him all of the good things about himself that I could think of and encouraged him to persevere when he feels like giving up. My very first letter began, “I have always known you would be a leader one day…” and I meant it. For I have known my son to be strong-willed, kind-hearted, stubborn, and honorable; all traits of good leaders. And I have also been telling him for years that if you don’t like your boss–and if you don’t like the decisions being made–go be a better boss. Lead well. The world needs more awesome leaders.

Today he is in the final phase of his training as a Marine Recruit. He must pass this one last test and I am nervous. I still remember the boy who refused to pick up his stinky socks and whined about his co-workers. I used to think if he couldn’t work in retail, he’d never survive in the military. I was wrong. I love that he is just as stubborn as his mother. I’m glad of this because he will need to be. His country will demand it of him.

But as much as I worry about this rigorous training, this is cupcakes. Right now he is under the safe and watchful eyes of drill instructors. They are paying keen attention to his well being and while I am sure he is not having fun anymore, I know they will not let anything truly awful happen to him. As I read the book, “Into the Crucible” I am coming to see the true demands of combat. The author, James Woulfe, recalls medal of honor recipient Fernando L. Garcia of San Juan, Puerto Rico. Garcia joined the Marine Corps in September of 1951 and departed for Korea in March of 1952. President Dwight D. Eisenhower set forth the following citation in his honor:

“For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty while serving as a member of Company I, 3d Battalion, 5th Marines, 1st Marine Division(Rein), in action against enemy aggressor forces in Korea [on 5 September 1952]. While participating in the defense of a combat outpost located more than one mile forward of the main line of resistance during a savage night attack by a fanatical enemy force employing grenades, mortars, and artillery, Private first class Garcia, although suffering painful wounds, moved through the intense hail of hostile fire to a supply point to secure more hand grenades. Quick to act when a hostile grenade landed nearby, endangering the life of another Marine, as well as his own, he unhesitatingly chose to sacrifice himself and immediately threw his body upon the deadly missile, receiving the full impact of the explosion. His great personal valor and cool decision in the face of almost certain death sustain and enhance the finest traditions of the U.S. Naval Service. He gallantly gave his life for his country.”

The author goes on to quote a conversation between the drill instructor and one of his recruits during their procession through The Crucible.

“Well in some ways, we get paid to die,” said a recruit.
“Who the heck taught you that?” snapped Sergeant Lee.
“I…no one, Sergeant.”
“That’s nothing but BS, you understand me?”
“YES, SERGEANT,” sounded the squad.
“Don’t let anyone tell you that you get paid to die. You’re going through three months of boot camp so you don’t die. so you make the enemy die for his cause. You are trained to fight, not die! Do we practice diving on grenades?”
“NO, SERGEANT,” sounded the squad.
“That’s why what Garcia did was so amazing. Not only did he ignore his natural instincts of survival, but he also disregarded all of his training, and for what?”
“For another Marine.”
“There was no political rhetoric; no debate whether it’s a ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ war. He ignored human instincts of survival and his training to protect brother Marines. A few of the warrior stations are named after Marines who shielded others from grenades, but don’t think for one second that we are training you to do the same. We use them as examples because they made the ultimate sacrifice.”

The book is filled with example after example of heroes who fought for their country against insurmountable odds. My son has entered into that legacy. His story has just begun.

Jesus once told his disciples, “Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends.” (John 15:13) And really, what could be more noble than that? Am I sorry my son is not on the path to becoming and attorney? Not really. Not anymore.

So while I have prayed for my son to be uninjured and to retain his health, I have prayed even more so that he would learn well from the drill instructors. I have prayed for the drill instructors to teach well. And I have prayed for the entire platoon to work as a unit. I used to think my son should have a “safe” job. But the reality is, this world is not safe, no matter how much I like to pretend it is. I am so proud of my son. I am so glad he refused to be manipulated by his fearful mother. I choose to love him just as he is and enjoy him when he is once again a guest in my home. May God continue to write his story and to give this mother-of-a-marine peace as it unfolds.