Destination Discipline

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.

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, from the words of my groaning? O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer, and by night, but I find no rest.”

I love the way the steam gathers around the lip of my favorite tea cup. It hovers and dances as the tea cools; and if I am cold, I can wrap my hands around the porcelain and warm my fingers. Today I am sitting alone at home, nursing my lungs from a dreadful bronchitis that has kept me up most of the night. This cup of tea is a great comfort, along with my Bible, Indelible Grace, and the other parents of Marine Recruits who are currently enduring The Crucible; the final right of passage before one becomes a Marine. But more on that later. Right now I need this warmth because I’m cold; cold in my heart, cold in my bones, and cold in my spirit. I need warmth and it feels as fleeting as the steam evaporating from my favorite cup.

I had pneumonia once when I was 20 years old. It was like living in a walking nightmare. I couldn’t breath for what felt like an eternity. I lost 20 pounds because I could not eat. So every time I contract a lung sickness I get nervous because I will never forget hovering over a vaporizer with Vicks while I struggled to for every breath.

My illness is a minor agony compared to what many others endure. Joni Eareckson Tada provides great perspective in this regard. The view from her wheelchair has been at times gloomy, but she throws open the shades and shines like a diamond in the sky with her attitude of grace. I recently heard Chuck Swindoll tell the story of a conference at which she was speaking where attendees numbered more than the seats and the people were complaining rather loudly. Joni went before the crowd and said, “I understand many of you are complaining about your chairs. I don’t always like the view from mine either.” Yes, Joni reminds me perspective is important.

My best friend called to tell me she is struggling with foot pain. “The pain is unbearable,” she said. “And all I did was walk around the grocery store. Do you think I should take some ibuprofen?” The question was sincere, but I still had to chuckle. Knowing her as I do, I know how strongly she feels about taking over-the-counter meds. We who attempt a holistic approach to keeping our bodies clean sometimes struggle over what many would consider fairly simple solutions. For example, I take a pretty strong stance on attempting natural remedies before I take antibiotics. I do this because of the rise in antibiotic resistance bacteria. So the question about whether to take anti-inflammatory medication in response to excruciating foot pain provoked the good humor in me. My response was simple, “Yes.” Because honestly, sometimes I believe we are too hard on the relief modern medicine provides.

But sometimes the answers aren’t so easy. Sometimes the pain is of a different sort. A dear friend of mine is currently walking through such a dark night of the soul. A few years ago she lost her son in a tragic motorcycle accident. I can still remember where we were when she relayed the news and the exact expression on her face. I longed to take her in my arms and hug the pain away but I was at a loss for words because at that time I didn’t know her very well. And now there is more. As if the embers of that loss could ever grow dim, a new diagnosis has sent a deluge of worry, fear and ambivalence–like buckets of gasoline lined up next to a smoldering fire. One of her loved ones is stricken with cancer. With each doctors visit a new flame shoots up and threatens to consume her. So when she looked at me recently and said, “Margaret, I can’t take any more. I’m going to crack.” I felt the weight of her grief and struggled with how best to respond.

“I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax; it is melted within my breast; my strength is dried up like a potsherd, and my tongue sticks to my jaws; you lay me in the dust of death.”

I reach for my cup of tea and and ponder the plight of humanity. We don’t always like to acknowledge it, but we are utterly helpless. Sure, we try to cover our sickness with medicine, and our weakness with bravado. We muster fortitude like a banner and wear our big accomplishments like shiny badges. But there is no cure for cancer–only treatments. There is no fountain of youth; we all die. Everyone’s approach to death–the ultimate curse–is different, but whether we revel in pleasure and pretend it won’t come, or prepare ourselves into madness and depression, we will all lay in a coffin one day. And that’s if we’re lucky enough to be able to afford one.

I’m not a mystic. I’m not a philosopher or sage. I’m just Margaret and I’m walking through this life trying to figure out my place in it. So please don’t read this and think I know I have all the answers. What I do know is that sometimes life is like a tea pot; the water heats up, the pressure builds, and then it screams. It screams because it has to relieve the pressure and as long as that water is boiling, the steam must get out.

My son bought me this teapot for Mother’s day this past Spring. He had seen me boil water in an old aluminum pot I got at the thrift shop, and struggle to pour the freshly made tea into my Stanley thermos. He didn’t wrap it up or write and attach a fancy note, he simply handed me the box and said, “I love you, Mom.” He knows how much it grieves me not to be able to drink coffee any more, and he wanted to make my life a little better. Today I listen to it “whistle” while I drink hot tea and pray for him. And it is utter agony to me that I cannot physically help him through each stage of The Crucible. All I can do is sit (and cough) and wait.

“But you, Oh Lord, do not be far off! O you my help, come quickly to my aid! Deliver my soul from the sword, my precious life from the power of the dog! Save me from the mouth of the lion!”

I recently sat with a friend at the courthouse while we waited for her attorney to meet with the judge. She has been rejected by her husband for another woman in a culture that is not her own. She struggles with the English language and she doesn’t understand our legal system. I am angry for her situation and I want to help her, but I don’t always know how. So I did the only thing I knew how to do, I sat with her while she cried and held her hand. I held her steady lest–like a balloon–she bob away on the current of emotion and get caught on a tree limb. Because that is what friends do. I am not a saint or an angel, I’m just a person who has been there. And I remember when someone held my balloon string and kept me steady.

“I will tell of your name to my brothers; in the midst of the congregation I will praise you: You who fear the Lord, praise him! All you offspring of Jacob, glorify him, and stand in awe of him, all you offspring of Israel! For he has not despised or abhorred the affliction of the afflicted, and he has not hidden his face from him, but has heard, when he cried to him.”

King David once wrote of such agony in Psalm 22. He experienced betrayal by his closest friend, regret from his failures, and the pain of losing a child. He was a great king, a fierce military man–a fighter. He trusted God to hear his cries for help and to provide relief for his deepest and darkest agonies of the soul. Now maybe the person reading this thinks the Bible is just old musty tales, and that’s okay. I just know that it gives me hope. Its story of redemption calms my soul. The gospel tells me that yes, my situation is hopeless, but there is one who entered into this world and suffered unspeakable agony to deliver me from mine. He is the great holder of balloon strings. And I trust Him.

Tomorrow my friend will sit in a hospital waiting room while they cut the cancer from her husbands lungs. My other friend will look for work in a strange culture while trying to speak a language she doesn’t always understand. Another will seek to relieve the foot pain that makes every step sheer agony. As for me, today, I will retreat to my bed. There I will convalesce under the covers with my Bible, the words to Abide with Me – Indelible Grace, and a heart that is grateful for the kind of love that not only hears my prayers but satisfies and soothes the agonies of my soul.