Letting go

Welcome to the world, Emily.

This post is more in the vein of "advice you never asked for."

From the moment we meet our babies, their floppy, squawking heads on our chests, we begin to say goodbye. The rest of parenthood is letting go.

As I've mentioned on this blog before, the challenges get significantly scarier as the children get older. Instead of kissing scuffed knees, we watch our kids navigate the Internet or get their drivers' licenses.

Our goal, of course, is for our children to grow up to be healthy, reasonably happy, independent adults. But, oh, sweet Jesus, there are pitfalls along the way! Really, really scary, deep, deadly, bottomless pitfalls.

There are three things Steve and I have found we can do:

• Pray.
• Set boundaries.
• Take care of ourselves.

That's it, folks. That's all I've got.

Prayer

I believe in the power of prayer, especially when two or more people pray together. I believe that specific prayers are especially powerful.

Boundaries

I think we all benefit when there are clear parameters about what is expected and what is permitted, along with clear consequences. This gets a trickier with adult children, but I use the roommate test to evaluate whether I'm treating them as children or as adults: would I ask the same of a roommate who was not related to me?

For example, I would certainly expect a roommate to clean up after cooking or to clean other shared areas. On the other hand, I would not expect a roommate to tell me when she'll be getting home (unless we had plans to do something together). This is a hard adjustment for a parent to make. [Understatement.]

As for consequences, again, you have to use the roommate test. You can't "ground" a roommate, so we don't try to ground our adult children. But I would certainly ask a roommate to take on an additional chore (clean the bathroom?) if I had to clean up after his kitchen mess.

[Steve actually went to the length of calculating how many hours per week we each had committed (to work, school, volunteer, lessons, and travel) and allocated chore hours accordingly. But that's probably a little too OCD for most.]

When needed, it is appropriate to put these in writing, in the form of a family contract.

Taking Care of Ourselves

New mothers receive constant advice to take it easy on themselves, especially when the baby isn't sleeping well. In my experience, that is a piece of advice that mothers of young adults should take to heart. And it is as important now as it ever was for Steve and I to put effort into our relationship.

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All I need to do now is take my own advice. I'll, uh, let you know how that goes. In the meantime, do any other mothers of adult children out there have advice for me? Do share!

Where I'm From

Chrissy and Me

I am from chenille bedspreads, from Barbie dolls and banana-seat bicycles.

I am from seven children crammed into a back-split, semi-detached house in suburbia with pear trees growing along the back fence and open space beyond; an open-concept school at one end of the street and horses out to pasture at the other. 

I am from the geraniums, the pungent, red flowers filling our bow window, and poinsettias spending the summer leafless and dead-looking in the basement.

I am from bacon and pancakes on Saturday mornings and doors slammed in anger, from Pat and Winkie and Frank.

I am from hot tempers and biting remarks that sting and never really heal, and missiles thrown across rooms. I am from drawn curtains and cold compresses and visits to the psych wing.

From "you made your bed, you lie in it," and "a piece off a wheelbarrow."

I am from altar calls. Conviction of guilt, repentance, forgiveness and renewal. (Repetition optional.) I am from abiding faith.

I'm from Murdochville, from Burlington, from northern Ontario and Scotland. I'm from butter tarts, potatoes, and Chelsea Rolls.

From the woman who delivered freshly baked bread by bicycle as a girl, to help her family through the Great Depression, from the man who wanted to be a soldier, wanted to be an engineer but who became neither because of chronic ear infections before Penicillin, and the woman who nearly died but came back with a deep passion to serve God.

I am from haphazardly collected photographs without dates or names, stuffed into shoe boxes, crinkled, faded, lost. Perhaps best forgotten?

(The prompt for this exercise can be found here.)

Oh Ye of Little Faith!

I've mentioned before (long, long time ago now) that I'm not a big church-goer, but that my faith in God is nevertheless very important to me. In that same post I mentioned that I believe in the power of prayer and qualified it by saying that I don't mean that God always answers in the way we want him to.

But what happens when our prayers are answered as we hope? My friend Joe posted a link to a news article about a church that got what it prayed for (the rather spectacular demise of the beer joint nearby), then denied its prayer had any effect.

As the case made its way into court, the judge looked over the paperwork. At the hearing he commented, “I don't know how I’m going to decide this, but as it appears from the paperwork, we have a bar owner who believes in the power of prayer, and an entire church congregation that does not.”

I've seen it happen before: heartfelt prayer is sent up; an immediate, compassionate answer is received; those who joined in the prayer pooh-pooh that the two are connected.

Man. If I were God, I'd be flipping the bird.

Let me share three personal stories with you. These are not parables or miracles, and I am not stretching the truth.

Bringing the Dead to Life

Mere days after I returned from my summer mission trip, I went to a Christian camp for a long weekend. Truth be told, I was hoping to rekindle a romance with an ex-boyfriend. It didn't work, though he was very friendly and talked about the girl he'd met who eventually became his wife. I made a few new friends, however. Somehow I had never made arrangements to get home and my parents had gone on their own summer vacation to northern Ontario. One of my new friends offered to drive two hours out of his way to get me home.

When departure time came, however, his little beater of a car would not start. Not a click, not a whine. Nada. Finally (isn't it always a last resort?), I suggested we pray. We stepped away from the lifted hood, joined hands in faith, and prayed.

The car started on the first crank.

My new friend confided that he was somewhat ashamed that he hadn't thought to pray sooner.

Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep which was lost!

I was at a women's Bible study in Alabama and we were waiting for our leader to arrive. She was walking from a fair distance away, and it was night time. The later she became, the more we worried. Our host's husband went out driving to look for her. Again, I suggested we pray.

We bowed our heads and I briefly and plainly spoke our concerns and asked God not just to find her, but to find her soon.

About 30 seconds after we said amen, she walked through the door.

I said, "Who says God doesn't answer prayers?"

"Well, but she was already on her way here by the time we prayed," someone pointed out.

The Lost Sheep, Part II

Late one afternoon, I realized that Peter, then 14 years old, was nowhere to be found. He'd gone missing before (usually getting on the wrong bus or deciding to make his own way home without letting us know), but this time was different. He was depressed and had left a note saying that felt he wasn't wanted and was going to go where someone did love him. And that he felt life might not be worth living.

I printed out recent pictures of him with our phone number and drove around the neighbourhood asking if anyone had seen him. I explained that he had Asperger Syndrome. No one had seen him.

I returned home and called the police. They asked if he was capable of feeding and dressing himself. Yes, of course! Well then, they would not follow up. I mentioned his note - that he might be suicidal. That got a reaction.

I gathered Emily and Brian into my arms and asked them to pray with me as I cried sloppy, snotty tears. Again, I stressed to God the urgency of our plea: "Please, Lord, bring him home NOW!"

Seconds later - truly no more than 15 seconds - Peter stepped jauntily through the door, happy to be home, completely oblivious to our despair. I held him and told him that he was loved, that it would break my heart to lose him, that I would cry forever.

The doorbell rang. I opened the door to the man who had found him and who simply wanted to be sure that Peter was safe and that someone was home with him. He told how he'd found Peter on the highway heading north, toward Canada, and how he refused to believe Peter's lies.

I thanked him, but didn't get his name. (He was certainly our hero, but was he also an angel?) I didn't even offer him a cup of tea! I was just completely overwhelmed with joy that my son was back.

---

Now, I'm a pretty rational woman. I like scientific evidence as much as the next person. If someone wrote these into a script, I'd laugh. And I could write all the rational rebuttals myself (so I'll save you time):

• The car was probably "flooded" and just needed time to rest.
• The Bible-study leader was already "found" before you even started praying, the result of your host's husband's efforts.
• Your son was already on your street before you prayed - a result of your driving around with all those flyers.

All that to say, "Prayer had nothing to do with it. It would have happened that way regardless."

I have three comments.

One: I believe that God does not operate in linear time the way we do. I suppose that falls under the "omnipresent" heading. Why, in heaven's name, could he not hear a prayer and retroactively set in motion the answer to that prayer?

Two: I can understand those comments coming from non-believers, but from Christians? Who profess to believe in prayer? Who were there when it happened? What does God have to do? Strike you with a lightning bolt (like a sleazy pub)?

Three: How do you know that it would have happened the same way even if I had not prayed? You have no more evidence for that position than I do for mine.

I've never considered myself a woman "of great faith," but maybe I've underestimated it.

Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.

Hebrews 11:1

By that definition, I have faith.

[Jesus]  replied, "Because you have so little faith. I tell you the truth, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there' and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.

Matthew 17:20

P.S. If anyone has suggestions on how to get teenagers to move as readily as those mountains, please let me know.

Girl on a Mission

I was once a teen missionary. When I was 17, my cousin Ruth and I went with Teen Missions International to France. Yes, indeedy, I was an evangelist in France.


My cousin Ruth (as a teen)
who, along with her husband,
is serving as Missionary-in-Residence
at LeTourneau University in Texas.

That stretches the truth a little. While we did do a very small amount of [awkward] evangelism, the main thrust of our work in the sleepy little town of Vaux-sur-Seine was to construct dormitories for a Bible seminary, the Faculté Libre de Théologie Évangélique, so that others could carry out the work of evangelism in France.

Before we got to France, however, we went to a rustic compound in the muggy and mucky Florida Everglades. Part of the Teen Missions International approach is to run all the missionaries through a pretty rigorous two-week "boot camp." We learned how to evangelize, how to build a square foundation, and why the missionary calling was so important.

I have some pretty vivid memories from those two exhausting weeks:

• Washing my jeans by hand and waiting for them to hang-dry in the 90% humidity.
• Standing with my back to Ruth while she used the latrine, to give her a modicum of privacy. The stalls had no doors, the toilets did not flush (I don't think) and all paper waste had to go into a garbage pail. The stench was hor-REN-dous and dysentery was rampant. (I do hope they have working plumbing now.)
• Swimming in the opaque pond and wondering if we were really safe from alligators.
• Running the obstacle course every day, as part of a team-building exercise.
• Trying desperately to stay awake as I sat beside a missionary telling the story of her brother being killed by the natives he was witnessing to, and then she, herself, going back to the same tribe to translate the Bible for them.
• Flirting with boys despite the "No 'Dear'-hunting" policy.

Here are a couple of pictures. I'm not actually in them, but these are pictures from the Teen Missions obstacle course.


The Slough of Despond
Yes, I fell in. Of course I did. Did you expect otherwise?



Jacob's Ladder
This was a lot of fun, like the climbing structures at Ontario Place.

It may sound quite horrific, but I loved it and was not homesick at all. It also gave me a lifelong appreciation for our civilized amenities: running water, electricity, and plumbing.

Eventually, we did make it to France, where our accommodations were quite spectacular. We entered a marble-floored foyer flanked by a broad, curving staircase. A grand piano graced the salon. We all marveled at the bidet. The grand house had lush green lawns rolling right down to the Seine River.

The Faculté Libre de Théologie Évangélique
Our lodgings, at top.
The dormitories we helped build at bottom.

The village of Vaux-sur-Seine was ancient, built on the side of hills, with narrow cobblestone streets. There was a lively open-air market each week.

Here are a few memories from my time in France:

• I learned how pitiful my high-school French was. But I was the most fluent member of our team, so acted as translator during our one or two evangelism forays. I also learned that, in France, "salle de bain" is not synonymous with the lavatory.
• I bought a rum ball at the market, not realizing that it had real rum in it. It was confiscated as contraband, which was fine with me because it tasted yucky.
• I bought a pastry at a pâtisserie -- a tartelette filled with rose-coloured mousse. Expecting something sweet and fruity, I was shocked to taste salmon! But was too embarrassed to say anything.
• There was a tunnel from the kitchen to a small bunker-like apartment where our team leaders lived. I always wondered if it might have been used in the French Resistance.
• We went into Paris for Bastille Day and experienced crowds like I had never seen. I was caught in a crush at the barricades and could not stop to help up an older woman who had been knocked down. It was very frightening and has left me with a distaste for large crowds.
• While walking back to our bus from the light show, our human chain broke. A man handed me what I thought was a sparkler and, just as the girl whose hand I had dropped turned to shout, "No!" the firecracker exploded in my hands. The man roared with laughter. As my fingers tingled, I was devastated that someone could find such pleasure in doing something so hurtful.

Oh, goodness. Each memory triggers another. So I will leave you with a final picture of a memorable summer from my youth.

That is Ruth with her head in the cement mixer
and me standing beside her.

Epiphany

Today is the day that many Christians celebrate the feast of Epiphany. In our household, we really don't do much except update the creche by bringing the wise men into the scene. (It's pretty crowded by this point, so the shepherds, cows and sheep are booted out.)

For us, Epiphany is on January 6th, 12 days after Christmas Eve - hence the "twelve days of Christmas" from the song. It was also known as Twelfth Night, and for many is the signal to take down all their Christmas decorations. 

According to World of Christmas,

The religious significance of the twelve days of Christmas lies in the story of the Three Wise Men who arrived from the East with their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh to attend the infant Jesus. It is said that it took them twelve days to reach Him.

That site also lists the supposed religious significance of the symbols from the song, but Snopes.com has debunked that. Kinda sad about that, because I like symbolism. So, to keep me happy, here is what another site says:

1 True Love refers to God
2 Turtle Doves refers to the Old and New Testaments
3 French Hens refers to Faith, Hope and Charity, the Theological Virtues
4 Calling Birds refers to the Four Gospels and/or the Four Evangelists
5 Golden Rings refers to the first Five Books of the Old Testament, the "Pentateuch," which gives the history of man's fall from grace.
6 Geese a-laying refers to the six days of creation
7 Swans a-swimming refers to the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit, the sacraments
8 Maids a-milking refers to the eight beatitudes
9 Ladies Dancing refers to the nine Fruits of the Holy Spirit
10 Lords a-leaping refers to the ten commandments
11 Pipers Piping refers to the eleven faithful apostles
12 Drummers Drumming refers to the points of doctrine in the Apostle's Creed

Wait, what? What about the partridge and the pear tree?  Wikipedia says the partridge represents Jesus. What the Lord is doing in a pear tree is just one of those matters of faith, I guess.

It's a jungle out there!

I think every mother remembers those first days of heart-stopping panic every time her newborn snuffled or grunted in his or her sleep. Or, paradoxically, whenever the infant slept quietly and peacefully, too silently. I don't know that that feeling ever entirely disappears.

In his eloquent and heart-breaking memoir, "What is the What," Dave Eggers describes (at least twice) young boys being attacked by wild cats (sorry; I can't remember just what kind of cat -- leopard? tiger?), whisked into the jungle and eaten, like a character from The Jungle Book. It happened in the blink of an eye. And, remember, this is a memoir: it is true. Not a myth or a cautionary tale or a Disney cartoon with a happy ending.

While I read the book, I thought, "Oh my goodness. Can you imagine ever taking your eyes off your children when you live in an honest-to-god jungle?" Because, in point of fact, I already worry about my kids as if there were indeed a tiger stalking them at every turn.

This is partly because I'm generally an anxious person, but also because each of my children has cheated death at least once -- despite my slightly neurotic surveillance of them. You may call it luck (bad luck!), guardian angels or, well, I don't know what else you would call it (though I did have a third one in mind when I started typing this sentence). But the fact is, if the worst had come to pass, I would be a childless mother right now.

Think I'm exaggerating? I don't think so.

At the age of four, one child decided to pretend to be a kitten. She strung a cord around her neck, attached it to her bedpost and purred her way to sleep. When Steve checked on her later, the cord was so tight that he could barely fit his finger between it and her neck, because she had rolled around in her sleep.

One day at the cottage, Steve was moving rocks by the shore, when one child trumpeted, "Oh, look, he's swimming!" One of our toddlers - within arm's reach, mind you - had lost his balance in the lake and was trying unsuccessfully to right himself.

And, alarmingly, I could go on. Each of our children has a story.

My point is, there really are tigers out there - of our own making or beyond our control. Steve and I count ourselves blessed every single day that we spend with our children.

One of our therapists was of the opinion that none of this was coincidental or accidental, that we were somehow cursed or, worse, neglectful parents. But I really don't think so. I think that if you talk to any parent of an adult child, you will hear stories of "near misses," of rescues, and of guardian angels. It might be allergies or experimenting with drugs, or car accidents, or congenital disease ... you get the picture. And, I'm willing to bet, where they are not "near misses," they are actual tragedies.

So what's a worried mama to do? Here's my [unsolicited] advice to other mothers:

• Trust your gut. If you have a "funny feeling" that something just isn't right? Listen to it. Let your kids call you overprotective, let their friends (or their friends' parents) call you neurotic.
• Have faith. I've mentioned before that I believe in miracles and in angels. You may believe that "it takes a village." Either way, we just have to trust that we are not the only ones caring for our children.

Today, as I drove Brian home from school, I road-raged aloud about some teenagers walking blithely down the middle of our residential street, not disturbed by my ton of metal bearing down on them. Then I apologized to Brian for complaining.

"It's okay," he said. "You're a mom." I'm glad he understands.

P.S. A dear, old friend of ours, now deceased, used to bless all infants he met as follows: "May you never be eaten by tigers." To my knowledge, his blessing never failed.

Foul-weather friend of the class nerd

Breaking news: I went to church this morning.

Once upon a time, that wouldn't have been newsworthy, but for the past, oh, 15 years, I've been what I've heard called "a C & E christian." C & E = Christmas and Easter. As in, those are the only days I darken the doorway of our chapel.

What's really sad is that I was bribed to go to church by the offer of lunch. In a restaurant. (And a very good lunch it was.)

But go I did. And I'm glad.

While listening to the excellent sermon, it occurred to me that our pastor was describing me: when it comes to my faith, I am the opposite of a "fair-weather friend" who only shows up when things are hunky-dory. Because when the fit hits the shan, I am right there on my knees praying and expecting that God (Jesus/Spirit) will drop everything, do a little happy dance ("Oh, yeah! She remembered me!") and make everything all better.

When Emily had her crisis 20 months ago, and the world as I knew it crumbled to smithereens around me, I was on my knees, head pressed to the floor, tears streaming, praying with every atom of my soul that God would hear me and rescue our desperate family. With shameless gall I asked everyone for prayers. I wrote of miracles, angels and God's mercy. I said, "Thank God," and I meant it more earnestly than ever. I mean every word of it today.

There were miracles. Small ones, big ones. Emily received treatment that could have set us back more than $100,000, but was covered by our insurance. It was treatment that might not have been available in Canada, but was available because we were living out of the country. There are more, but I can't go into them, out of respect for Emily's privacy.

I clung to God.

And, in this case, God saw fit to lift us up, to heal each one of us. I don't believe that God always answers our prayers by "granting wishes" as if he (or she) were some kind of leprechaun or genie in a lamp. He's not Santa Claus! I think, in that respect, the epithet "Father" best applies: He always answers prayer, but He looks at a greater good, a different good, and sometimes that good involves a great deal of pain and loss on our part. His answers aren't always what we want to hear, any more than my answers to my kids are what they want to hear.

But I am so, so grateful He answered as He did.

So what was my response? Like any spoiled brat who gets what she wants, I wandered off and enjoyed my blessings. And, like a kid who befriends the class nerd, I kept my relationship with God a secret. More or less. I only shared it with people who I knew were like-minded.

I wasn't always like that, and perhaps that's why it is difficult for me now.

I grew up in a very evangelical church, was extremely involved in all things christian through high school and university. I was outspoken about my faith, unabashed. As I "grew up" I became more circumspect about my beliefs and a little ashamed of how evangelical I'd been (I still would never dream of evangelizing the way I did as a teenager).

And then I was deeply, unforgiveably hurt by someone I loved and who I thought loved me. My trust was betrayed, and I felt abandoned. And every. Frigging. Time I went to church, there was a minister at the front preaching forgiveness. There was the Lord's prayer: Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. Man. If that isn't the toughest challenge.

So I stopped going.

And here I am, painfully aware that God didn't wait for me to forgive before He scooped my family up. Aware that God is willing to be my "secret" friend. Because, for some incomprehensible reason, he is just desperate for me to want him. [Hmm. Maybe He really IS the class nerd. Naw. I already married the class nerd. ;-)]

I have a strong feeling that it's time for me to step up. To be a little more genuine in my faith. I don't have a clue what that will look like, but I think it's time to start investigating, and listening. I have a sinking feeling that it may involve some forgiveness, and I'm not sure what that will look like either.

[I promise not to turn this into a religious blog any more than it is entirely a mommy blog, but this is part of who I am.]