Bedtime Stories

One of my fondest childhood memories is of the time, each night before bed, when my dad would read us stories. Bible stories, fiction books, math textbooks (hehe), whatever the book, he would make it come alive. He did the best voices and sound effects and tickled us at all the opportune times. We looked forward to this bonding time, craved it. On the couch, Nathan and I would snuggle up on either elbow pining his arms to his sides. This sardine like configuration was necessary for optimal picture viewing and page turning opportunities. We were literally on the same page, enjoying the same thing, at the same time. There were no disabilities or tempers. No patience required. It was magical.

I looked forward to passing this experience on to my own kids. I think this desire was the only one I had of it's kind because I almost never thought in terms of passing things down to kids. I've never been convinced I would even have children. But, I thought, if I ever do have kids, there will be bedtime stories.

Cut to 25 years later...

"You can't leave without telling us a story!" Isaac Foster yells as he closes, locks, and physically blocks the front door. (We then have a brief talk about how rude that sounded and he asks again, polietly this time. It sounds just about the same, except with a please somewhere in there.)

"Okay," I say, as if I'm Mary Poppins and I'm humoring the children, "let's go. The story can't start until you're in your beds." And we all race down the hall with huge smiles on our faces.

I sit on the floor in front of them and ask each one, "What character would you like in the story?"

Noah says, "The ghost of Christmas hotdogs!"

"What in the world?...Okay." I say and I look at Caleb.

"The Phantom of the Opera!" he says.

We all look at Isaac and he gets a sly grin. "Burt the Troll! Hahahaha!" he exclaims. Everyone laughs and rolls their eyes because we knew that was coming. He always picks Burt the Troll. Isaac interrupts his own laughter by saying, "Actually Christina. I want to change mine to Christina."

"Okay", I smile and review, "The Ghost of Christmas hotdogs, Phantom of the Opera, and Christina. Are those you're final answers?"

All three boys nod yes.

The story begins...usually starting off slow as my brain tries to stay at least one word ahead of my mouth. I'm never quite sure what will come out next. These particular characters took us on a path from a struggling playwright to a story of musical superhero proportions with a sprinkle of A Christmas Carol along the way, ending with Christina selling her play and it being made into a movie for which Ethan (the oldest Foster brother) is hired to compose the sound track. He becomes a multimillionaire and supports us all the rest of our lives. (Ethan doesn't sit in the room with us or choose a character. He is a teenager and far too old for such childish things. But I know he's listening, because by the end of this particular story, he is playing the theme song to the musical Phantom of the Opera. *smile*)
Everyone cheers and happily says goodnight.

Suddenly, I realize a cherished childhood experience has indeed been passed on, not to my own children but, to the Foster boys. And what makes it so good is not the amount of silly voices, the crazy characters, or even the moral of the stories. What makes it magical is the undivided and delighted attention given and received between adults and children who love each other. And it's that kind of love that allows us to follow each other down any path the stories take us. All the troubles of this world, all the stress of the day, all the fights we just had about bedtime, and all the tasks of tomorrow go away. And these three remain laughter, imagination, and love.

Just like that the act of telling stories to each other has become as important to them as it always was to me. Without fail, I walk out of their bedroom and feel like I've been given the rarest of gifts from the most unexpected of sources and I treasure all these things and ponder them in my heart.

my mom is the best

Glish, it’s what’s left over in the pan from dinner or what’s in the corner of your eye. 

Glishy is how a substance can feel when it comes in contact with your skin. 

Oh Glish! is what you say when someone says ‘and then the toilet overflowed’. 

Also, glish is underlined in red every time I type it. Why? Not because it’s spelled wrong but because (gasp) it’s not a real word! This blog explains how I learned the truth. 

It was my senior year of college. I was standing in my dorm apartment talking to my roommates when, suddenly, I felt like the main character at the end of an M. Night Shyamalan movie. How had I not seen it?!? There were so many clues along the way and looking back they were glaringly obvious. 

She was the one that taught me the word. She was the only one I’d ever heard say it. I’d never seen it written or in print anywhere. She adjusted it’s meaning to fit any situation.
In that moment all the clues came together and I knew. She had made it up. It wasn’t a real word. 

I like to think that part of me knew it all along (just like I knew Bruce Willis’ character was dead in The Sixth Sense). The truth was, I was shocked and completely surprised. How could I not have known? How could this not have come up with anyone before? The looks on my roommates’ faces combined with their silence made my mind reel. That moment is frozen in my memory. It makes me laugh and shake my head every time it flashed through my mind. 

Here I was 22 years old using a word with such confidence only to discover that my mom made it up.

My mom is extraordinary and one-of-a-kind, that I know for SURE. I love that she makes up words and uses them in every day sentences. She’s never denied this habit of hers. She even acted surprised when I “confronted” her about leading me to believe glish was a real word. She never claimed it was real. She just said it one day and liked it so she kept saying it. 

This moment of truth was not unlike the moment I discovered store bought cookies, the moment i learned that other people buy jam, or the time I stared quizzically at a long line of people waiting to buy bread called zwiebach. Doesn’t everyone have homemade cookies, jam, and bread stocked in their freezers?!? Nope! The sad reality is that not everyone got to grow up with my mom. I am among a very select few and I am so deeply grateful. 

So here’s to moms that provide for us and support our every step in life...and even manage to spice things up with creative vocabulary!

Glish may not be in the dictionary but, as far as I’m concerned, it’s definitely a real word!

my reaction

I checked my email, read this forwarded blog post and my reaction was immediate and strong. (big surprise)

http://messymiddle.wordpress.com/2012/05/10/an-open-letter-to-pastors-a-non-mom-speaks-about-mothers-day/

I understand her point of view all too well but if I shared it, I wouldn't be able to celebrate anything with anyone. I'd miss out on the joy that comes from looking beyond myself and loving other people. And I'd be blinded to the glory of God in all things, even my single, childless life.

Right?

Surprised by grief

I knew it would hurt longer than one day but I keep getting surprised by grief. 

 I came home monday night, 3/11/13, and walked in the door and my dog wasn't there to greet me. Then I slept in my bed for the first time without my dog. I woke up the next morning and she wasn't jumping on and off my bed urging me to get up and let her out. I haven't opened the door from my bedroom to the backyard since she was here. I was expecting to feel sad at those predictable times but there have been so many more moments in the last two weeks when I've been surprised by grief.

As I made final preparations to leave for work on 3/12/13, my head automatically turned towards her bowls. (I always checked to see if she needed food and water right before I left for work.) But her bowls weren't there and I was surprised by grief.

Lunch time on 3/12/13 came and I couldn't go home. I didn't want to face the silence. or that ticking clock. So I ate out and went straight back to work. Then 5:30pm came and I couldn't go home. I was surprised by my compulsion to avoid the place I used to love to be the most. But that was before she died. So I went to a friend's house and hid for the evening. I thought I'd avoided feeling sad because I changed my routine. But when I got in the car at 10pm, I was again surprised by grief, and cried most of that 20 minute drive home.

Wednesday morning, two days after she died, I got through my morning routine and made it to work on time. But by 9am I was overcome. Sobbing in my cubicle, I knew I was getting no work done and needed to get out of there. So I got in my car and drove to my grandma's. I was not only completely surprised by grief, I felt suffocated and paralyzed by it. I didn't start breathing evenly until I was half way to Reedley. 

My grandma gives me hope. No matter what is going on in my life, she always gives me hope. I know that is why my instinct was to flee to her that morning. I had lost it. I was in a hole and couldn't find a way out. So she jumped in the hole with me and was my guide because she's been in that same hole before and knows the way out. 

You see, my grandpa died in 1994 and she has been without him for over 19 years. She still misses him everyday.  Her advice to me was that it is okay to feel sad, it is good to grieve, but it is important to keep from feeling sorry for myself. In other words, sit in the middle of your pain but then get up and walk through it. She said that with time my routines would change and everyday life would get easier to bear. Wisdom that soothed my suffocated soul and allowed my heartbeat to regulate.

I told her some of the things I am thinking about doing now that I won't need to be home to take care of her. I can volunteer, go back to school, join a gym (yes, i was feeling that desperate), get more involved in church, etc. My grandma totally validated all of those options and was even excited for me at the new possibliities in front of me.  That's when I felt the hope return and that's how she guided me out of the hole.

With every first that has happened without my dog, (my first lunch at home, first cheezits, first pizza, first Friday morning off, and today, my first Saturday at home), I am still surprised by grief as the waves keep on coming. I mowed my back lawn today and half way through I started crying because it was the first time I'd mowed the lawn or even walked around in the backyard since she died. She wasn't anxiously waiting at the door to be let out to see and sniff out how I'd changed her territory. She won't be patrolling the yard or barking at the neighbor dogs through the fence. 

I have to constantly remind myself that she wasn't just a dog and that 10 1/2 years together is a long time. It's okay to be feel the loss and it's okay to be surprised by grief.

Worst countdown ever

As I type the clock is counting down. 3 hours 10 minutes until I have to say goodbye to her. It is a uniquely painful feeling to know the day and hour of my dog’s death. She has been my constant companion for 10 1/2 years, for all of my adult life. all.of.it. 

Sure, she’s tried (and succeed) to escape now and then but she always comes back. always. When she follows me around, sits at my feet, and curls up next to me at night, I am no longer alone. I feel her presence and it calms me. She studies me, even now, seems to wonder what I’m doing and then sits down next to me, content because she knows where I am. I fill her bowl with food every morning just in case she gets hungry while I’m at work but she never eats until I’m home. 

It’s difficult to fathom how I will be motivated to get out of bed without her wet nose in my face to convey that urgency. I’m not even sure how I will get through this day. 

But because HE lives, I can face tomorrow and the next 2 hours and 54 minutes...

When 'cute' becomes a Four letter word

Cute: defined as possessing physical features, behaviors, personality traits or other properties that are mainly attributed to infants and small or cuddly animals.

If you ever want to get a reaction out of me, just refer to an adult with a developmental disability as 'cute'. Call them scary, weird, or even annoying because those, while being harsh (not to mention politically incorrect), are sometimes true. But they are NoT CuTe! Adults are not infants or small cuddly animals, they are grown people with years of life experience. Calling them cute is one of the most demeaning and insulting descriptors you can use because it effectively strips them of dignity and respect, making them less than and never equal.

Treating adults like children is not loving.

Neither is allowing children to do whatever they want because they have Down syndrome.

All small children are cute, okay most small children are cute. But most parents agree that cuteness is not a free ticket to do whatever you want to whomever you want whenever you want. Boundaries are a essential in communicating love and respect. The same is true for adults, able and disabled alike.

Bottom line: The problem is not really the word cute. The problem is the tendency for people to stop at that word and not work to see past that label to the person. When you look past the label you are daring to be equals with that person with a disability. Suddenly they aren't cute anymore. They are stubborn, messy, loving, aggravating, wonderful people just like you.

My testimony

My story begins when I was 4 years old. My oldest brother Edward and I had spent the night at our grandparents house. We both woke up early the next morning and didn't think we should get up yet so we stayed in bed and starting talking. My brother has never really liked small talk so he jumped right to the deepest subject, Jesus and the salvation He offers. I don't remember everything he said but I do remember him asking me if I wanted to pray to ask Jesus into my heart. I said yes and we prayed. As I prayed I physically felt a void being filled inside of me. Jesus really came to live in me! And there was great rejoicing! Right? Well no, at least not inside of me.  

I thought it was too soon, even at 4 years old, but I knew my decision was my own and that I wanted Jesus in my heart. I felt sealed and preserved. I would never know life without Him. But part of me was sad. I desperately wanted a before and after story. An I once was lost and now I'm found shout-it-from-the-rooftops-and-everyone-in-your-household-gets-saved story. Instead, I got a once was lost and then I turned 4 years old story. I complained to Him about it because I felt like I had no testimony. I questioned His wisdom and His plans for my life. And from the very first day that I was saved, I doubted God's love for me. 

So began 13 years of questioning and doubting God. 

I grew up in the Dinuba Mennonite Brethren Church and had this reputation for being obedient, nice, and a good sister to my brother Nathan, who has a developmental disability. You can ask me more about that later. But this goody two shoes reputation felt like a huge lie. I was obedient because it was easier and I was too lazy to be disobedient. I was nice to people because I was allergic to conflict so I'd rather be nice than risk having to run away from you when conflict arose. And I was a good sister because I was the youngest and figured, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em! Right?

In questioning and doubting God's love for me I had this was my (faulty) logic: God knows me better than I know myself so that means He sees my ugly, sinful heart and therefore He couldn't possibly love me. I was unworthy and there was no chance that I'd ever become worthy because I was committing the worst sin of all, trying to overrule God as though I had it right and He had it wrong. Such stubborn arrogance mixed with a very low self-esteem made for a depressing inner dialogue.

I thought I was being gracious in saying to God that I didn't want to be a burden. I didn't want to bother God with my problems. He, like my parents, was busy taking care of other people. I had the Lord but I didn't want to need Him. My mindset was "God, you've got me. You've had me since age 4. You don't have to worry about me anymore. Feel free to focus on all the other people who don't know You yet. The key difference between God and my parents is that God doesn't need anything taken off His plate. He doesn't need a break or for me to be on His team to give Him support. God doesn't need me. 

In August of 1998, I went to camp and He met me there. It was Wednesday night and I was sitting in the amphitheater at Hartland Christian Camp listening to a speaker talk about God's love. At the end as about 80% of my peers left their seats to go make new commitments to the Lord, I was still sitting in mine. I didn’t think anything would penetrate the thick concrete wall I’d built around my heart. 

But then came a life changing moment:

My head was bowed and my eyes closed when I heard God say “I love you.” 

I said, “No.” (but the wall cracked)

He said again, “I love you.” 

I said, “Maybe.” (a chunk falls off the wall) 

For a third time He said, “I love you.” 

And I said, “I finally believe You.” 

I WEPT as my wall crumbled and God’s love flooded my heart. I accepted salvation at age 4 and accepted God's choice to love me at age 17.

When I was 24 I wrote my own version of what Paul wrote in Galatians 1:13-16:

‘For you have heard of my previous days at DMBC, my family heritage, how I worshiped, served God, and tried to be a good Christian. I was advanced in my knowledge of the Bible and was involved in ministry with the youth group, choir, worship team, etc. I was zealous but at the same time conflicted about Your love. But then God, You chose to reveal Your grace to me and were pleased to give Your Son’s life for mine so that I might know what it is to be truly loved, valued, and cared for. Thank You.’

Now at age 36 God is helping me appreciate my heritage and my 32 years with Him. Last year I was doing a bible study with a friend and was referencing different stories in the Bible to explain something and my friend turned to me and said, "How do you know all of this stuff?!?" It caught me off guard because I really couldn't pinpoint when or where I'd learned it because I didn't remember not knowing it. "I guess I learned it at church or from my parents at some point",  I said. Then she said something that changed my perspective on growing up as a follower of Jesus and on growing up in the church. She said, "Well, I think you should go home and thank your parents for teaching you all of this because I've never heard it before! You're so blessed to have a Christian family!" And I think, for the first time in a long time, I agreed with her.