Before I became a mom, I talked a lot of smack about parent groups. Gymboree, MOPS, playdates were all sad attempts to make the soul sucking, life consuming job of being a mom or dad fun. They were for parents whose conversations revolved so much around binkys, diapers and naps that they'd forgotten what normal conversation was, and needed to be around others with their now incredibly limited vocabulary.
I was so ignorant.
A lot of friends have told me that having a little one is an isolating experience. Suddenly, you can't just pick up and leave the house. You can't just go out for a movie, meet friends for late night drinks, or even go to the gym whenever you want. The schedule of your day now has to include nursing, nap times (for you and baby!) and relationship building with your little. Your plans also have to include an evaluation of lighting, noise level, presence of other children, presence of potential activities for your child, and a time frame for how long you are willing to be out, given they'll be waking you up at 3am because they're teething and will need to be comforted. A lot of friends don't have those considerations, and those who do probably feel as deserted and lonely as you do.
The summer I had my son was the loneliest period of time I can remember. All of my family and friends lived 3300 miles away, and for as involved I am in my church, I had a total of 4 people come to see us in 6 weeks. There were no meals, no offers for help and if it weren't for the loving, tender care of my husband, I would not have survived the tear filled nights.
I don't think that was ever God's plan for the parental experience. Genesis 28:3 says, "May God Almighty bless you and make you fruitful and increase your numbers until you become a community of peoples." Community was God's idea from the start. The only thing he declared "not good" was the fact that Adam was alone, and so He created Eve. He realized our immediate need for relationship, and a goodness that came from us being together. So much so that the acts of living together, eating together, worshiping and repenting together and sharing eternity are themes that exist throughout the bible, cover to cover.
Hebrews 10:24-25 says, "And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another- and all the more as you see the Day approaching." It's easy to get busy and overwhelmed and find ourselves on the outskirts of the life we once lived. The demands of work and family as well as any other curve balls the day holds takes all that we have and leaves us with barely enough energy to fall into bed at night, let alone meet up with a friend. This progressive exhaustion and subsequent withdrawn existence is where Mom's group saved me.
I wasn't introduced to Mom's group until 4 months after my son was born, and I was so depressed I dreamed and made plans to return to NY before his first birthday. In 4 short months, I have found sisters who understand and who are also pushing back the cultural isolation of being a mom. They have promised to celebrate my son's birthday, to share holidays with us and to remember things that make me smile. We encourage each other by getting together every Wednesday and whenever a playdate gives us an excuse. We have talked about family dates and introduced our husbands and children, we spend time at each other's homes, we text and call throughout the week, we pray and fight for each other's dreams. We're figuring out what it means to do life together because community isn't just important to us, it's important to God.
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
Thursday, January 22, 2015
Finding and receiving comfort
Two weeks ago, my community was rocked with a tragedy that no one expected: A perfectly healthy, happy, vibrant 15 month old tot named Levi fell victim to SIDS. He was my son's first friend, and child to some amazing people we have grown to love. His loss is felt so deeply, by so many, and has left nothing but questions resonating from the heart of those closest, why, how, and what now?
I've found my pain welling up over everyday activity, tears salting macaroni and cheese that we've brought to their home, or over dishes as I wash our baby's spoons. My bedtime prayers have turned from praying for my little one's development to, "be with his every breath, God." There has been grief, and fear, and sadness in my heart, and I've done everything I can to shield TJ from the bottomless sorrow we all feel.
But he knows something's wrong. He can tell in how I hold him tighter, let him sleep in my arms longer, check on him more often, and pray more fervently with far more tears. He can tell in the eyes of the nursery workers at church, who used to hold TJ and Levi simultaneously for nap time, and in the heaviness of their breath when they catch themselves remembering the two of them playing together. He can tell by the absence of Levi's laughter and babbles and the few words he used to emphatically shout. Something is most certainly wrong, even if he can't put his finger on it...
The other night, I was holding him, rocking him to sleep, and he took his pacifier out of his mouth and tried to put it into mine. He looked at me concerned, as if to say, "Here, Mama. You look like you need this." His source of comfort, his soothing coping mechanism, being offered to me, for the sadness in my eyes, and the fear in my arms. When I said, "No, baby, that's yours," he smiled, reassuring me that he was offering comfort, and that he if I wanted it, I could have it. This little person I had worked so hard to shield was trying to comfort me, and I could let him into my pain, or reject his efforts.
How often do we experience something in life that when God tries to comfort and heal us, we say, "no," because of how badly we hurt? Whether it's a traumatic event from the past, or the loss of a dear little one, it's easy to reject God's comfort because our pain is too deep or too wide. Maybe we think it's too soon to be comforted; that we don't want a hug, we want to be angry; we want to scream and cry and rail until our voice is broken and our body is weak. Maybe we think God isn't big enough for our pain, and we need to shield our theology from it because under the scrutiny and weight of How, Where and Why, our faith might crack in two. Maybe the sharp pain of our lives have turned to dull aches we've learned to live with, just as a part of who we are now. It is easy to remember the bitterness and gall, the brokenness and heartache, to the point where we declare all our splendor is gone, and all that we had hoped from the LORD. (Lamentations 3:18)
I have seen God meet my friends, and those closest to Levi's death in miraculous ways. I have seen peace and even joy on their tired, tear stained faces because they chose to let Him in when He extended an offer of comfort. The LORD says that He is close to the brokenhearted, and saves those who are crushed in spirit. (Ps 34:18) He calls Himself the Comforter because only He can touch some situations. In Lamentations, Jeremiah declared that only 1 thing made life even worth continuing, saying, "This I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: Because of the LORD's great love, we are not consumed." That's all we've got right now, and the arms of Jesus are flung wide. Thankfully, they are wide enough to hold bottomless pain.
I've found my pain welling up over everyday activity, tears salting macaroni and cheese that we've brought to their home, or over dishes as I wash our baby's spoons. My bedtime prayers have turned from praying for my little one's development to, "be with his every breath, God." There has been grief, and fear, and sadness in my heart, and I've done everything I can to shield TJ from the bottomless sorrow we all feel.
But he knows something's wrong. He can tell in how I hold him tighter, let him sleep in my arms longer, check on him more often, and pray more fervently with far more tears. He can tell in the eyes of the nursery workers at church, who used to hold TJ and Levi simultaneously for nap time, and in the heaviness of their breath when they catch themselves remembering the two of them playing together. He can tell by the absence of Levi's laughter and babbles and the few words he used to emphatically shout. Something is most certainly wrong, even if he can't put his finger on it...
The other night, I was holding him, rocking him to sleep, and he took his pacifier out of his mouth and tried to put it into mine. He looked at me concerned, as if to say, "Here, Mama. You look like you need this." His source of comfort, his soothing coping mechanism, being offered to me, for the sadness in my eyes, and the fear in my arms. When I said, "No, baby, that's yours," he smiled, reassuring me that he was offering comfort, and that he if I wanted it, I could have it. This little person I had worked so hard to shield was trying to comfort me, and I could let him into my pain, or reject his efforts.
How often do we experience something in life that when God tries to comfort and heal us, we say, "no," because of how badly we hurt? Whether it's a traumatic event from the past, or the loss of a dear little one, it's easy to reject God's comfort because our pain is too deep or too wide. Maybe we think it's too soon to be comforted; that we don't want a hug, we want to be angry; we want to scream and cry and rail until our voice is broken and our body is weak. Maybe we think God isn't big enough for our pain, and we need to shield our theology from it because under the scrutiny and weight of How, Where and Why, our faith might crack in two. Maybe the sharp pain of our lives have turned to dull aches we've learned to live with, just as a part of who we are now. It is easy to remember the bitterness and gall, the brokenness and heartache, to the point where we declare all our splendor is gone, and all that we had hoped from the LORD. (Lamentations 3:18)
I have seen God meet my friends, and those closest to Levi's death in miraculous ways. I have seen peace and even joy on their tired, tear stained faces because they chose to let Him in when He extended an offer of comfort. The LORD says that He is close to the brokenhearted, and saves those who are crushed in spirit. (Ps 34:18) He calls Himself the Comforter because only He can touch some situations. In Lamentations, Jeremiah declared that only 1 thing made life even worth continuing, saying, "This I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: Because of the LORD's great love, we are not consumed." That's all we've got right now, and the arms of Jesus are flung wide. Thankfully, they are wide enough to hold bottomless pain.
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