Self Care is not Selfish

When you board an airplane, before the actual flight begins, a flight attendant or a safety video goes over the emergency plan.  One of the things that they always say is that if the plane should lose cabin pressure, then an oxygen mask will drop from the ceiling.  You should place a mask on yourself before assisting children and other passengers who may need help. 

We're in a season that I have to remind myself that self-care is not selfish.  I have to carve out time daily to ensure my spiritual, physical, mental, emotional, and financial health.  I can't neglect myself in my care for others. 

Earlier this month we found out that my mom has breast cancer.  In less than a month, my parents-in-law will be moving from our basement (their home of almost six years) to another country.

In the past 48 hours we've learned that my mom's cancer has progressed more than we initially thought and has actually spread to her bones.  She has some fractures where some bones have been weakened.  The same evening that we got this news, I met my dad at the emergency room, after he was transported from work by ambulance.  He was dehydrated, so after receiving a few bags of fluids, I took him back to his truck and he was able to drive home.  Yesterday, Eric went with his parents to the emergency room because his dad, who is a quadriplegic, was vomitting blood.  He has a bowel obstruction and may need surgery if it doesn't resolve itself within the next 72 hours.

And so I'm reaching up for my lifeline.  I'm breathing deeply from the One who gives me breath.  I'll give from my health and abundance, because this is not selfish.  We cannot give what we do not have.

Sunday Morning Grace

It's Sunday morning.  We're getting ready for church, like we do every week, and we're running late, like we do every week.  I'm trying to herd children to the car, making sure everyone has shoes, there are clean diapers for the baby, and I brushed my own teeth.

Then it starts.

The five year old, the one whose middle name means "grace", begins to scream.  She doesn't like the shoes she's wearing.  She didn't want her hair that way.  She's NOT going to buckle her seatbelt.  She's "NOT EVEN GOING TO SIT DOWN!!!"

I feel it building inside, the bully that wants to say, "Who do you think you are?  You're 5 years old!  You picked those shoes!  And if I really wanted to make you sit down in that carseat and buckle your seatbelt, I could."

But there is the moment, the deep breath in and out, the inhale and exhale, the name that isn't spoken...the grace.  And I don't scream wild or jerk sharp against skinny child arms.  I turn, take another breath, and say, "It's time for us to go.  I know that you're feeling really angry and frustrated right now.  We can't change the choices you already made, but we're going, all together, and you have a choice now.  I'll only wait a little bit for you to decide what you'll choose to do next."  Then I turn back to look through the windshield.

The screaming stops, but there are still tears.  A little girl in the "backity-back" beside a big brother sits down and buckles her seatbelt.  She wipes tears and cleans salt-streaked glasses as her Daddy gets into the driver's seat.  We go, all together, to church.

The picture doesn't look this way every week, but today, there is Sunday morning grace.  And somehow there's this holy irony, this child that sometimes reminds me so much of my small-child-self, that I gave this name that means "grace", this one that shows me grace immeasurable and allows me to reciprocate the grace that I've recieved.  This is amazing grace.

Mom--You are Enough

When God made you a mom, he made you 'just enough'.

Just enough worry and fear to exhibit wondrous faith.
Just enough doubt to reveal transforming trust.
Just enough imperfection to point your child to the only perfect one.
Just enough selfishness to teach about sacrifice.
Just enough weakness to magnify His strength.
Just enough inherited issues to boldly break cycles of generational sin.
Just enough stubborn pride to expose the joy and beauty of sacred submission.

And mom, he gave you just enough laughter and tears, hugs and kisses, tenderness, correction, wandering and direction, to draw close to Him, to desire Him, and to be your child's introduction to HIm.

You are enough.

Screaming baby

My baby has the flu. 

It's not fun. 

It's exhausting. 

It's holding someone all day, waking throughout the night, trying to keep the bigger three away from the germy places, exhausting.

Last night she screamed for an hour and a half.  Not cried, not whimpered like with the high fever, but SCREAMED.  Bloodcurdling, gut-wrenching, inconsolable screaming.  

I tried to comfort her.  I held her.  We rocked, we walked, I sang, I talked.  I offered water, she coughed until I thought she would vomit. 

I felt overwhelemed, isolated, alone, abandoned...even though my sweet husband was nearby and would help with anything I asked.

She wanted to be close to me, but she would stiffen and push with her feet.  She wanted to be on my shoulder, but she would scream in my ear.  "How much longer can I bear this before I lose it?"  I thought.  "Can I bear it for 30 more seconds?  Yes.  I'll count...1...2...3...Okay, we made it.  How about a minute?  1...2...3...4...57...58....59...60.  She's still screaming.  Loudly.  I don't know what to do.  I've tried everything that usually comforts her.  Everything that usually comforts me."

She had literally been screaming for more than an hour.  And then I remembered the wise words of a friend.  "When you don't know what else to do, sometimes you just need to S.T.O.P.  Stop, think, observe, pray."  And so I did.

"Maybe her stomach is hurting.  She's pushing against me like she did as an infant when she had gas."  I collapsed onto my bed and gently put her on her back beside me, her head resting on my arm.  She continued to scream as I prayed.  I confessed it all...the frustration of it all, the anger that was building up because my "suitable helper" wasn't helping the way I thought he should, the fear that I was failing as a parent and there could be something terribly wrong with my child and it could be my fault, the pride that I could handle it all by myself.  And then I let go.  I was honest with myself and my God, and I relaxed and I released the screaming child beside me and the screaming child within me.

It wasn't immediate, but the calm came.  The screaming stopped and we settled into restfulness.

Nevermind that moments after we fell asleep the newly turned 4-year-old fell out of her bed with a thump and cries. 

Daddy took care of that one.

Deep Waters

I've long been enthralled with the sea, the ocean, the beach, the waves crashing, tides rising and falling, and the hidden things of deep.

Today is no different, and yet it is.  The sun is setting, sinking lower in a cotton candy colored sky and I watch and listen to these that are mine.  My husband.  My son.  My daughters.

I sit in the soft, wet sand with a baby on my lap or sometimes at my side.  She's one now, not yet walking, but exploring constantly.  She digs fingers and toes into the sand and splashes as waves bring briny water over my legs and into her lap.  She watches as her big brother digs for tiny clams.  When he offers her one for examination it goes straight to her mouth and immediately back out.  She looks curiously and digs her fat baby fingers into sand, searching for a treasure of her own. 

 The waves toss white foam and the older three make their own discoveries. 

Nicholas, now 7, battles the waves valiantly, charging into surf, no longer needing a grown up hand to feel confident.  He jumps, he punches, he crashes into them as they crash into him.  When he's knocked down, he comes up tugging at trunks that have slipped a bit below modest, wiping salty sting from his eyes, and turns to meet the next challenge.  He's becoming stronger and more independent right before my eyes.  He calls back warnings to younger sisters, and occasionally takes one by the hand, leading her into the adventure.

 Mackenzie is 5 and she loves to do whatever her big brother does.  Where she once was fearless, because she simply didn't know to be afraid, she has learned to be a bit more cautious.  She wants to go deeper, but she wants Daddy with her.  She holds a hand or sits comfortably on his hip, arms wrapped securely around his neck, and they move into the waves.  She runs along the edge of the water and points our her favorite pinks and purples in the setting sun.

Annie grins as she "tip-toes" along to try to catch a bird.  She's content in the soft sand and may occasionally venture onto the packed wet portion, just to wet her toes, but she doesn't care much for the waves right now.  She's collecting...pieces of seaweed, driftwood, rocks, piles of sand, some shells. 

These that are mine, they are each so exquisite in the magical light of the setting sun.  Water glimmers and wet skin reflects and they're brilliant.  And I realize that they are also deep waters. 

This man, who fathered these children of mine, who is a safe place when waves roll round, that even as I know him and am known by him, has such depth that I may never fully know.
 
This boy child, the first to swim in the salty fluid places of my womb, growing by bits and pieces toward manhood. 

The first girl, the one that doesn't speak unless she's very comfortable, she runs with grace and has a tenderness in her touch. 

The second girl, with giggles and grins, with silly dances and always something to entertain her self.

This little one, with squishy arms and legs, with curious eyes, with a little voice that sounds so sweet with a few words, the one who makes demands that are sometimes incomprehensible, this one that changes daily as she learns new skills.

I see just this tiny coastal view of who they are now and who they'll be farther from me and there's so much more over the horizon that I can't even begin to know. 

My heart is full and my own salty waters spill over lashes and down cheeks to mix in the sands with this ocean.

Solitaire

They punish prisoners by isolating them, placing them in solitary confinement.

I fear that we live in a culture that isolates.  It sells us the idea that we can be more connected sitting in front of a computer screen or tapping buttons on our phone than we can be looking into our children's eyes, sitting quietly on the couch with our spouse, or taking a walk through our neighborhood.  We have so many opportunities for virtual community and interactions that we often miss out on reality and authentic interactions available to us. 

Solitaire is a game, or a set of games, that you can play alone.  The way I learned it as a child was by shuffling cards, then laying them out in a pattern, turning them over and trying to create a sequence to get through the entire deck and "win".  Now there are a variety of computer based Solitaire games that can be played with the touch of buttons or click of a mouse in front of a glowing screen. 

As the name implies, only one player is required.  It's you versus the deck, the tiles, the pegs, the clock, any number of things.  There could be some strategy involved, but ultimately it's just you and the game. 

These leisurely games are great for a brain break, mindless shuffling and playing, dealing and re-dealing, sorting and re-sorting.  I've noticed that for me, sometimes the game becomes consuming.  The challenge of beating my last high score (or more likely my husband's), "just a few more minutes," and "let me finish this level" slowly erode minutes then hours and probably even days from my life. 

I wasn't made for "alone" as comfortable and easy at it can sometimes feel.  I was made for relationship and family and community and there's nothing easy or mindless about it.  Relationships are messy, in an ugly-beautiful kind of way.  Relationships don't show me how messed up others are, but show me the glaring reality of my own faults.  Relationships can bring out the best and the worst of me and that's not always easy to reconcile.

Some would say that it's better to avoid the hurt, disappointment, and pain of relationships.  But then we miss out on the healing, restored faith, and comfort that relationships can bring.

Generations ago people often spent their entire lives in the same community.  People that lived and worked together experienced the unedited version of family, friends, and neighbors. 

Now we are physically more mobile and virtually we can span the globe in seconds.  We offer to others the most flattering pictures we can find on Facebook and voice our opinions on Twitter to those who follow and will most likely agree with us. 

We insulate ourselves and if we aren't careful we will isolate ourselves.  The games that we've played will eventually play out and we'll find that we've been playing alone and then we've won nothing. 

"A Good Country Woman"

My Papa would often talk about finding "a good country woman" for my younger brother to marry, or as a solution to most any household problem one might encounter.

You see, by his description, a good country woman could cook well, sew on buttons, repair zippers, hem pants, and mend coveralls. She was likely easy on the eyes, too. She probably was up before the sun, because he most definitely was. And she most certainly didn't complain about anything.

I don't personally know any woman that could do all those things on a daily basis, but the last couple of days, I've been channeling my own "good country woman" and putting up a bit of blackberry jam.

And I must admit, it's kind of nice to have done something with immediately tangible and semi-permanent results, unlike the character training, educating, household maintaining that fills most of my days.

I'll be able to look at those jelly jars for a few months and think, "I did that."

(*It should be noted that my mother-in-law spent hours picking blackberries around the neighborhood on undeveloped lots. I couldn't manage that with my 6 and under entourage.)