Fears and other birthday gifts

Fluffy white clusters of flakes dance around outside the window of my living room.  A giant helium filled shark is flying around my head inside my living room, thanks to Isaac's borrowing of his big brother's Christmas gift.  I hear the Jaws orchestral riff--duh da....duh da...duh da, duh da, duh da...."Look out, Mommy!  He's going to EAT YOU!"  Ah...another birthday has come.

Rewind twenty four years...it's my 10th birthday.  Because being born a few days after Christmas has it's negatives (let's face it, sharing a birthday the same week as Jesus kind of puts my birthday at the end of the totem pole...) I have learned to enjoy the little things--they mean so much more to me.  1988 was one of the memorable birthdays--I had a sleepover with some of my friends, and each part of that 24 hours is still alive in my mind like a Technicolor remake.  Everything from the talent show we did, to my dad pretending to be "the blob" and scaring us all to death.

Fast forward to 2008...it's my 30th birthday.  My husband and friends threw me a surprise party that will forever be a highlight of my life.  It's not easy to surprise me, but they did--and severely.  I almost had a heart attack when I walked through the swinging kitchen door of my friends' house to hear "SURPRISE!" Sitting around with those who were, and are, so dear to my heart was priceless.

Of course...if you can rewind again to December 28th, 2006, you'll find me sitting up in my hospital bed.  I can still remember that beach front scene framed on the wall directly across from me.  I stared at it, trying to imagine sand between my toes curling, breathing during my labor with one of the most fantastic, painful, surprising, and amazing gifts I have yet to experience.   A new life.  One that would challenge every fiber of my existence, and thrill me deeper than any birthday surprise ever could.  On the morning of December 29th, 2006, I was holding my baby boy snug in my arms.  Looking back at that moment, I realize I had sort of been prepared for that exciting fearful moment--what lies ahead?  And being filled with hope and peace at the prospect of the journey.  God knew I'd need it. 

Every birthday comes with fears and often times, unmet expectations.  I have learned through each December to soak in each moment--even if you AREN'T the headliner.  The beauty of life isn't found in avoiding the hard parts, it's created in experiencing and conquering--adding another small medal (or, huge trophy) to your heart's collection.   That's what each yearly milestone is about, and that's what I love about December 29th. 

As the snow still falls, and Isaac sits on my lap, wiggling and singing in his loudest voice, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOUUUU!" I'm so thankful for the memories, thankful for the fears, because I have shelves overflowing with reminders of victories.  

Best. Gifts. Ever.

Wonder

Wonder: A feeling of surprise mingled with admiration, caused by something beautiful, unexpected, unfamiliar, or inexplicable.

Last week, as we spent the evening at my parents' house for dinner, my mom and I were talking.  As we discussed upcoming holiday plans, times, at whose house we'd be for what, we paused from talking.  Isaac had been at the china cabinet in the kitchen as we frantically made plans.  He had carefully repositioned the shepherds that were on display in the nativity.  They weren't facing out anymore.  He had turned them so they were facing the baby Jesus, backs to the room.  He then simply skipped away as if nothing had changed.  

"Look at this," my mom noticed.  We both stood by that nativity scene and let the implications soak in.  Isaac had seen what we often look past. A nativity is for display, yes, but it is our attitude of focus that defines where we direct our worship during Christmas.  We can decorate and wrap and stage all season long, but if our faces and hearts aren't turned to the truth of Christ's birth and allow that to shape our hearts, it's just a show.  

I love the wonder that comes from the perspective of my son.  In a moment, he can allow us to see what he sees.  Often, that perspective brings me back around to eye-opening reminders like this nativity scene.  It can be so easy to look past this gift.  I can care too much about others' opinions--care too much about how others see me. Isaac sees the unexpected and isn't afraid to share it, even if it goes again status quo.  He is a reminder of God's impact in my perspective every moment...a reminder to turn my heart to Jesus and to worship his beauty that outshines the lights of a million stars.

He truly has a gift for wonder.  And what a treasured gift he is to me.  

worthy of being loved

I am feeling under the weather today.  And it is quite the weather to feel under.

Outside, buckets of rain and thunder and lightning ricochet around, while I, with tissue box and tea in hand, sit on my chair.  I am reading my latest issue of People on my Nook, when I decide to delve into a story about Demi Moore.

I'm not sure if you are as savvy as I and keep up with all the juiciest gossip ( insert thick layer of sarcasm here...) but you have been buried under a rock if you haven't heard that Moore and her husband, Ashton Kutcher are no longer.  Well, this article squeezed some lemon into that wound as it talked about Kutcher's newest romance, leaving Demi in the dust, so to speak.

Why am I writing a blog about Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher?  It's because of a quote I read in the article referring to something Demi had said to Harper's Bazaar in a past interview about her biggest fear:  "it's that I'm going to ultimately find out at the end of my life that I'm really not lovable, that I'm not worthy of being loved."

I have to set my reader down and let that comment soak in.  I am thankful for this beautiful movie star's candid openness, but I'm broken-hearted at the lie she is afraid of!

We are ALL worthy of love, if we are talking about the kind of love that is worth it all.

There are many forms of love--in the Greek language, there are 3 that I can define:   "Eros" or, romantic, passionate love; "Philia" or, friendly, brotherly love; and "Agape", love that is selfless and totally committed.

Eros + Philia = trouble, pain,  confusion, undetermined expectation and comparison, selfishness

Eros + Philia +Agape = complete acceptance, complete devotion, and complete satisfaction.

If you don't know Agape love--the kind that is selfless and committed, that covers the ugly we all have in us--you will never know TRUE love.

I think of my children, and I think of how they see the world around them.  It is my passion to teach them the right equation for love, because it was the most difficult, the most challenging, and most eternally exhilarating lesson I've learned in my life (and continue to learn daily!)

Isaac always tells me, "I love you, Mom."  I am confident in his hugs and his affection, not because I'm worthy--but because I'm exactly the opposite.  I'm confident in my unworthiness, knowing that with the love of Jesus--Agape love--I am free and forgiven, no matter what stains may mare my past, no matter how much devastation has swept through my soul. It's because of this love, this mercy, I am lovable.

I can take a deep breath and close my eyes and know this love...
"Never fails, never gives up, never runs out..."

And that's worth it all.

out of clay

I wake up to a rainy, dark morning.  Isaac is in bed with me, snuggled between Dan and I...humming and announcing each minute change on the digital clock.  "It's....6:12....13!" As I get out of bed, I am reminded that today is my first day of free art therapy at Julie Billiart.  I am looking forward to meeting other moms and hearing their hearts (and maybe making something crafty too...)

I pick up our carpool buddies (Sandy, the mom, and her 3rd grader at JB, Sean) and we head over to the school.  After we high-five the boys good-bye, Sandy and I make our way into the school, signing in with pens topped with plastic sunflowers.  (These flowers are the school's symbol:  "Look to God as a sunflower looks to the sun for life")  

Making our way to the art therapy room, we are surrounded by organized drawers labeled with supplies, weaving looms and paintings, framed pieces of childrens' art work.  My heart does a little leap with excitement:  free time to make something?  Yes please!

As we find our seats, take of our jackets and sip on our coffee, other moms begin coming in.  I am introduced to everyone--most moms have been coming here for years, and obviously, get something much needed from the time.  I smile at them.  They do their best to smile back.  

As we begin, our facilitator (who is also Isaac's art teacher) reads a meditation from a book.  We start with piles of clay on some fabric.  As she reads, and soothing, instrumental music plays in the background, she tells us to close our eyes.  

I use this time to pray. I'm not sure what the others do, or even if this what what we were instructed to do...but in my experience, when I have quiet time, I use it to talk to God.  Plain and simple.  It's the best use of the moment.  

I begin to make something from the clay, but we are encouraged to keep our eyes closed.  Using our hands only, we shape the cold, moist ball into something...anything...

At the end of the session, we open our eyes to see what we've made.  Some of us have abstract, tree-like vertical creations.  Some have flat, pancake-like stepping stones.  Mine?  A bowl, with a spout on the side.  

We talk about what it's like being moms.  Not just moms, but moms with children who have special needs.  I listen more than talk, because honestly, my problems seems small in comparison to the hurt, the frustration, and the pain that these women brought into the art room this morning.  One mom, Kelly, rubs her teary eyes while sitting in her sweat pants and hair in a bandana..."It just couldn't be a worse time for a divorce...Grayson is in 6th grade and needs a dad...how can I do this alone?"  Another mom, Anne Marie..."We had to tell our son he had Aspergers years ago when he was suicidal, he was so young...I wanted him to understand why he is the way he is..." I am flabbergasted. I am humbled, and I'm looking at my clay bowl on the table in front of me.  

I was reminded of the scripture verse, from Isaiah 64:8:  "But now, Oh Lord, we are the clay, and you are our potter.  We are all the work of your hand."

When the potter works the clay, he wets it down, forms it gently, and never takes His hands from his creation.  Sometimes, if he isn't satisfied with the work, he will fold it up and start again.  This isn't easy, and it isn't quick.  It applies to us as moms, and to our children.  They were made by the potter's hand, and so were we.  He never takes his hand from us.  

As I shared this thought with the other moms, I felt vulnerable...like I had said something weak or irrelevant.  But in response, there were muffled sniffs, tissues wiping eyes, and I could feel hearts soaking in the reminder:  We aren't alone as long as we remember the potter.  

I decided to have my sad little bowl that I made with my eyes closed fired.  It's not pretty, and it's not perfect, but isn't that the point?  We are made perfect through the fire...and when I see that little bowl when the times are frustrating, or when I feel like I can't make it through the day, I will remember...

I'm still just made out of clay.  

Kindergarten

Oh sweet, lazy, bittersweet summer...

You were my favorite.  

There were amazing adventures with friends and to parks, pools, and beaches...and a heavenly reminder of how precious those times are with one another...(We will always love you, Boompa! We will see you again soon...7-4-2012) 

Sometimes it takes the difficult to make us dig our heels and hearts in to love deeper, hope stronger, and push harder for the things that are so valuable and yet so fleeting.  

And here we are, the last day of that free-wheeling, wear-your-bathing-suit-all-day, eat-ice-cream-for-dinner, catch-lightning-bugs kind of season...and I'm gearing up for routine again!

Back packs are ready, hanging on hooks in the foyer...lunch items are picked and ready to be stashed for the first lunch of my 3rd grader and my [gulp...deep breath...] Kindergartener.

Isaac is a Kindergartener.  My Isaac.  

The baby who stopped talking at 20 months.  

The baby who physically pushed me away.  

The baby who didn't call me Mommy until he was 3.

The baby who didn't look anyone in the eye. 

The baby who couldn't be around people or loud noises.

The baby who stole my heart and challenged every hope, belief, and dream I could imagine...

And he's going to school. And he's going to be amazing.  

Bittersweet.

I'm truly grateful for the amazing place he gets to learn at.  The teachers, the building, the way they teach a child HOW to learn, not just what to learn; how they treasure Isaac's differences without forcing him to conform or feel incapable...my stomach is in knots and butterflies all at the same time with excitement and with pain.

I'm reminded of the day I broke down in a Target parking lot when Isaac was just diagnosed with his autism over 3 years ago.  I was feeling the heaviness, the burden, of trying to solve my son's "problem."  And just like that, God spoke to my heart through a message on the radio I had stopped to listen to in tears.  The story of Isaac and Abraham is one we learn in Sunday school...but it never meant much until the Holy Spirit made it relevant to my situation:  I remember it as clear as a bell ringing.  

Give Isaac to God.  

What did that mean?  In my hot angry tears, I shouted this question in my soul.  I hadn't really allowed myself to submit to who could possibly love my son more than me?  Who could possibly know him better than I?  God does.  And He is capable of making a way for Isaac to live, to thrive, and to reach his full potential.  I laugh at this scenario now, because honestly, it was the changing point in my daily life with my son.  And just like Abraham had to follow God's difficult instructions to submit to God's plan and not his own...I saw the power in that.  I handed Isaac's present, his past, and his future up to a God who is the ultimate provider.  

And boy, am I glad I did.  

So, here we are...on the cusp of a new season of challenges and victories.  And I'm ready.

I have a feeling, Isaac is pretty ready too. 

Happy Kindergarten, everyone!  (sniff, sniff...where's the Kleenex?)

my babies, big bro Ethan and little Isaac on his birthday

Isaac and his Boompa, Father's Day 2011...we will miss him so

My Booder 2008

Remembering Boompa

It is a quiet morning.  July 4th, 2012.  It's very early.  And it has been a long month of hospital visits.  Coffee is brewing on my kitchen counter, and Ethan and Isaac have zipped past me and are frantically putting on their flip flops at the back door.  "Mom, when is the parade starting?"  "Are they going to throw candy?" "Is everyone coming to our party?"   I smirk and answer a blanket yes over their rapid questions.  As I cut up watermelon and get plates and cups out to host our annual party and parade for friends and family, I start realizing this answer isn't completely true.  

Everyone will not be joining us this year to celebrate.  

My Boompa (my grandfather on my mom's side) had been one of the greatest parts of our 4th of July celebrations.  He and my Grammy would arrive, get their cups of coffee and bagels and take a seat on the porch swing.  It was the perfect vantage point for Boompa.  He could "see the action" and take in all the laughter, all the children squealing with delight, and welcome friends and family as they made their way to say hello and chat a bit. Not to mention, hear the trains as they went by in the distance (they reminded him of his childhood, growing up in Cleveland).  He always had a smile on his face on the 4th because that day embodied all of his favorite things: life, freedom, family, friends, and celebration.  

Boompa in his spot on our front porch, July 4th, 2010

 This year, Boompa was not at our house.  He was not on the porch swing.  

He was breathing some of his final breaths, in hospice care, surrounded by family and held by Grammy.  

He was, and always will be, on our hearts.  

We reserved his spot with a family photo--with him at the head of the table

That morning, after the parade had gone by, and the coffee and goodies had been shared...

We got a call that our beloved Boompa had gone from this world to the next...

made whole, made perfect, and made eternal.  

Boompa was one of the most loving and listening people I knew.  He encouraged me when I would bring Isaac over to visit.  He would immediately sit up in his chair (even if he was hurting) and get genuinely excited when Isaac showed him his latest Hot Wheels car, or construction truck.  "Oh, man!  Look at that!" Whistling an impressed sound at Isaac and raising his eyebrows with enthusiasm.  They would play together, and Boompa made all the car sounds.  His eyes would light up and Isaac would show off a bit.  My grandfather would look right at me and say, "Girl, you're doing a fantastic job...he is doing great!"  My chest would swell up with pride.   This man worked so hard to make sure his family knew he loved them...and he knew I did the same.  

Boompa was a carpenter--he built amazing things with his hands. He was a craftsman, and a true appreciator of all things handmade.  Balancing on railroad ties in the backyard, and walking into his "shop" (a big barn behind Grammy and Boompa's old house) transported me to when I was a little girl, when he would hug me and the smell of Old Spice and wood shavings mingled on his stylish clothes (he had style, that man.)  I understood at a young age what it meant to work at something, to have patience.  I grasped this invaluable concept of what really matters--family, God, doing what you love and what you've been made to do--because of his example.  It was never about money--it was always about passion.  (He could barely get through a family prayer before a meal without breaking down in tears--he had one of the most tender hearts.)

He and I shared the same personality--I enjoyed being with others, but found great fulfillment in being introspective with my thoughts.  I remember when we would go on family vacations to the beach, Boompa would get up at dawn and sit on the porch with a pot of coffee, whittling a figure or working on a piece of his model ships he made from scratch.  If you chose to sit with him, you'd be sitting in silence.  Boompa would take long walks by himself, coming back an hour later, having explored some untouched place where tourists didn't go.  We never asked him what he did on those walks, and other than horrendous sunburn and maybe a few unique shells, he didn't reveal to us either.  I can imagine he would think about his life--his Russian parents and the 7 siblings he grew up with...maybe ponder the time he spent in the Navy out on an aircraft carrier during WWII...reflect on that night in a jail cell years ago after a bar fight where he gave his heart and life to Jesus and forever changed the way he lived...    

  

Isaac and Boomps, Father's Day, 2011

Ethan and Boomps, Father's Day, 2011

I will greatly miss my Boompa.  I will miss his encouragement, his silly phrases, his high pitched laugh, his excitement for life and love for those around him.  I am blessed to have had time for my sons, his great-grandchildren, to experience his contagious joyful spirit, and to remember what it means to truly live:  To love God, to serve, and to love others.  I am blessed that a part of who he is will live through myself and my sons.  

From now on, the 4th of July will be so much more meaningful to me.  It will forever be a day that I will remember true freedom, true love, and true joy.  

The Graduate

 Remembering...

Isaac, Chagrin Falls, 2010

My pint-sized warrior, 2011

Me and Isaac, Disney World, 2009

Spring scootering, 2011

Surprise!  2010

"Whatchu talkin' about, Willis?"  2009

You can appreciate the present by looking at the past...

and that's what I did. 

Old photos take me on a stroll through moments, milestones, and memories.

I giggle.  I sigh.  I get teary eyed...

but never, ever, do I get remorseful, disappointed, or dissuaded.  

I gush.  I smirk.  I close my eyes...

but never, ever, do I lose hope.  

Here's to Isaac.  Here's to the little graduate.  

So many faces, so many challenges, so many triumphs...

So long preschool...hello future!

Big boy!