This Is Not About Me

This isn't about me

This whole thing, start to finish, is not about me. This existence, this space on earth I occupy, these moments of intersection into other people’s lives, this whole thing called life is not about me. Counter to culture’s doctrine, I am not the hero of the story. I am an underscore, a shadow, a very fuzzy reflection of a brilliant reality. I am ashamed to admit I am fighting this truth tooth and nail lately. I know this truth. I teach it to my girls. I believe it. But I almost always shrink from the courage to live it. I want to have an edited picture, filtered, in focus, one that will earn plenty of approval. Because I am just that good. The only problem with that sort of picture is, that is a lie, I am not that good. You see, there are three great sorrows in my life. My daughter’s health complications, … Continue reading

Push-ups, Plants, and Patience

pushups, plants, and patience

The first time a physical therapist showed up on my door step to evaluate Christina for services, I’m fairly certain I was as warm and welcoming as glacier ice several miles thick in January. She had worked with special needs kids for blah blah…and at that point, I was lost and gone. I did not have a special needs kid. I had a developmentally delayed premature baby. Get it right lady. Out came the check list. Was Christina able to do this, this, this, this, or this? No, no, no, no, and no. What did that prove anyway?? Clearly, there really was no extensive problem here. The therapist wisely ignored me, and proceeded with the whole business as if she didn’t notice my freezing lack of enthusiasm. When Christina was somewhere around a year old, I finally floated back down to the good old reality of Earth, and was ready … Continue reading

I can be a mom, but I cannot be a Savior

I am a mom, but I am not a Savior

         You are busy, you have stuff to do, and you hear your child’s voice calling you from the back door. You ignore them, because that is what any self-respecting mother who expects to get anything at all done in a twenty four hour period would do. The calls are insistent. That kid is not going away. Whatever they have to say is apparently worth repeating “maaaaaammmmmmaaaa” seventeen times. The eighteenth time the little voice takes on a forlorn tone as if you have abandoned them forever. The tone of voice does its work, and your awakened feelings of pity send you immediately to admire the flower they have found (one of the approximately four billion weeds in the yard), be appropriately sympathetic about the scratch on their finger (which you can’t actually see), get them a drink (which they could have gotten themselves), assure them that … Continue reading