A Christmas Reflection

Christmas is always an interesting time to me. Advent (the weeks before Christmas) sets aside a season of waiting, to prepare our hearts for the coming of Jesus. While the church calendar sets aside intentional seasons and days for practices and celebrations, they are really characteristics of discipleship which we should be living all the time.

So I appreciate Advent for its attention to waiting, watching, and being prepared for the hope coming in Christ. But what always gets me is Christmas. It's not so much the story that gets me - though I do love the story - it is the incarnation itself that every time stops me dead my tracks and sends me into a world of wonder and awe at the mystery of our Lord. The fact that for some reason, God, in all the power and might that comes with being the divine One, chose to put on flesh. To be fully human and fully God and come to us, to be God with us - Emmanuel.

And that's where the story tells the beauty of this world changing event. Honestly, in the church we've heard this many times so sometimes it feels trite to say, but God did not come in power and glory. God came in an unexpected way, to an unexpected couple who found themselves displaced, in need, but still following God's call. God came to the world through a dirty stable, because the world said "sorry, there's no room for you here."

Most of advent I spend thinking about Mary. (I've spent 2 of my last 4 Advents in my third trimester of pregnancy.) What it would be like as a mother - knowing the very real humanness of being pregnant, bringing a child into the world, and how incredibly terrifying it is to love a child that much - it makes sense why the angel told her "do not be afraid".

I think of her as I put my boys to bed and what her call must have been like. This has been my unintentional Advent practice. But for about the last year, or since the photo of the 3-year-old Syrian boy who washed upon the shores, lifeless while only seeking a hope and a chance at life - as I tuck my boys in each night, I think of those mothers and their babies. I pray with Noah and I think "What if something happens? What if the world changes and we are in that situation. Will these prayers teach him the things I cannot, if we are separated? Will I know what to do to care for them if our safety, security, and personhood are threatened or worse, taken?"

And while I feel fear and grief for a moment, I simultaneously feel two following things:
1) the angels words to Mary, "do not be afraid" and
2) I have the convenience to say "do not be afraid" and mostly feel it. Because the fear, for me personally, is in my head. But for far to many of my neighbors, this is not true. For my neighbors in far too many places in the world, the fear is not just a scary thought.
That fear is dropped from a plane in the sky and landing on their homes.
That fear is seen the starving faces of their children, because community are cut off from food and humanitarian efforts.
That fear is realized in the young children who are not even crying anymore in the midst of the trauma, but are starring, because this trauma has become their daily life.

And then I become paralyzed. I think "well what can I do?" "the problems are too big and too complex and too unending"
but again, God comes in amongst the mess of humanity and shares with divine clarity.
Feed the hungry. Welcome the stranger. Clothe the naked. Care for the sick. Visit the imprisoned. Because just as we do it to the least of those, we do it to God. (Matt 25)

In this time of celebrating the birth of our savior, born in a world that said "there's no room for you here, go somewhere else," whose family fled genocide (slaughter of the innocents) and became refugees, let us remember this in these days that we are called to prepare the way.

One of the ways you can prepare the way is by giving to those who are helping. Helping those who find themselves, just as the holy family was, displaced, fleeing genocide, and seeking safe shelter.

While it is important to pray for them, do not feel 'let off the hook' of helping your neighbor because you said a prayer, unless it looks something like this "You pray for the hungry. Then you feed them. This is how prayer works" (Pope Francis). So pray. And then give to organizations like The White Helmets, Lutheran Immigration and Refugee Service, Doctors without Borders or local efforts that support those who find themselves displaced like the Holy Family. And stand up for your neighbor. Show up for your neighbor.

We live in a world filled with hurt and brokenness. Seek community rather than power. Seek loving your neighbor rather fearing that if they are safe, you might be a little less safe. And rejoice that our God chose to put on flesh, enter this incredibly broken, repeatedly sinful world, and meet us where we are in it. Love us where we are in it. And call us and use us where we are in it to love God and love our neighbor. Thanks be to God.

The Picture of Heartbreak and the Eternal Okay

This is the picture that breaks my heart. 

It reminds me of a person I didn’t get to be and a person I didn’t get to know. 

Tomorrow will be 4 years since Josh and I received the most heartbreaking news a parent can hear. “There is no heartbeat.” “Your baby has died.”

I remember the start of that day. It was a Wednesday. I had just finished my last project for Josiah’s nursery. His bassinette. I sewed a cover, canopy, and skirt to match the rest of his Very Hungry Caterpillar room. It was a beautiful August day in Iowa. Blue skies and a nice breeze, temperatures perfect enough to leave the windows opened. I remember I had spent the morning, and much of that summer, listening to the 70s Folk station on Pandora – those songs and the warm breeze of fresh summer air flowed through the house and it felt like a perfect summer day. And I felt ready. The last project was done. The house was clean. I knew we were in the “any day now” stage. I had been feeling what I thought was him moving but turned out to be Braxton hicks contractions. But I did not know that until minutes before finding out what the day actually held for us. 

That morning, Josh was out with a friend from church at a shooting range. When he got home, we went to our 37-week check-up. I don’t remember walking in or what I was thinking about. I don’t remember what anything felt like at that place before our worlds came crashing down. But I will never forget the moments of the crash. Seeing his beatless heart on the ultrasound and knowing this was happening. Still in shock and having to be told again. And then realizing, I still had to deliver him. While I asked for a c-section to spare myself any further trauma, the midwife informed me that while it was an option it was not the best one for my own healing, recovery, or having future kids. While I began to grasp what was ahead of me, in a 15-minute span of having a normal check up to finding out our baby had died and I would still have to deliver him and then go home empty, I was doubly shocked that she would suggest that I would have more kids. Because while I don’t remember what I thought walking in, I clearly remember walking out and the only thing I was sure of is that I would never be here again. I would never put myself in a place to love someone and have so much anticipation and joy to meet them and love them for their whole life only to be told that it had ended before it could begin. I could not change what had happened, but I had to protect myself from allowing it to happen again. 

And that lasted about 24 hours. 

As the initial shock began to wear off, we weighed the few options we had. I could wait until I went into natural labor. But I didn’t think I would mentally, emotionally, and physically survive drawing this out until my body decided it was time. The c-section option was out because despite the immense pain I was in, I knew I had to love a baby again. My call to motherhood was not something I could protect myself from, even if it brought the caution and reality of loss. So after a day and a half of mourning and shock, we started labor the next morning.  Active labor began the following day and he was born after a relatively short labor. (And drug free – I’m proud of that fact! And have since gone straight for the epidural. But yay for my one!) The evening of Saturday, August 25, 2012, Josh and I, and our parents got to hold the baby we had waited so long – in the months of gestation and the hours of death. It was a glimpse of new life. Even through death. The 24 hours we spent with Josiah were filled with joy, beauty, and love. We had a naming and blessing service for him, took pictures, and held his little body. 

In the days ahead, we were surrounded by love and support (and food!) from family, friends, and the Wartburg community. We received cards of care, compassion, and shared heartbreak in the loss of Josiah’s life. We received notes even from people we knew, including the man Josh spent his morning with, and those we did not know who knew the pain of the death of a baby and we didn’t feel so alone as we joined the worst club ever. On August 31, we had a funeral for Josiah. I looked forward to this as a symbolized end of this stage of grief and at the same time deeply grieved the movement of time, putting more hours and days between the time that I had held Josiah. I could barely handle walking down the aisle and I remembered the pastor saying something to us about the times in the service where we say “stand as you are able” and that it is okay if we are not emotionally able to stand, and the rest of the people gathered will stand for us. And it came to the time when the Gospel was read before the sermon began. The story was from Mark 10, and the disciples tried to keep some children away from Jesus. Jesus is pissed (or indignant, as Mark more eloquently puts it) and tells the disciples and the crowd “Let the little children come to me; do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs.” As I heard these words, I felt an overwhelming presence of God. I cannot explain it other than knowing we would be okay and having a sense of peace like never before. 

The days, weeks, months, and years that we have lived after Josiah have been hard. There is always a sense of someone missing and that our family is just not complete. I dread when people ask me how many children I have because I honestly want to answer 2 out of 3. I hate denying Josiah’s life and death. 

As I look at the picture, I see a girl who had hope, excitement, and anticipation of the joy we were to meet. 

I still am part of that person. But I know things that I didn’t then. I had experienced death, grief, and the pain of missed loved ones. But nothing like this. There was no way to make it feel better with the clichés I had used before. I don’t believe that Josiah’s death was God’s plan. God’s plan is that we may have life and have it abundantly (John 10:10). I don’t believe that God needed another angel because frankly that makes little sense to me and is not in the character of who I know God to be. I don’t believe ‘everything happens for a reason’ similarly to why I don’t believe this was God’s plan or that Josiah had to die for some unknown reason. The reason he died because something physically happened to cause him to stop living. 

But somehow amongst all of the things I don’t know or don’t believe, I still know we are going to be okay. 

This okay I’m talking about is different than I think most people tend to understand. Obviously, Josiah is still dead and that will never feel “okay.” And I know someday we will all die, I know I will have to grieve the deaths of many more loved ones. And I lay awake at night most nights worrying about the things that could happen to the 2 of my 3 that are here, anything from something life threatening to someone being unkind to them. None of that is “okay.” But yet we go on. 

The okay I feel is eternal. The okay I feel is the comfort, peace, and hope that God is with us in our grief. The shortest verse in the Bible is “Jesus wept” and I think it says it all. I take comfort knowing that Jesus knows this pain and weeps with us. I also am reassured of God’s love as I dwell in the truth of the words from Josiah’s funeral “Let the little children come to me; do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs.” This kingdom of God holds God’s children, welcomes them, and loves them all. 

And that is more than okay. 

Whose Beauty Is It?

Yesterday something odd happened. I was at Panera and thought I was ordering my food. The cashier made a few corny jokes and then before I left said: “I hope your day is as beautiful as you are.” I didn’t say anything and just walked away a little puzzled about what had happened. (and also without my order number because he was too busy hitting on me to do his job) So as I sat there waiting for my sandwich I thought about what just happened and that has continued until now. 

Honestly, when he first said it, I felt creeped out, but I tried to be nice about it. I tried to tell myself, just take it as a compliment and go on, what’s it hurt to have some tell you you’re beautiful? 

When I was leaving I was validated in my gut feeling to be creeped out and somewhat violated as I ran into the gentleman again (he was coming back from break as I was leaving) and he saw me, smiled, and said: “fancy seeing you here.” Again I said nothing and walked away quickly thanking God that it was the middle of the day with people around and hoping that I never see this guy again. 

So now I’ve thought of this from many angles. Maybe he was just trying to be nice or trying to flirt with me so I’d be interested in seeing him again (so maybe he didn’t see the ring on my finger also). Maybe he took my niceness and smile as something more than me being a kind person. And maybe, or definitely, I should have said something back, because that is the part I have control over. 

Maybe I should have said something like “My beauty is not yours to comment on.” Because it’s not. I did not dress this way (a loose-fitting, high-collared shirt with a sweater) so that you may look at me and make an opinion. I did not fix my hair or put on make-up so that you could make lame jokes and then use a quick line like it should get you somewhere. 

Here’s the thing, my beauty is not yours to comment on and I am not an object for you to decide at face-value, beautiful or not. In mulling over this for the last 24 hours I’ve realized, beauty is an intimate thing. It’s mine to feel when I catch myself in the mirror between chasing after my two small children. It’s my husband’s to feel in those moments when you look at your love, amongst the mess of your day-to-day life and realize how much love you have for that person and how much beauty they bring to your world. It is my children’s to feel as they play with my hair, giggling as they cover and uncover my face to play peek-a-boo. It is God’s, as I am another part of creation, which was lovingly created in the image of God and in beauty and brokenness gets to be called child of God. 

It’s not for someone who doesn’t know my gifts, my passion, my love, or even my name. 

So later today, I will kindly call the manager to ask him to tell the cashier that I did not appreciate this, it made me uncomfortable, it was completely inappropriate, and I hope that this does not happen again, to myself, or others.