Category Archives: Parenting

Up to Down

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The girls and I went through a Jerry Seinfeld stage several years back, guffawing at his stand-up comedy and the DVDs of his shows. One of the jokes stuck with me, a clever commentary on children and parents:

 When you’re little, your life is up. The future is up. Everything you want is up.

“Wait up! Hold up! Shut up! Mom, I’ll clean up! Just let me stay…up!”

 Parents, of course, are just the opposite. Everything is down.

“Just calm down. Slow down. Come down here. Sit down. Put that… down!”

I would add one more “up” from a child’s point of view. “Everything I want to get my hands on is… up!”

Before my five grandchildren arrived in December, I babyproofed the house. But short of emptying rooms, I couldn’t hit 100%. I removed breakables and swallowable objects in every room from three feet and down but still heard, “What’s Evelyn chewing on? What’s Micah putting in his mouth?” We’ve removed barrettes, pieces of plastic, tiny bits of broken toys and blobs of sopped paper.

As the days passed, our toddlers became experts at extending their reach higher and higher. Not even the kitchen counters were a safe zone after they discovered a couple of plastic stools. Now the only out-of-reach spots are the mantle and the tops of bookcases, hutches and the refrigerator.

 Car keys, cell phones, ipods, DVDs, candles, phone chargers and other valuables have been heaped high in places we can barely reach. To the adults, it’s a slight inconvenience. To the children, it’s intense frustration. Their days are spent looking… up… and scheming ways to retrieve what looks so appealing from down-low.

The problem comes in having cross purposes. Our little ones judge themselves perfectly capable of properly handling the breakables while we know the truth, that their touch means death to valuables. Interestingly, when we provide substitutes, (toy phones or blank keys), they quickly learn the ploy and toss them aside.

Little children are to us what we are to God. When we look to him, it’s always “up”. He’s higher than we are in all categories, and his decisions to keep certain things out of our reach are always for our good. Just as our kids can’t understand why so many things have to be put up, we get frustrated when God doesn’t rescue us quickly or answer prayer our way. 

Unlike toddlers who whine and reach up indefinitely, I ought to acquiesce quickly and be willing to let the up’s stay up. Because when I’m gazing up with cravings, I’m missing what’s already come down from God, most significantly, Jesus himself. And one day he’ll come down again, triumphing over every evil. 

When the battles are over, a new heaven and earth will also come down. And when that happens, even the frsutrated toddlers will finally have everything they ever wanted.

“Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights.” (James 1:17)

Signature in Stone

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I’m about to sign a sheet of 8½ x 11 paper with strange words on it: incised, polished, beveled, sawn, washed, sandblasted. It’s a verbal description of Nate’s cemetery headstone.

Although he died 14 months ago, we weren’t able to focus on a grave marker until the one year anniversary. When we visited the cemetery then, suddenly it seemed imperative to order a headstone. As Nelson said, the one scriptural reference to an unmarked grave is negative: “Woe to you! For you are like unmarked graves, and people walk over them without knowing it.” (Luke 11:44)

As we stood at the foot of Nate’s grave, memories washed over us, and though it’s difficult to design a headstone, we all wanted to get it done. After discussing the possibilities with cemetery personnel then revisiting the site, we went home and put pen to paper.

Our M.O. was to join Nate’s grave to the six family plots adjacent to his. My paternal grandfather, who died ten years before I was born, was the purchaser of the original plot when his family unexpectedly needed a grave. Their little William was only 20 months old when he died of pneumonia, an illness cured by antibiotics today. His name is third-down on the stone, a strong declaration by his parents that he should have died after both of them.

William’s funeral took place at Rosehill Cemetery on a snowy December day, surely the saddest event in this young family’s history. My father, William’s oldest sibling, was 12 at the time, old enough to remember the tiny casket and his parents’ anguish. William’s father arranged to have a photograph taken of their deceased toddler before his burial, the only picture of the son they knew so briefly.

But this family’s story further saddens. The second name carved on the Johnson headstone is William’s mother, who died of TB 15 months after her baby, leaving a widower with three children. These courageous people are a group we want to publically be connected to by designing our nearby stone in similar fashion.

This week the cemetery envelope arrived in my mailbox. Knowing it contained a sketch of our stone, I waited to open it until I could put the visual into my head. Would it be difficult to look at it? Would it be a shock to see my own name there also? Would we be satisfied with our design?

Yes to all of that, difficult, shocking, but also satisfying. We made only one addition, a phrase of Scripture beneath the names as a testimony to the important role Jesus Christ played in the lives of those buried there.

After the headstone has been installed, I’ll eagerly look for the opportunity to rest my hand on its polished granite, look at my children and say (just as my folks said), “Someday you’ll bury me here, too. But remember, it’ll be a good day, because I’ll be with Jesus.”  I’ll point to the letters carved in stone that are from their father’s favorite Scripture, reminding them to keep their eyes fixed on Jesus.

After all, that’s the best possible guidance for any heartbroken person seated in a cemetery in front of a descending casket.

“Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus…” (Hebrews 12:1b-2a)

Illness: Round Two

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If we don’t laugh, we’ll cry. Come to think of it, there’s plenty of crying going on already.

 

Skylar, 2½, came alongside me as I washed dishes yesterday afternoon and tugged on my jeans. “Grandma Midgee? I don’t know what I should do next.”

I looked down at her pleading face and empathized 100%. As our family experiences a second wave of sickness different than the vomiting of recent weeks, none of us knows what to do in any given moment. It’s a sure thing that if we begin something, it’ll be aborted by the need to help someone in distress. So between efforts to calm and comfort, we stand and stare, wondering what to do next.

This time it’s fevers, headaches, coughs and colds. Eight month old Thomas, unhappy and unhealthy, spent time with a pediatrician today in an effort to get help. Was it croup? Bronchitis? Pneumonia? Strep? What was causing him to scream every 40 minutes throughout the night?

We’ve dug out the bulb syringe to aspirate clogged nostrils and administered maximum doses of baby pain relievers. Teething pain compounds crankiness, and babies aren’t the only ones out of sorts. Parents who get no sleep are in their own world of pain, especially if they’re sick, too.

This afternoon, as Hans waited for Katy to nurse Thomas before leaving for the doctor, he poured a cup of coffee. Plopping into a chair, his head dropped in sleep immediately, and the steaming mug began to lean toward his lap. I stood to retrieve it when Katy arrived, and Hans jumped to his feet before he could get even two minutes of rest.

We talked about the prayer of every young parent pleading for a good night’s rest. Despite their petitions, very few get a “yes” from God. Why is this?

One reason could be the nature of hands-on care, often a bonding time between parents and children, although none of us would choose it around the clock. Another reason might be the opportunity to practice servanthood up-close-and-personal. A third could be the forced giving up of rights.

Although these are spiritually relevant rationales as to why God might set up parenthood in this way, such training can become overpowering. The phrase “end of his/her rope” has come up several times at our house today.

And yet these four parents are passionate about helping their crying children. Being sleep-deprived doesn’t lessen their fervency to do right by them, which must be God’s gift, given even while he’s developing sacrificial character within them. I’m thankful they all recognize their children as created by God and sent specifically to them for purposes of eternal value. They are serious about their parenting and will, I am confident, prevail.

Little Thomas won the pediatrician’s heart today with his smiles, even as his eyes watered, his coughing was non-stop and he struggled to breathe. His illness turns out to be a virus that must run its course, but an injection has already helped him with breathing and nursing.

But as Thomas fell into the first solid sleep he’s had in days, his parents nearly giddy with delight, his twin Evelyn began to cough, clog and cry, the next virus victim. Linnea’s family is also under the weather, and all of us are wondering, who’s next?

As for Skylar, she thought of an answer to her question of what to do next. “Grandma Midgee, let’s go upstairs and have a dancing party in the hall!”

“I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me!” (Matthew 25:40)