It's so unnatural and yet so a part of life. The end. The beginning. Death.
Today I sat in our church at the memorial service of one of our members. She was 106 1/2. Yes. Over 106 years old. We solemnly awaited the start of the service and listened in reverent remembrance of a life well lived while songs were sung and words were spoken. And then we laughed as stories were shared about this amazing woman whose vibrance, wit, and enthusiasm in life inspired us all.
It was a celebration that she is no longer bound by a body that was failing her. A celebration that she lived life to the fullest. Despite the fact that she had outlived anyone her age, the church was full of people from age 4 to 98 of people who were touched by the love she poured out. Friends she continued to make as death separated her from so many of her friends. I can only imagine the reunion that awaited her!
As I watched from my seat toward the back, the service started and her casket was wheeled into the sanctuary and placed at center front. The bright chrome on the casket made my mind flash back 15 years and 63 days. The casket then was black, not powder blue. The flowers were white, not pinks and purples. The lighting was darker, and the stage filled with high school seniors singing. Singing the songs I said should be sung: In His Time and This is My Father's World. Because those were the songs we sung around the piano when we were little.
That day.
I wonder if I'll ever go to a funeral in my church and not flash back to some memory of that day, tucked away in the depths, covered, mercifully, by dusty mental cobwebs. They surface and I look them over, remember the moments, feel again the pang though more distant now than it first was, and I tuck them away again.
As I watched the service today unfold, I couldn't help but compare the two. The tones were so very different. This one a strange sort of celebration, a life long and well lived, an expected and even anticipated end. That one a nightmare, a life cut short before it had a chance to really take off, a tragedy that caught us all off guard. She was 106 1/2. He was just 10 days shy of 18 years.
The chrome takes me back.
I'm only 30, but in my life thus far, most of the funerals I've attended have been for situations more similar to the latter - young lives, tragic deaths, funerals planned by parents or family who should have been long gone before these cherished individuals were buried. The stillborn, the teen car accident, the young cancer patient, the Christmas car accident, the skiing accident, and the one just a year ago today.
A year ago a child was sick, just a virus of some kind, the normal kind. (Did I mention both of my babies have a virus of some kind today?) A child tucked safely in bed, asleep, resting so her little body could heal. (It's evening. And we are tucking our babies into bed so their little bodies can rest and heal.) Except her body did not heal.
And my heart cries out, screams in my chest, WHYYYY? Why did that happen? And please, PLEASE GOD, don't let it happen again!
No one knows what this night will hold. Tragedies happen all over the world each day. I'm privileged that so few have happened closely around me. But the weight of the day, the weight of death is heavy on me.
Jesus wept. It's the shortest verse in the Bible, and often it's pointed out as a comfort, that Christ felt the pain of death too as He walked on this earth. But for me, tonight, the only comfort I find is that to weep over death isn't a sin. If Christ did it, and He was sinless, then sorrow is no sin.
I know Jesus conquered death and that is a wonderfully comforting truth. At today's service we sang Victory in Jesus. It's an upbeat, toe-tapping hymn about the victory we have if we know Christ. I know Christ. I know Him well. So well, in fact, that some might call Him my crutch.
Especially on nights like this where the day's weight is piled heavy on my shoulders as I sit and reflect, He is not my crutch. He's more than that. He is the only thing that carries me through as I cling desperately to Him.
A year ago, I was angry, I didn't understand, I threw a toddler-style temper tantrum on the floor of the Throne Room. And then I crawled up into the lap of the God whose ways I do not understand and rest in the truth that He is sovereign and He understands and He is in control.
Tonight as I listen for my babies through the monitor, I have to stop myself from rushing in to check on them. I close my eyes. I see myself carrying my children. I slip through the massive double doors. I walk with them up the long royal carpet. I approach that intimidating figure: the God who created the world; the God whose Son conquered death; the God who miraculously cares about me. I step up to the Throne. And I lay my babies into His lap. I cannot protect them any more than I already have. I have done all that I can. I cannot ensure their safety or their next breath. For that matter, nor can I be sure of mine. So I crawl up too, and ask my husband to join as we rest, peacefully, in the arms of our Lord.
Here in His arms, "why" doesn't seem so important. Here in His arms, I will rest tonight, in these arms of the one who conquered that vile thing: death.
Saturday, November 22, 2014
Sunday, November 16, 2014
It's a BOY!
A week ago we got a new member of the family - a kitten. It is black and super fluffy and came to us by a series of unfortunate events that turned out most fortunate for us in the end.
You see, my sister's cat snuck out of my mom's house about 3 1/2 weeks ago. She's not the smartest cat (although perfect in every other way) and definitely not an outdoor cat in any way, so when Puff went missing and didn't return within a few days, we started grieving. Then, about 2 weeks into Puff's disappearance, my mom heard about a stray kitten that some friends had picked up, and they could no longer keep the kitten. One of their 3 dogs tried to eat it. So Lily and I went with Mom to check out the kitten. It was a total keeper! Great with kids, good with other animals (as long as they didn't try to eat it), and at the perfect fun stage of being litter trained and able to eat dry kitten food, but still adorable and SO fluffy!
So Mom took the kitten home on a Tuesday night. We visited the kitten Wednesday, and then Mom had my kids Thursday and Friday because Chase and I were out of town.
Friday afternoon I got the call: Puff was back. PUFF WAS BACK!!!!! Skin, bones, and fur; dehydrated; dirty; back. SO exciting!!!
But this meant my mom now had 3 cats - my brother's cat, my sister's cat, and the kitten. She likes cats, but 3 seemed excessive. We didn't think we would be able to take the kitten, because we rent for now, and cats aren't permitted. But we took the question to our landlords, who graciously agreed to let us keep the kitten! ...as long as the kitten did NO damage. And amazingly, this kitten has done NONE.
That was a week ago, and what a marvelous week it has been! Lily christened our little kitten, "Whitaker." The only "problem" with the kitten is that it is SO fluffy, it's impossible for a non-vet to tell whether it's a boy or a girl. Our friends took it to the vet soon after they picked it up and before the dog tried to eat it, and their vets office was split. One vet thought it was a boy, one vet thought it was a girl. The verdict at that time was, "You'll have to wait and see."
So we took it to our vet yesterday. And, as you have probably guessed from the title of this post, the answer was definitive (though it did take some effort to arrive at): kitten is a BOY!!!
Which for us was a relief! I mean, Whitaker is totally a boy's name. But all week we'd been calling Whitaker "her," mostly because all of the cats I grew up with all through my life were girls. So we've spent the last two days retraining ourselves to use the pronouns, "he" and "him" and "his" when referring to the little fur ball.
Yesterday after the visit to the vet, I had this conversation with my 3 year old daughter while we were on the way home:
Lily: Mommy, is Whitaker a boy or a girl?
Me: He's a boy.
L: But I think he's a girl, Mom.
Me: But, honey, the vet looked and told us he is a boy.
L: But I want him to be a girl.
Me: Well, you know how God made you a girl and me a girl, and God made daddy and your brother and Frazier (our dog) boys?
L: Yeah.
Me: God made Whitaker a boy. We don't get to just choose. God made him a boy.
That is the conversation I really had with my 3 year old.
All this build up brings me to what I really want to write about. Actually, I don't want to write about it, because it's touchy, and weird, and it makes people crazy. I'm not trying to offend or frustrate or condemn or alienate anyone. But I do need to write this. For myself. For my kids. For my family. For my future.
I have a huge problem with the transgender movement telling everyone, eventually trying to tell my kids, that they can select their gender.
Before I go any further, let me again say, I am NOT out to cause more pain! For goodness sake! Anyone who is in a position of physically being one gender and feeling like they are the other is enduring serious pain and heartache. And if that's you, I hurt for you! I am sorry that you are facing this very difficult situation, and I pray that you find help and healing. And if that's you, you will have to find help and healing in a way that truly heals you. I mean that. And with what I'm going to say next, I don't want you to hear that I know how you'll find healing. I don't. I'm no expert on such things at all.
But I do know one thing: true healing doesn't come through believing lies.
True healing, the real deal, the kind that lasts, comes always, ALWAYS with the foundation of truth.
So, let's get back to my conversation with my 3 year old. Let's imagine that she's not 3 anymore, but 13 or 23. And let's imagine that we're not having the conversation about her kitten, but about her friend, or about her.
(I pray that she doesn't struggle with this herself, and I pray that her friends don't either, but in this day and age, I have to face the reality that I need to equip her and all of my children to deal with these questions. Because if I don't, someone else will. And while I will do my best to help her reason through things and search always for truth, someone else might simply tell her what to think. And if she doesn't know how to discern if their answer has a foundation of truth, then she might believe lies, and that could cause her a lifetime of agony. I desperately want to help her avoid that.)
Last week, there were moments when I really felt like Whitaker was a girl. His little personality is so sweet and cuddly. He has exactly the perfect temperament to put up with my littles who are "learning" what "gentle!" means. I'd look in his eyes and somehow imagine him as a her. So strongly did I have this feeling that I ordered a purple collar for the kitten. Not that only girls wear purple, but in my head, he was a female cat and needed a purple collar as opposed to blue or green.
While what I felt about the kitten affected what I put around his neck and which pronoun I called him on a regular basis, it doesn't change the fact that genetically, he is a male. (PS We're keeping the purple collar, because purple isn't a boy color or a girl color. It's a color and it's a pretty color for a collar!)
My mom admitted that if she had kept the kitten, she would have wanted him to be a girl. Her other two cats are females. Mom is a female. They kind of have an all-female thing going for them in the house. Adding a male cat seemed out of place.
But despite what Mom wanted to be true about the kitten (that he would be a girl), it turns out that Whitaker is a boy.
I read an article on the Matt Walsh Blog a while back that, while more crude and aggressive than I tend to be, I totally agreed with. It was titled You are born a man or a woman. You don't get to choose.
In the article, Matt talks about a male who has a transgender surgery and takes hormone replacement therapy, to achieve a feminine physique, and then fights in a female combat competition of some sort (not really my kind of entertainment, so I'm sorry if I'm butchering the lingo). The transgender movement was thrilled by the fact that thisman woman person beat the tar out of his/her female competitor. But when it really comes down to it, the truth is that the DNA of this person is male, no matter how he changes the outside or how many hormones he pumps into his body to change the tissues inside.
(Have you ever been on hormone therapy of any kind? I've been on birth control and coming off of it was a nightmare! Again, these surgeries and medications and therapies that are part of the transgender choice are NOT fun. I believe that a person must be hurting very VERY badly to make the choice to undergo all that physical pain. I am so sorry that these people are hurting so badly! But the truth remains... or does it?)
I used to think that if something could be scientifically tested and proven true over and over again via the scientific method, then we could all agree about it. So let's talk blood draws. There is a blood test, used at this time very rarely, for moms in the very early stages of pregnancy whereby the mother can learn the gender of her baby. Except, I guess, if the doctor tells the mother she is having a boy, and the mother really wants a girl, then the mother can simply change the baby's gender because of her own desire?
But I'm sure that's not acceptable in any ideology, because that would be impressing the mother's view on the baby. So perhaps it's instead that the baby should get to determine their gender after they're born? But at what age do we start believing them? My 3 year old switches back and forth between telling me she's a girl and telling me she's a boy sometimes 20 times a day. When do we settle on one if we don't go with what DNA tells us?
(Side note - it's strange to me that all of this transgender movement is hitting at the same time as the "Gender Reveal" fad. I mean, finding out if you're having a boy or a girl at about 20 weeks gestation is HUGE! There are reveal parties, reveal pictures, the ultrasound tech hiding the gender picture in an envelope so the parents can learn it at a set time. So you get super pumped to have your boy, and then at age [whenever he can talk and express his opinion otherwise] he gets to decide he's a girl?)
I read this article a few years ago, and it just struck me as weird: Parents keep child's gender a secret
The effort these parents go to in order to "not have their child defined by what's between the child's legs" is amazing. And to each their own. This parenting thing is wicked hard! But I can't imagine the amount of effort it would take to NOT share my child's gender in those first weeks. To be honest, their little butt cheeks are out more than in with all the pooping they do in those first hours, days and weeks.
And while I disagree with much of their parenting philosophies, I'm sort of with these parents in that toys and colors do not a gender make. If my boy wants to play with dolls, he will be able to. If my daughter is inclined to wear blue and push cars around, that would be ok with me.
To help those around me (and because I think they're cute and because someone has to make a decision about what they wear - I'm the Mom, so I guess that decision rests on me) I dress my boy in the mostly "boy" colors of blue and green. And my girl has a mind of her own, and it is definitively set on pink, and sparkle, and pretty, and twirly. She ranks skirts and dresses based on their "twirl-ability factor." I didn't do that to her - I try to dress her in things that don't twirl (and consequently don't require tights on a 15 degree day). She wants tights and sparkle and twirl. (Unless she wants to tromp through the snow. Then she wants boots rather than sparkle shoes, but only because my requirement is that if she's stomping through snow, she must be wearing boots.)
But not acknowledging that what is "between my child's legs" in some way defines who they are? That seems... well... naive? foolish? a lie.
My babies do not have to fit any mold but their own. They are unique individuals, created as one-of-a-kind. One of my all-time favorite kids books is On the Night You Were Born. It has a line in it that I just love, "...there had never been anyone like you ever in the world..." The book's simple verse speaks to the uniqueness of every child. That Heaven rejoiced with each birth, with your birth. And while each of us and each of my babies is unique, we all must figure out who we are.
We each have to look somewhere for the answer to that very difficult question: "Who am I?" We look to our families, to our jobs, to our schools, to our teachers, to our peers, to our pets, to our clothes, to our doctors, to our toys, to our preferences, to our television, to our computer/iPhone/Kindle/electronics, a million places to answer that question. And everywhere we look, we find answers.
Our families tell us we are wanted, or maybe we aren't. Our jobs tell us we are successful, or maybe we're not. Our schools and teachers tell us we're smart, or maybe we're stupid. Everyone, everywhere had ideas about who I am, who you are, who my babies are.
But I am responsible for figuring out who I am, and figuring out who I'm going to believe when I am told something about myself. How do I do that? Where is the plumb line of truth? How do I know that I'm building my beliefs about myself on the firm foundation of truth? And the answers to these last three questions help determine how I will set an example for my babies to follow - they will learn how to figure out who they are based on how I figure out who I am.
Sometimes, when life gets confusing, going back to the basics is the only thing to do. I check my body structure. According to the classification systems we have in this life, I can confirm that I am human. I check my medical records of blood tests, urine samples, physical exams. Indeed, I am female.
If I didn't want to look female, I could cut my hair, change my clothes, take hormone therapy, even have a gender change operation. But changing my DNA. That can't be done. The fact would remain that I am still, always, female.
I know that there are cases, RARE cases in which gender is complicated. And you know what, I've wondered what I would do if my child was born "intersex" (or ambiguous genetalia). The answer is that I don't know what I would do. That is hard. I don't have an answer for that at all. And if that ever were to happen, I would figure that out at that time.
But what I do know is that in most, MOST cases, there is a clear gender that can be determined by a quick "diaper check" or a blood test. And even when it can't be determined that simply, even in those rare cases, there is STILL a classification that those individuals fall into, and at the very least, I would help my child find part of their identity in that.
Why do we question gender? To me it seems like the most basic, most simple truth. So when my 3 year old asks me, "Mommy, am I a boy or a girl?" I respond instantly, "You are a girl."
I want this unchanging truth firmly embedded in her adorable head right along side the, "I love you" truth.
So much in this life is questioned. There is uncertainty all around us. Let's not try to add gray shades to things that are so obviously and simply black and white. Please? For me. For my babies. For my family. For the future. And, you know what? For you. Because you deserve to know who you are on a most basic level.
Welcome to the family Whitaker. We're so glad you're a boy.
You see, my sister's cat snuck out of my mom's house about 3 1/2 weeks ago. She's not the smartest cat (although perfect in every other way) and definitely not an outdoor cat in any way, so when Puff went missing and didn't return within a few days, we started grieving. Then, about 2 weeks into Puff's disappearance, my mom heard about a stray kitten that some friends had picked up, and they could no longer keep the kitten. One of their 3 dogs tried to eat it. So Lily and I went with Mom to check out the kitten. It was a total keeper! Great with kids, good with other animals (as long as they didn't try to eat it), and at the perfect fun stage of being litter trained and able to eat dry kitten food, but still adorable and SO fluffy!
So Mom took the kitten home on a Tuesday night. We visited the kitten Wednesday, and then Mom had my kids Thursday and Friday because Chase and I were out of town.
Friday afternoon I got the call: Puff was back. PUFF WAS BACK!!!!! Skin, bones, and fur; dehydrated; dirty; back. SO exciting!!!
But this meant my mom now had 3 cats - my brother's cat, my sister's cat, and the kitten. She likes cats, but 3 seemed excessive. We didn't think we would be able to take the kitten, because we rent for now, and cats aren't permitted. But we took the question to our landlords, who graciously agreed to let us keep the kitten! ...as long as the kitten did NO damage. And amazingly, this kitten has done NONE.
That was a week ago, and what a marvelous week it has been! Lily christened our little kitten, "Whitaker." The only "problem" with the kitten is that it is SO fluffy, it's impossible for a non-vet to tell whether it's a boy or a girl. Our friends took it to the vet soon after they picked it up and before the dog tried to eat it, and their vets office was split. One vet thought it was a boy, one vet thought it was a girl. The verdict at that time was, "You'll have to wait and see."
So we took it to our vet yesterday. And, as you have probably guessed from the title of this post, the answer was definitive (though it did take some effort to arrive at): kitten is a BOY!!!
Which for us was a relief! I mean, Whitaker is totally a boy's name. But all week we'd been calling Whitaker "her," mostly because all of the cats I grew up with all through my life were girls. So we've spent the last two days retraining ourselves to use the pronouns, "he" and "him" and "his" when referring to the little fur ball.
Yesterday after the visit to the vet, I had this conversation with my 3 year old daughter while we were on the way home:
Lily: Mommy, is Whitaker a boy or a girl?
Me: He's a boy.
L: But I think he's a girl, Mom.
Me: But, honey, the vet looked and told us he is a boy.
L: But I want him to be a girl.
Me: Well, you know how God made you a girl and me a girl, and God made daddy and your brother and Frazier (our dog) boys?
L: Yeah.
Me: God made Whitaker a boy. We don't get to just choose. God made him a boy.
That is the conversation I really had with my 3 year old.
All this build up brings me to what I really want to write about. Actually, I don't want to write about it, because it's touchy, and weird, and it makes people crazy. I'm not trying to offend or frustrate or condemn or alienate anyone. But I do need to write this. For myself. For my kids. For my family. For my future.
I have a huge problem with the transgender movement telling everyone, eventually trying to tell my kids, that they can select their gender.
Before I go any further, let me again say, I am NOT out to cause more pain! For goodness sake! Anyone who is in a position of physically being one gender and feeling like they are the other is enduring serious pain and heartache. And if that's you, I hurt for you! I am sorry that you are facing this very difficult situation, and I pray that you find help and healing. And if that's you, you will have to find help and healing in a way that truly heals you. I mean that. And with what I'm going to say next, I don't want you to hear that I know how you'll find healing. I don't. I'm no expert on such things at all.
But I do know one thing: true healing doesn't come through believing lies.
True healing, the real deal, the kind that lasts, comes always, ALWAYS with the foundation of truth.
So, let's get back to my conversation with my 3 year old. Let's imagine that she's not 3 anymore, but 13 or 23. And let's imagine that we're not having the conversation about her kitten, but about her friend, or about her.
(I pray that she doesn't struggle with this herself, and I pray that her friends don't either, but in this day and age, I have to face the reality that I need to equip her and all of my children to deal with these questions. Because if I don't, someone else will. And while I will do my best to help her reason through things and search always for truth, someone else might simply tell her what to think. And if she doesn't know how to discern if their answer has a foundation of truth, then she might believe lies, and that could cause her a lifetime of agony. I desperately want to help her avoid that.)
Last week, there were moments when I really felt like Whitaker was a girl. His little personality is so sweet and cuddly. He has exactly the perfect temperament to put up with my littles who are "learning" what "gentle!" means. I'd look in his eyes and somehow imagine him as a her. So strongly did I have this feeling that I ordered a purple collar for the kitten. Not that only girls wear purple, but in my head, he was a female cat and needed a purple collar as opposed to blue or green.
While what I felt about the kitten affected what I put around his neck and which pronoun I called him on a regular basis, it doesn't change the fact that genetically, he is a male. (PS We're keeping the purple collar, because purple isn't a boy color or a girl color. It's a color and it's a pretty color for a collar!)
My mom admitted that if she had kept the kitten, she would have wanted him to be a girl. Her other two cats are females. Mom is a female. They kind of have an all-female thing going for them in the house. Adding a male cat seemed out of place.
But despite what Mom wanted to be true about the kitten (that he would be a girl), it turns out that Whitaker is a boy.
I read an article on the Matt Walsh Blog a while back that, while more crude and aggressive than I tend to be, I totally agreed with. It was titled You are born a man or a woman. You don't get to choose.
In the article, Matt talks about a male who has a transgender surgery and takes hormone replacement therapy, to achieve a feminine physique, and then fights in a female combat competition of some sort (not really my kind of entertainment, so I'm sorry if I'm butchering the lingo). The transgender movement was thrilled by the fact that this
(Have you ever been on hormone therapy of any kind? I've been on birth control and coming off of it was a nightmare! Again, these surgeries and medications and therapies that are part of the transgender choice are NOT fun. I believe that a person must be hurting very VERY badly to make the choice to undergo all that physical pain. I am so sorry that these people are hurting so badly! But the truth remains... or does it?)
I used to think that if something could be scientifically tested and proven true over and over again via the scientific method, then we could all agree about it. So let's talk blood draws. There is a blood test, used at this time very rarely, for moms in the very early stages of pregnancy whereby the mother can learn the gender of her baby. Except, I guess, if the doctor tells the mother she is having a boy, and the mother really wants a girl, then the mother can simply change the baby's gender because of her own desire?
But I'm sure that's not acceptable in any ideology, because that would be impressing the mother's view on the baby. So perhaps it's instead that the baby should get to determine their gender after they're born? But at what age do we start believing them? My 3 year old switches back and forth between telling me she's a girl and telling me she's a boy sometimes 20 times a day. When do we settle on one if we don't go with what DNA tells us?
(Side note - it's strange to me that all of this transgender movement is hitting at the same time as the "Gender Reveal" fad. I mean, finding out if you're having a boy or a girl at about 20 weeks gestation is HUGE! There are reveal parties, reveal pictures, the ultrasound tech hiding the gender picture in an envelope so the parents can learn it at a set time. So you get super pumped to have your boy, and then at age [whenever he can talk and express his opinion otherwise] he gets to decide he's a girl?)
I read this article a few years ago, and it just struck me as weird: Parents keep child's gender a secret
The effort these parents go to in order to "not have their child defined by what's between the child's legs" is amazing. And to each their own. This parenting thing is wicked hard! But I can't imagine the amount of effort it would take to NOT share my child's gender in those first weeks. To be honest, their little butt cheeks are out more than in with all the pooping they do in those first hours, days and weeks.
And while I disagree with much of their parenting philosophies, I'm sort of with these parents in that toys and colors do not a gender make. If my boy wants to play with dolls, he will be able to. If my daughter is inclined to wear blue and push cars around, that would be ok with me.
To help those around me (and because I think they're cute and because someone has to make a decision about what they wear - I'm the Mom, so I guess that decision rests on me) I dress my boy in the mostly "boy" colors of blue and green. And my girl has a mind of her own, and it is definitively set on pink, and sparkle, and pretty, and twirly. She ranks skirts and dresses based on their "twirl-ability factor." I didn't do that to her - I try to dress her in things that don't twirl (and consequently don't require tights on a 15 degree day). She wants tights and sparkle and twirl. (Unless she wants to tromp through the snow. Then she wants boots rather than sparkle shoes, but only because my requirement is that if she's stomping through snow, she must be wearing boots.)
But not acknowledging that what is "between my child's legs" in some way defines who they are? That seems... well... naive? foolish? a lie.
My babies do not have to fit any mold but their own. They are unique individuals, created as one-of-a-kind. One of my all-time favorite kids books is On the Night You Were Born. It has a line in it that I just love, "...there had never been anyone like you ever in the world..." The book's simple verse speaks to the uniqueness of every child. That Heaven rejoiced with each birth, with your birth. And while each of us and each of my babies is unique, we all must figure out who we are.
We each have to look somewhere for the answer to that very difficult question: "Who am I?" We look to our families, to our jobs, to our schools, to our teachers, to our peers, to our pets, to our clothes, to our doctors, to our toys, to our preferences, to our television, to our computer/iPhone/Kindle/electronics, a million places to answer that question. And everywhere we look, we find answers.
Our families tell us we are wanted, or maybe we aren't. Our jobs tell us we are successful, or maybe we're not. Our schools and teachers tell us we're smart, or maybe we're stupid. Everyone, everywhere had ideas about who I am, who you are, who my babies are.
But I am responsible for figuring out who I am, and figuring out who I'm going to believe when I am told something about myself. How do I do that? Where is the plumb line of truth? How do I know that I'm building my beliefs about myself on the firm foundation of truth? And the answers to these last three questions help determine how I will set an example for my babies to follow - they will learn how to figure out who they are based on how I figure out who I am.
Sometimes, when life gets confusing, going back to the basics is the only thing to do. I check my body structure. According to the classification systems we have in this life, I can confirm that I am human. I check my medical records of blood tests, urine samples, physical exams. Indeed, I am female.
If I didn't want to look female, I could cut my hair, change my clothes, take hormone therapy, even have a gender change operation. But changing my DNA. That can't be done. The fact would remain that I am still, always, female.
I know that there are cases, RARE cases in which gender is complicated. And you know what, I've wondered what I would do if my child was born "intersex" (or ambiguous genetalia). The answer is that I don't know what I would do. That is hard. I don't have an answer for that at all. And if that ever were to happen, I would figure that out at that time.
But what I do know is that in most, MOST cases, there is a clear gender that can be determined by a quick "diaper check" or a blood test. And even when it can't be determined that simply, even in those rare cases, there is STILL a classification that those individuals fall into, and at the very least, I would help my child find part of their identity in that.
Why do we question gender? To me it seems like the most basic, most simple truth. So when my 3 year old asks me, "Mommy, am I a boy or a girl?" I respond instantly, "You are a girl."
I want this unchanging truth firmly embedded in her adorable head right along side the, "I love you" truth.
So much in this life is questioned. There is uncertainty all around us. Let's not try to add gray shades to things that are so obviously and simply black and white. Please? For me. For my babies. For my family. For the future. And, you know what? For you. Because you deserve to know who you are on a most basic level.
Welcome to the family Whitaker. We're so glad you're a boy.
Saturday, November 8, 2014
30 and counting
In 40 minutes I will no longer be in my 20's. It hasn't (thus far) been a hard thing to wrap my head around. Honestly, #23 was the hardest birthday I've had yet - definitely the closest thing I've had to some sort of "mid-life-crisis" happened then.
Far from a crisis of any kind, my 20's have been, on the whole, marvelous. Chase asked me yesterday, or maybe it was this morning, what was left to do on my 20's bucket list. I couldn't think of a single thing.
I got married at 20.
I graduated from college.
I got a fantastic job after graduation.
I went to grad school and got my M.A. in American Government.
We lived in Washington, DC.
We moved home to Nebraska.
We have our Lily and Connor.
We have the blessing of a strong network of support from our friends and family.
We are learning more all the time about who God is and how He draws us closer to Him all the time.
I've read some fabulous books.
I've read some books I didn't think were fabulous, but I got them checked off my list.
I have had jobs in the past and have a job now where I get to do different things all the time, where I'm constantly stretching and growing, and where I can make a contribution to my family and my community by working.
I have met and even spent time with a few famous people.
And most recently, we got a kitty!
You know, it's a silly little thing, the kitty. When I was little, like 3, I had a kitten named Whitney. A yellow tabby who adored me. I would stuff Whitney in my pillowcase (with my pillow) and Whitney would stay there until I got him out to play with again. Mom remembers that all of my shirts from the summer of Whitney were snagged, because the I would carry around my kitty and he would cling for dear life to the front of my shirt. And when I was done carrying him, I'd rip him off my shirt and put him down.
Whitney died after maybe a year. The victim of a car incident as I recall. So there came a long stream of Whitneys to follow. All yellow tabbys, all named Whitney, all meeting unfortunate ends early in the relationship. I remember coming home one day and there was a shoebox on our front porch and on it was a note of apology from our neighbor. Whitney the 4th (or maybe 5th... I can't really remember). After about 7 Whitneys, my brother brought home a gray kitten for me one fall evening. She was a 'fraidy cat for sure! She hid anywhere she could find, but you know, I had her clear until I was in college.
Misty Minerva Rotten Ralph Deichmann was her full name that sort of grew up organically over the years. But we just called her Ralphie most of the time. She was our family's cat, but she was really my cat. She wasn't brave really at all, but she was so good. She'd hide if there were strange or scary noises (like the iron hissing with steam, or the toilet flushing, or any number of other daily noises). But she loved to snuggle, especially at night while I read.
One of my favorite Ralphie stories was when there was a ninja mouse in my room. You think I'm making it up, but I saw, and vividly remember, hearing the faint scratching noise that only a mouse can make when it walks. It was directly to my right as I sat in bed, coming from somewhere on or near my nightstand. I tried to ignore it. Tried to pretend it didn't exist. Until I couldn't ignore it any more, and I looked to my right. Ninja mouse hurled himself from the edge of my lamp shade toward me on the bed!
I don't remember how I got out of my room, but my 14 year old self managed a speedy escape. I closed the door behind me and told Mom we had to put Ralphie in my room to catch Ninja mouse. She said we could do that, but she also recommended putting a mouse trap in there. I put Raphie in, she put the trap in, and I slept on the couch that night.
The next morning I cautiously opened the door a crack and peeked in. There stood Ralphie, proudly holding Ninja mouse in her mouth... Ninja mouse who was dead trapped in the mouse trap. She was so brave! (PS Good call on the mousetrap, Mom. I'm not sure I've ever thanked you for doing that. Genius. Though I'm sure if the trap hadn't been there, Ralphie would have pulled through. Nice not to have to put the pressure on her, though.)
I didn't really intend for this to become a blog about cats, but I guess that's what I want to write about now that I'm almostold no longer young ancient 30.
Today we got a kitty. It sort of just happened to us and we weren't expecting it at all, which is really the best kind of situation sometimes. It started about 2 1/2 weeks ago when my sister's cat, Puff (Princess Persia Pufftail to be precise) who lives with my mom, went missing. Now, Puff is something of awimp ditzy ...let's just say she's an indoor kitty. She's about 6 of 8 years old, and has lived most of her life indoors (barring the few times she got out and got stuck in trees or bushes). So when she must have snuck out and she definitely disappeared, we were all a bit concerned. She's declawed in the front, so her chances of catching something to eat were slim to none.
She'd been missing over a week when Mom found out about a stray kitten who had been rescued by some friends. The kitten needed a home, and the kitten passed the "Lily test." Lily stays one day a week with Mom, and any kitten Mom got had to do well with a 3-year old who loves kittens. Stray kitty passed the test. So Mom kept the kitty for about 4 days when, lo and behold, after over 2 weeks, Puff returned! We were SOOOOO excited! But now...
Now my mom had not only the new kitten, and Puff, but also my brother's cat, Kuzco. She didn't really like the thought of being a 3 cat household, especially when Kuz and Puff "roared" at the kitten all the time. (At least, that's what Lily calls it.) So we did a little talking about it, evaluated the options, and viola! We now have a kitten!
Honestly, I can't think of a better present for my 30th than a kitten. It's probably going to be more Lily's cat, but it's sleeping on my shoulder as I type. We've played and played today since we got it. (We don't know yet whether it's a boy or girl. It's black and so fluffy you simply can't tell!) But Lily picked out its name: Whitaker. Funny she picked that from the list of about 8 that we gave her. My first kitty's name was Whitney. Her's is Whitaker.
Beyond an unexpected and incredibly pleasant kitten, I have also gotten a night away with my husband, a jumping-out-of-Grandma's-arms-welcome-home from my son, a day of shared kitty delight with my daughter, and a million other blessings. I'm actually a bit overwhelmed at how very blessed I am at only 30! What a marvelous life I have.
In 3 minutes, my 20's will be over. Here's to hoping my 30's are even more amazing!
Far from a crisis of any kind, my 20's have been, on the whole, marvelous. Chase asked me yesterday, or maybe it was this morning, what was left to do on my 20's bucket list. I couldn't think of a single thing.
I got married at 20.
I graduated from college.
I got a fantastic job after graduation.
I went to grad school and got my M.A. in American Government.
We lived in Washington, DC.
We moved home to Nebraska.
We have our Lily and Connor.
We have the blessing of a strong network of support from our friends and family.
We are learning more all the time about who God is and how He draws us closer to Him all the time.
I've read some fabulous books.
I've read some books I didn't think were fabulous, but I got them checked off my list.
I have had jobs in the past and have a job now where I get to do different things all the time, where I'm constantly stretching and growing, and where I can make a contribution to my family and my community by working.
I have met and even spent time with a few famous people.
And most recently, we got a kitty!
You know, it's a silly little thing, the kitty. When I was little, like 3, I had a kitten named Whitney. A yellow tabby who adored me. I would stuff Whitney in my pillowcase (with my pillow) and Whitney would stay there until I got him out to play with again. Mom remembers that all of my shirts from the summer of Whitney were snagged, because the I would carry around my kitty and he would cling for dear life to the front of my shirt. And when I was done carrying him, I'd rip him off my shirt and put him down.
Whitney died after maybe a year. The victim of a car incident as I recall. So there came a long stream of Whitneys to follow. All yellow tabbys, all named Whitney, all meeting unfortunate ends early in the relationship. I remember coming home one day and there was a shoebox on our front porch and on it was a note of apology from our neighbor. Whitney the 4th (or maybe 5th... I can't really remember). After about 7 Whitneys, my brother brought home a gray kitten for me one fall evening. She was a 'fraidy cat for sure! She hid anywhere she could find, but you know, I had her clear until I was in college.
Misty Minerva Rotten Ralph Deichmann was her full name that sort of grew up organically over the years. But we just called her Ralphie most of the time. She was our family's cat, but she was really my cat. She wasn't brave really at all, but she was so good. She'd hide if there were strange or scary noises (like the iron hissing with steam, or the toilet flushing, or any number of other daily noises). But she loved to snuggle, especially at night while I read.
One of my favorite Ralphie stories was when there was a ninja mouse in my room. You think I'm making it up, but I saw, and vividly remember, hearing the faint scratching noise that only a mouse can make when it walks. It was directly to my right as I sat in bed, coming from somewhere on or near my nightstand. I tried to ignore it. Tried to pretend it didn't exist. Until I couldn't ignore it any more, and I looked to my right. Ninja mouse hurled himself from the edge of my lamp shade toward me on the bed!
I don't remember how I got out of my room, but my 14 year old self managed a speedy escape. I closed the door behind me and told Mom we had to put Ralphie in my room to catch Ninja mouse. She said we could do that, but she also recommended putting a mouse trap in there. I put Raphie in, she put the trap in, and I slept on the couch that night.
The next morning I cautiously opened the door a crack and peeked in. There stood Ralphie, proudly holding Ninja mouse in her mouth... Ninja mouse who was dead trapped in the mouse trap. She was so brave! (PS Good call on the mousetrap, Mom. I'm not sure I've ever thanked you for doing that. Genius. Though I'm sure if the trap hadn't been there, Ralphie would have pulled through. Nice not to have to put the pressure on her, though.)
I didn't really intend for this to become a blog about cats, but I guess that's what I want to write about now that I'm almost
Today we got a kitty. It sort of just happened to us and we weren't expecting it at all, which is really the best kind of situation sometimes. It started about 2 1/2 weeks ago when my sister's cat, Puff (Princess Persia Pufftail to be precise) who lives with my mom, went missing. Now, Puff is something of a
She'd been missing over a week when Mom found out about a stray kitten who had been rescued by some friends. The kitten needed a home, and the kitten passed the "Lily test." Lily stays one day a week with Mom, and any kitten Mom got had to do well with a 3-year old who loves kittens. Stray kitty passed the test. So Mom kept the kitty for about 4 days when, lo and behold, after over 2 weeks, Puff returned! We were SOOOOO excited! But now...
Now my mom had not only the new kitten, and Puff, but also my brother's cat, Kuzco. She didn't really like the thought of being a 3 cat household, especially when Kuz and Puff "roared" at the kitten all the time. (At least, that's what Lily calls it.) So we did a little talking about it, evaluated the options, and viola! We now have a kitten!
Honestly, I can't think of a better present for my 30th than a kitten. It's probably going to be more Lily's cat, but it's sleeping on my shoulder as I type. We've played and played today since we got it. (We don't know yet whether it's a boy or girl. It's black and so fluffy you simply can't tell!) But Lily picked out its name: Whitaker. Funny she picked that from the list of about 8 that we gave her. My first kitty's name was Whitney. Her's is Whitaker.
Beyond an unexpected and incredibly pleasant kitten, I have also gotten a night away with my husband, a jumping-out-of-Grandma's-arms-welcome-home from my son, a day of shared kitty delight with my daughter, and a million other blessings. I'm actually a bit overwhelmed at how very blessed I am at only 30! What a marvelous life I have.
In 3 minutes, my 20's will be over. Here's to hoping my 30's are even more amazing!
Monday, November 3, 2014
Halloween and the Huskers
Halloween
I grew up in a conservative Christian community that rarely celebrated Halloween in a "traditional" way. We definitely never wore "scary" costumes, and were more likely to be found dressed up as our "favorite Bible character" or not dressed up at all. And we wouldn't trick or treat - we'd go to a "Halloween alternative" where you'd go around and get candy... (In retrospect, that whole "favorite Bible character" thing doesn't really make any sense. Shouldn't Jesus be everyone's favorite Bible character? I mean, Savior of the World who conquers death kind of makes everyone else pale in comparison, right?)
I definitely see the dangers of many Halloween traditions, but let's be honest - there are a few traditions that are, at face value, harmless. For example, dressing up as fun things and going door to door to get candy. Or on the flip side, handing out candy to kids who come to your door dressed up in adorable or interesting or crazy or Elsa costumes. (I quit counting Elsa's when I'd seen 10, and it was only about 6:30!)
So we dressed up our kids and took them trick or treating. Here is the obligatory picture of kids in costumes on the front step by the pumpkins:
It was cold, so I did put coats and shoes and all manner of warm clothes on my kids. And truth be told, Connor was only a pumpkin for this picture. After we took it, the pumpkin came off and his puffy coat went on, and once he was bundled in a blanket and hat, we put him in the stroller. The poor guy couldn't even move, but he didn't seem to mind. :)
Here is our trick or treating partner, Bob the Builder:
Lily's little friend is about a year and a half older than her, so he had the trick or treating thing down! It took a little coaching at the beginning ("Next time they let you pick out of the bowl, only take ONE piece, not a handful." "Tell them 'thank you.'" "Take the orange Reeses, not the brown Tootsie Rolls if they give you the choice.") Ok, so the first two bits of advice were given by me; the last was Chase's contribution. It got to the point toward the end of the evening where Lily and her little friend would run up to the door themselves, say trick or treat, get candy, say thank you, and then skip back to us with Lily saying, "I got the good stuff, Dad!"
Toward the end of the night, we actually had to unload Lily's overflowing candy bucket so she could keep trick or treating! It was a huge success - lots of great candy, a few Halloween rings, a pencil, and two tracts. I hope you all had as good of an experience trick or treating as we did!
Huskers
The next day we left the kids with Chase's mom for the day, and my mom took Chase and me to the Husker game. It was chilly, but it was fun - good company, good food, and a win. What a marvelous weekend!
The seats were really, really good. They were just a few rows up over the tunnel where the visiting team comes out onto the field. So we got to see some action in the end zone up close!
We took our time getting out of the game, and ate at Chipotle afterwards (I wish you could each experience what that's like with Chase. It is his FAVORITE place to eat. He literally bounced the entire walk from the stadium to Chipotle... If he's ever in a bad mood or struggling, if I can get him Chipotle it instantly changes his outlook. I'm not even kidding. It's crazy.)
All in all a great weekend!
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