I remember thinking when the boys were really little that I couldn't wait for the day when they were older and had a healthy respect for my authority.
Parental innocence is darling, isn't it?
It wasn't long ago that I went toe to toe with Nathan over an issue and he looked me right in the eye and declared that I was not the boss of him. It was all I could do not to laugh and then run straight for the phone to call my mom to let her know that yes, indeed, it was payback time.
Growing up I was strong willed and defiant. I don't think I had many normal conversations with my parents because it didn't matter what they said, I knew they were wrong. About everything. They had very high hopes that I would take my incredible and well practiced talent for arguing and become a lawyer.
I would have so rocked a pencil skirt.
I didn't like being told "no" and it infuriated me when my Dad would remain so calm while I yelled and carried on. I can't even mention the word "Algebra" and he goes pale remembering those horrid study sessions where I took out all my mathematical angst on him.
There was the time I ran away because I didn't want to do my chores. I actually climbed out my window and made it as far as the front door before I took my big bad self back inside. I even remember the fake fur coat I was wearing. It was gray. And I think it might have possibly been made out of some sort of material that would have instantly combusted anywhere near an open flame.
Or the time I thought selling emergency panic buttons to elderly people was going to make me my first million. I was in my early 20's and told my parents to get ready for retirement because I was fixing to make it big. They were worried. They warned. They tried to be logical. I would have none of it because it was what I wanted and no one was going to tell me otherwise.
I clearly wasn't the pleasant, compliant, meek person that I am today.
(let's pause while Scot regains his composure)
Recently I have been on my knees about a lot of issues. More than normal. Gut wrenching, tear my hair out, hide under the covers kind of stuff. Stuff about me, my family and some very dear friends that are having everything pulled out from under them.
Honestly, I feel like God is moving very slowly or not at all. I want to pitch a royal fit. Or better yet, run away in a synthetic fur coat. He is not doing things the way I want them to be done.
"You're not the boss of me!"
How badly I have wanted to tell Him that. Maybe even yell it. It is so very tempting to just take matters into my own hands. I'll rant and rave and lose all self-control because it makes me feel better. Manipulate situations so it turns out the way I want it to. I'll let loose on some anger issues I've been having. I'll walk away from women's ministry. I'll do whatever I want to do. I, I, I....me, me, me.
And when I am finally quiet enough for His still, small voice to get through the madness in my head, I can hear Him tell me that He is moving. He does see. He does care. He does love. He does listen. He does speak. He does know everything.
This relationship between God and myself is not one that was forced upon me. It is one that I chose. That I still choose. It means I don't get to walk away just because things aren't going the way I want them to. It means I press in harder and get to know Him better and take comfort in his sovereignty. It means that He is giving me time to strengthen my faith. A faith that wains when life is too easy.
Then I wait. And I honor Him by not losing all control and walking away. I ask for a glimpse, however small, into the work that He is doing in and around me and I wait.
I looked at Nathan that day and told him that yes, I was the boss of him. Not because I want to make his life miserable, but because I love him and sometimes a bigger perspective trumps his pride. I told him that he needed to trust me.
Hmmm......maybe parents aren't so stupid after all.
November 07, 2012
October 25, 2012
My Choice
It's funny how ironic life can be.
I have been toying with the idea of writing a blog post chronicling all the reasons I've been down in the dumps lately. I was even going to call it "Here's Your Violin" as a nod to that tiny gesture between an index finger and a thumb that takes a complaint and puts it in its proper place.
I was going to write about how much I abhor saying good-bye to several dear friends leaving this Christmas.....how all this leaving rocks the world of a girl who loves deeply.
The fact that I'm having some sort of mid life crisis and am feeling hugely unfulfilled right now resulting in a conversation with Scot about going back to school to become Something. Because for some reason I think becoming something else other than what I am will fix everything.
Being sick for a week that left me exhausted and very vulnerable to some pretty ugly mind games that on the flip side I'm still trying to sort through.
Feeling a little helpless. Or a lot helpless.
But then this morning, my sweet Grandma died.
And I wasn't there.
Just like three years ago when my Grandma June died right after we moved to Singapore.....I was stuck here and unable to get to my family.
Helpless. In a "I want to scream and scream and scream" kind of way.
I wasn't at her bedside because I was in Cambodia. Learning and being a part of something that is working hard to bring hope to children that are in a hopeless situation. It is ugly. It is awful. It is gut wrenchingly sad. It is evil.
I spent the day in the midst of people who have to rely on God's goodness to survive. Who have more faith than anyone I know. Who are doing so much good and are willing to give up anything and everything to make a difference in the lives of kids who experience horrors no human should ever experience.
Hope. They live it every single day because they have to. And let me tell you, it would be super easy to feel helpless in that situation and not one person would blame them.....and yet they choose to hope.
Today I am mourning the loss of a woman that I adored. A woman that made the best fruit salad in the world, took me to get my first pair of contact lenses, taught me how to drive a stick shift, let me play dress up with her fantastic collection of clip on earrings, showed me that the best place to keep a spare Kleenex is in your bra, called me her "Pumpkin" and used words like "Pish-ah". I inherited my dangerous love of sweets from her and the attitude that ice cream is good any time of the day and that candy dishes are meant to be filled. She was proud and beautiful and I am going to miss her desperately.
But I can't feel helpless because she couldn't wait to meet Jesus and that's where she is right now.
Hope.
It's a beautiful thing. It's the only thing that gets you out of bed some mornings.
I have to choose hope. Hope that all the things I've been struggling with will make me stronger. Hope that in the midst of saying good-bye to people I love I will learn how to make the most of every moment. Hope that God has a plan for my life that will leave me feeling fulfilled.
Hope for one child saved.....one child clothed.....one child that learns what love feels like.
Hope that one day I will see my beautiful Grandma again even though I will desperately miss her presence here on earth.
I have to choose hope.
I have been toying with the idea of writing a blog post chronicling all the reasons I've been down in the dumps lately. I was even going to call it "Here's Your Violin" as a nod to that tiny gesture between an index finger and a thumb that takes a complaint and puts it in its proper place.
I was going to write about how much I abhor saying good-bye to several dear friends leaving this Christmas.....how all this leaving rocks the world of a girl who loves deeply.
The fact that I'm having some sort of mid life crisis and am feeling hugely unfulfilled right now resulting in a conversation with Scot about going back to school to become Something. Because for some reason I think becoming something else other than what I am will fix everything.
Being sick for a week that left me exhausted and very vulnerable to some pretty ugly mind games that on the flip side I'm still trying to sort through.
Feeling a little helpless. Or a lot helpless.
But then this morning, my sweet Grandma died.
And I wasn't there.
Just like three years ago when my Grandma June died right after we moved to Singapore.....I was stuck here and unable to get to my family.
Helpless. In a "I want to scream and scream and scream" kind of way.
I wasn't at her bedside because I was in Cambodia. Learning and being a part of something that is working hard to bring hope to children that are in a hopeless situation. It is ugly. It is awful. It is gut wrenchingly sad. It is evil.
I spent the day in the midst of people who have to rely on God's goodness to survive. Who have more faith than anyone I know. Who are doing so much good and are willing to give up anything and everything to make a difference in the lives of kids who experience horrors no human should ever experience.
Hope. They live it every single day because they have to. And let me tell you, it would be super easy to feel helpless in that situation and not one person would blame them.....and yet they choose to hope.
Today I am mourning the loss of a woman that I adored. A woman that made the best fruit salad in the world, took me to get my first pair of contact lenses, taught me how to drive a stick shift, let me play dress up with her fantastic collection of clip on earrings, showed me that the best place to keep a spare Kleenex is in your bra, called me her "Pumpkin" and used words like "Pish-ah". I inherited my dangerous love of sweets from her and the attitude that ice cream is good any time of the day and that candy dishes are meant to be filled. She was proud and beautiful and I am going to miss her desperately.
But I can't feel helpless because she couldn't wait to meet Jesus and that's where she is right now.
Hope.
It's a beautiful thing. It's the only thing that gets you out of bed some mornings.
I have to choose hope. Hope that all the things I've been struggling with will make me stronger. Hope that in the midst of saying good-bye to people I love I will learn how to make the most of every moment. Hope that God has a plan for my life that will leave me feeling fulfilled.
Hope for one child saved.....one child clothed.....one child that learns what love feels like.
Hope that one day I will see my beautiful Grandma again even though I will desperately miss her presence here on earth.
I have to choose hope.
September 17, 2012
God and a Turkish Bath
I wrote this while still in Istanbul....we are now home and I'm just waiting for the unpacking fairy to show up and put everything away while I sleep for the next 3 days.
I am sitting at the airport waiting on our flight home to Singapore. The man right across from me is currently shaving his face with his electric razor, which would be odd except the bar for being odd is set really, really high after the week we just had.
About three months ago, Scot and I had to sit down and browse through a list of tours and activities for the conference we'd be attending here in Istanbul. At the time, we saw there was a limit of 40 people for the Turkish Bath experience and our competitive natures immediately kicked in.
We made it on the list and a round of high fives and fist pumping ensued as we celebrated our victory.
It wasn't until we arrived that we realized what we had done. I don't exactly know what I thought a Turkish Bath would entail but I think I had Turkish Bath confused with Super Modest Spa Day.
The Turkish Baths, or Hammans, were a big topic of conversation and reality began to set in. It was going to involve unclothed people all in the same room and I don't necesarily enjoy being around unclothed people.
I am sitting at the airport waiting on our flight home to Singapore. The man right across from me is currently shaving his face with his electric razor, which would be odd except the bar for being odd is set really, really high after the week we just had.
About three months ago, Scot and I had to sit down and browse through a list of tours and activities for the conference we'd be attending here in Istanbul. At the time, we saw there was a limit of 40 people for the Turkish Bath experience and our competitive natures immediately kicked in.
We made it on the list and a round of high fives and fist pumping ensued as we celebrated our victory.
It wasn't until we arrived that we realized what we had done. I don't exactly know what I thought a Turkish Bath would entail but I think I had Turkish Bath confused with Super Modest Spa Day.
The Turkish Baths, or Hammans, were a big topic of conversation and reality began to set in. It was going to involve unclothed people all in the same room and I don't necesarily enjoy being around unclothed people.
The day arrived and I packed a small bag in anticipation of what I might need for the experience. I packed some make-up to reapply in case my face got wet, dry underwear in case the underwear I was wearing got wet (because there was "no way Jose" that I was taking it off), and my glasses just in case my contacts were itchy after having my eyes closed during a luxurious massage.
I am giggling just reliving how naive I was.
It was time to load the buses......men in one bus and women in the other. When we arrived at the Hamman, we filed off the bus and into the building. I cast furtive glances around me noting the nearest exits.
We were ushered into a large room where we were told to pick a room and take our clothes off. I walked into my little room and closed the door. There was a barely-bigger-than-a-handkerchief piece of fabric sitting on the chair in the room. I quickly undressed and wrapped the barely there handkerchief around myself and walked out the door. I was told to put on a pair of wooden sandals and to follow the other women into an inner room.
I walked into a cavernous space made completely out of marble. It was spectacular with a domed ceiling, alcoves all around with small fountains and in the middle, a large round marble platform. The ladies from our group were all nervously sitting on the platform wrapped in their tiny pieces of fabric. It was very warm and extremely humid in the room with the sound of running water and nervous chatter amplified by the cavernous space.
One by one a group of Turkish women entered the room to find the lady they were assigned to. I watched as those going first had their barely there fabric ripped off of them, much to the surprise of the women, and they were told to lie down on the platform.
This part of the story I will edit as I do have men children that will read this blog. And my man that reads this blog and he has heard in detail the whole story and he still doesn't want to read about it again.
Where was I?
Oh, right.
There were those who were very comfortable with the whole situation and those that clearly were not. It didn't help that you were turned side to side, made to sit up, have water dumped on you and to actually walk across the room in all your glory.
If you want more details, let's plan a lunch date.
Where was I?
Oh, right.
There were those who were very comfortable with the whole situation and those that clearly were not. It didn't help that you were turned side to side, made to sit up, have water dumped on you and to actually walk across the room in all your glory.
If you want more details, let's plan a lunch date.
I happened to be in the second group of women and was told to sit and wait for my turn. I sat huddled in a corner holding tightly to my barely there piece of fabric wondering how in the world one month I can be sitting at Chuys eating chips and salsa and the next month I am in a room full of Turkish women waiting my turn to have one give me a bath.
I was thrilled to see that the lady assigned to me was using an obscure corner of the room instead of the large platform in the middle. Don't think for a second that I didn't strongly contemplate getting up and shuffling out of the large marble room in my wooden sandals and handkerchief. I think the mixture of horror and fascination kept me rooted right where I was. That, and a healthy fear that my Turkish lady would come after me if I tried to leave.
When it was my turn, the lady motioned for me to go to a spot on the platform. I motioned to her that I wanted the obscure corner. She smiled sweetly at me and firmly pointed to the platform.
I laid down on the big platform, sucked in my stomach, and prayed that maybe I had become invisible and no one in that room actually saw me. My lady started the harsh scrubbing of all the skin and then the water dumped on me and then more washing and more water and lots of walking around during all of this, all the while engaging my core muscles willing my body to suddenly look like a size 2.....heck, I'd have been happy for a size 8!
Naked people can't be choosy people.
There was something very tender and sweet about the Turkish lady assigned to me. She would hold my hand everytime we walked somewhere so I didn't slip and fall and by the time we got to the end where she was massaging my back, I was actually a little more relaxed. She walked me into a room when we were finished and wrapped a towel around me and another around my hair and sent me on my way.
I realized how similar the whole experience was to women at church. We walk in and are immediately fighting feelings of nervousness or of being judged. We are so tempted to bail but curiosity keeps us rooted to our seats. We watch ladies who are comfortable with being vulnerable and we wonder if we could ever feel the same.
Many times we feel like what little we are wearing is ripped off, and all of us.....the good, the bad, the wrinkles, the rolls.....they are all exposed. That all our attempts at creating a perfect facade still won't hide the reality underneath. Maybe, like me, there is considerable scarring that highlights the imperfections.
And then we have an encounter with God that is not based on perfection, but based solely on love. That the more we understand that He loves us unconditionally and does not want to hurt us, the more we become comfortable with being vulnerable.
That sometimes He walks us around to show others our imperfections because those things make us beautiful. To reveal our scars because they prove there was healing....the whole time holding our hand to keep us from falling.
I walked out of that Hamman with a smile because I always love the surprise of a life lesson from something so peculiar.
And then I saw Scot rocking in a corner sucking his thumb and mumbling to himself. Clearly, being rubbed down by a Turkish man (and yes, he got to keep his covering on the whole time) did not leave him contemplating spiritual matters.
Poor guy.
I laid down on the big platform, sucked in my stomach, and prayed that maybe I had become invisible and no one in that room actually saw me. My lady started the harsh scrubbing of all the skin and then the water dumped on me and then more washing and more water and lots of walking around during all of this, all the while engaging my core muscles willing my body to suddenly look like a size 2.....heck, I'd have been happy for a size 8!
Naked people can't be choosy people.
There was something very tender and sweet about the Turkish lady assigned to me. She would hold my hand everytime we walked somewhere so I didn't slip and fall and by the time we got to the end where she was massaging my back, I was actually a little more relaxed. She walked me into a room when we were finished and wrapped a towel around me and another around my hair and sent me on my way.
I realized how similar the whole experience was to women at church. We walk in and are immediately fighting feelings of nervousness or of being judged. We are so tempted to bail but curiosity keeps us rooted to our seats. We watch ladies who are comfortable with being vulnerable and we wonder if we could ever feel the same.
Many times we feel like what little we are wearing is ripped off, and all of us.....the good, the bad, the wrinkles, the rolls.....they are all exposed. That all our attempts at creating a perfect facade still won't hide the reality underneath. Maybe, like me, there is considerable scarring that highlights the imperfections.
And then we have an encounter with God that is not based on perfection, but based solely on love. That the more we understand that He loves us unconditionally and does not want to hurt us, the more we become comfortable with being vulnerable.
That sometimes He walks us around to show others our imperfections because those things make us beautiful. To reveal our scars because they prove there was healing....the whole time holding our hand to keep us from falling.
I walked out of that Hamman with a smile because I always love the surprise of a life lesson from something so peculiar.
And then I saw Scot rocking in a corner sucking his thumb and mumbling to himself. Clearly, being rubbed down by a Turkish man (and yes, he got to keep his covering on the whole time) did not leave him contemplating spiritual matters.
Poor guy.
August 24, 2012
A pitiful walk down memory lane
It's been two weeks exactly since we left the good 'ol state of Texas and headed back to Asia. It has been two weeks of a not very fun Keri as I have worked through all the emotions of transitioning from one life to another.
I'm not going to lie. There has been some carnage left in my wake these last couple weeks.
Like the first day when I went to the grocery store to get ingredients for hamburgers just to be told that I would have to come back for hamburger buns because they only made four bags of them that day and someone had already purchased them.
Really??????
I came home and threw some groceries around and yelled at Scot about hating this place...because that's what you do when you're emotionally on edge. You go for the juglar. Say irrational things. Over exaggerate. Eat a bag of chocolate.
And then there was the clerk at a different grocery store that wouldn't let me buy 2 mangos because they were priced 3 for $5. Even after I did the math for him he still wouldn't let me buy just 2. He also got an earful of irrational, on the edge, craziness. I guarantee that I gave him enough material to keep him popular in the break room for weeks.
As for the chocolate? Those three bags of Halloween candy I brought back from Texas.....so proud of myself for thinking ahead? Let's just say that I have been having a trick-or-treat party for one.
Two weeks into it and I am much better. School is underway and my calendar is filling up with commitments and fun stuff.
Hamburger buns have been purchased and enjoyed....it's all good.
While summer is still fresh on our minds, here is a quick run down of our time at home with a pitiful photo montage that doesn't do our summer justice:
Good food
Good friends
Good creamy jalapeño dip
A not so good surprise surgery that had a happy ending (still can't swim but his hearing is better than it was before the surgery and we are exceedingly grateful for this!)
A good visit to my happy place
A wedding for a dear college friend
A visit with Scot's family
And his sweet 97 year old Grandma
A very festive 4th of July lady and two sweet boys
A Singapore friend, her new house in Houston, and Sonic Diet Coke
An incredible evening with friends coming together for a good cause.....
Collecting school supplies for moms and kids that really needed our help.
A too fast visit to California to see my parents
My very handsome (and very taken) brothers.....
My sister-in-law and adorable nephew.....
Back to Texas for final hugs and good-byes with friends
Not pictured? Lots of family and friends that I adore. I'll blame it on soaking in every second of face time I had and not wanting to take a single second to snap a picture. To each of you that I saw and visited with and hugged and laughed with.....I loved every single moment I had with you.
In the two weeks since I've been back I've had 2 fateful aforementioned grocery store visits, put two boys into middle school, eaten lots of Halloween candy, started my running club, and have only pulled the covers over my head, not to come out for several hours, one day. One.
I did have to say a very tearful good-bye to my very first friend in Singapore. Just over two years ago she walked into a room with Texas written all over her and became a very dear friend. Tiffany, life here just won't be the same without you!! I miss you every day.
And tonight my baby boy went to his first boy/girl dance.
Which he clearly loved.
It's going to be an interesting year.
Where's my Halloween candy?
July 23, 2012
Dude, read your letter
Yesterday we loaded up the car with trunks and bedding and headed off for camp......it wasn't a moment too soon.
If I had to live another day with boys who could literally argue about anything and everything, I was going to start pulling out my eyelashes one by one.
Then in all my parenting wisdom I tell them both to be quiet and proceed to inform them that no one wants to be near them, be with them, or be in their general vicinity when they act like that.
I know. Blow your socks off mothering amazingness right there. You can borrow that approach to sibling rivalry if you'd like.
It works not at all.
I have tried having the very rational discussion about how it's pride that motivates them to try to outdo each other. To be the one that always has to be right. But they are far too young to see the carnage that pride can leave in its path so I resort to things like "No one will like you".
God must be so proud.
Many months ago after a particularly embarrassing display of "brotherly love" while out with friends, I made them write each other a letter of apology that had to be at least two paragraphs long and include three things they liked about the other. It had to be pre-approved by me so I could ensure it was somewhat sincere and wasn't just stuff like "I like you most when you aren't anywhere near me".
Remember that these are boys.
We are not a house that has a supply of gel pens and cute papers and little notebooks. We are a house with boys who have terrible handwriting and dislike most forms of communication.
It was perfect.
They grumbled about the task at hand but both sat down and completed their notes. They exchanged them and I was very intrigued to watch them so eagerly pour over the letter written to them. It immediately diffused the situation and I decided to permanently adopt this tactic in dealing with the bickering. I add paragraphs and topics to be written about depending on the severity of the crime and on the inside I laugh at their misery....the way we all do when we have stumbled upon the perfect consequence for a misdeed.
Or am I the only one that does that? Please tell me I'm not.
I have to say that this summer has been.......I am not even sure of the right word to use.
Unexpected? Crazy? Surprising? Fun in a "I don't know what's coming next" kind of way?
There have been moments I have found myself feeling anxious or insecure or mad and it makes me want to lash out at people around me. I have pretend conversations in my head where I tell someone what I really think about them. I want to pick a fight. And use bad words. I want to abandon all self-control and try some hair-pulling just to see if I would feel better.
Until I read a love letter that was written to me. It includes more than three things He likes about me and covers a whole lot of topics. My heart softens and the anger subsides. Priorities fall into place and order is restored in my thinking.
And I can tell you with absolute certainty that the sky is most definitely blue.
If I had to live another day with boys who could literally argue about anything and everything, I was going to start pulling out my eyelashes one by one.
The sky is blue.
No it isn't.
What do you mean it isn't? Open your eyes!
It's merely a reflection of the earth's surface.
Dude! Seriously? The sky is up and it's the color blue.
But it isn't really the color of the sky.
Who cares?
Anyone who has brains cares.
Then in all my parenting wisdom I tell them both to be quiet and proceed to inform them that no one wants to be near them, be with them, or be in their general vicinity when they act like that.
I know. Blow your socks off mothering amazingness right there. You can borrow that approach to sibling rivalry if you'd like.
It works not at all.
I have tried having the very rational discussion about how it's pride that motivates them to try to outdo each other. To be the one that always has to be right. But they are far too young to see the carnage that pride can leave in its path so I resort to things like "No one will like you".
God must be so proud.
Many months ago after a particularly embarrassing display of "brotherly love" while out with friends, I made them write each other a letter of apology that had to be at least two paragraphs long and include three things they liked about the other. It had to be pre-approved by me so I could ensure it was somewhat sincere and wasn't just stuff like "I like you most when you aren't anywhere near me".
Remember that these are boys.
We are not a house that has a supply of gel pens and cute papers and little notebooks. We are a house with boys who have terrible handwriting and dislike most forms of communication.
It was perfect.
They grumbled about the task at hand but both sat down and completed their notes. They exchanged them and I was very intrigued to watch them so eagerly pour over the letter written to them. It immediately diffused the situation and I decided to permanently adopt this tactic in dealing with the bickering. I add paragraphs and topics to be written about depending on the severity of the crime and on the inside I laugh at their misery....the way we all do when we have stumbled upon the perfect consequence for a misdeed.
Mwah hahahaha
Or am I the only one that does that? Please tell me I'm not.
I have to say that this summer has been.......I am not even sure of the right word to use.
Unexpected? Crazy? Surprising? Fun in a "I don't know what's coming next" kind of way?
There have been moments I have found myself feeling anxious or insecure or mad and it makes me want to lash out at people around me. I have pretend conversations in my head where I tell someone what I really think about them. I want to pick a fight. And use bad words. I want to abandon all self-control and try some hair-pulling just to see if I would feel better.
Until I read a love letter that was written to me. It includes more than three things He likes about me and covers a whole lot of topics. My heart softens and the anger subsides. Priorities fall into place and order is restored in my thinking.
And I can tell you with absolute certainty that the sky is most definitely blue.
June 27, 2012
Before he goes.....
I just handed Garrett over to a surgeon, an anesthesiologist, and some nurses. It all happened much more quickly than I had anticipated because the doctor was running early. When does that happen??
I made significant eye contact with every surgeon and nurse that will have their hands on him. Staring everyone down so that my face is seared in their brain as they make that first incision.
This is my baby boy, who is clearly not a baby anymore, but as long as I live he will always be my baby boy. He is funny and quirky and happy-go-lucky. He loves his family and is happiest with a homemade meal and a table that isn't missing a single one of his people.
He loves Jesus and believes that God answers prayer. He isn't perfect but he loves without prejudice. He likes to know stuff.....stuff no one else cares about. He is amazing with little kids. He wants to see the Rangers win the World Series.
He wants to see more of this world, he wants to learn how to drive, he wants to be a better guitarist. He wants to grow up and get married and have kids of his own. He wants to see the new Spiderman movie and play his new xBox game.
This patient on your gurney is my son. My sweet boy. Be alert, do your job well. Take out what doesn't belong and return him to me whole....he has a big life yet to live.
Somehow I don't think they got all of that in my one simple stare down. I think they got more of a "crazy mom" vibe.
My prayers for today:
The surgery involves them cutting his ear and pulling it forward to get behind the bone where the inner ear bones are. He lost two of those bones in the last surgery and they were replaced with titanium. This tumor has grown over the titanium so they have to take it out and clean it and then replace it. My prayer is that he doesn't lose the third inner ear bone and that the titanium is replaced correctly so he doesn't lose any more of his hearing.
I am praying protection all around the facial nerve that runs so close to where the surgery is happening.
I am praying the doctor is 100% focused on what he's doing.
I am praying that Garrett doesn't have any reaction to the anesthesia and recovers quickly.
I am praying for a lot of things but those are the biggies right now.
And then there's my imagination where I envision all the doctors having a fight or discussing a love triangle just before something goes wrong and that's when I realize that I shouldn't base all my medical assumptions on what I've seen on Gray's Anatomy.
I made significant eye contact with every surgeon and nurse that will have their hands on him. Staring everyone down so that my face is seared in their brain as they make that first incision.
This is my baby boy, who is clearly not a baby anymore, but as long as I live he will always be my baby boy. He is funny and quirky and happy-go-lucky. He loves his family and is happiest with a homemade meal and a table that isn't missing a single one of his people.
He loves Jesus and believes that God answers prayer. He isn't perfect but he loves without prejudice. He likes to know stuff.....stuff no one else cares about. He is amazing with little kids. He wants to see the Rangers win the World Series.
He wants to see more of this world, he wants to learn how to drive, he wants to be a better guitarist. He wants to grow up and get married and have kids of his own. He wants to see the new Spiderman movie and play his new xBox game.
This patient on your gurney is my son. My sweet boy. Be alert, do your job well. Take out what doesn't belong and return him to me whole....he has a big life yet to live.
Somehow I don't think they got all of that in my one simple stare down. I think they got more of a "crazy mom" vibe.
My prayers for today:
The surgery involves them cutting his ear and pulling it forward to get behind the bone where the inner ear bones are. He lost two of those bones in the last surgery and they were replaced with titanium. This tumor has grown over the titanium so they have to take it out and clean it and then replace it. My prayer is that he doesn't lose the third inner ear bone and that the titanium is replaced correctly so he doesn't lose any more of his hearing.
I am praying protection all around the facial nerve that runs so close to where the surgery is happening.
I am praying the doctor is 100% focused on what he's doing.
I am praying that Garrett doesn't have any reaction to the anesthesia and recovers quickly.
I am praying for a lot of things but those are the biggies right now.
And then there's my imagination where I envision all the doctors having a fight or discussing a love triangle just before something goes wrong and that's when I realize that I shouldn't base all my medical assumptions on what I've seen on Gray's Anatomy.
June 21, 2012
Going for a long run.....
I have no business writing Facebook posts.
I don't know if it's a need for character development, a love of details, an attempt to insert wit, or caving to my tendency to over-communicate. My updates quickly become long paragraph messages that can create some "lost in translation" situations.
Yesterday I posted that we received bad news about a tumor in Garrett's ear. I managed to keep that post relatively short and was extremely proud of myself considering how many details are involved. I was overwhelmed by the sweet responses and immediate prayers being offered on our behalf.
The next couple of hours involved me crying, talking to my mom, Scot and I having good conversation, Scot and I being irritated at each other, Scot and I being nice again, a trip to Home Depot and Chick-fil-A for friends, a trip to Whataburger for my boys, and a haircut for Garrett.
Needless to say, by the time we got home, I was a tad frazzled (and bloated) and anxious to get on the phone to find out why we didn't have an appt with Garrett's doctor yet. My conversation with the nurse was frustrating until we finally had a breakthrough that involved a cancellation allowing us an appointment with the doctor today.
I was thrilled and decided to post the good news about getting the appt on Facebook.
And then I thought I'd throw in something witty just to show that I was actually handling all of this ok. Here is the post:
Was on the phone with the doctor's office regarding Garrett....getting frustrated because the doctor was trying to schedule surgery and I want to talk to him first but there are no appointments for that when "all of a sudden" they had a cancellation for 10:30 tomorrow morning. Huge answer to prayer because Scot can go. Next prayer? The doctor tells us he was having a bad ENT day and looked at the wrong scan and there is no tumor. Believing BIG!! Thank you, thank you, thank you for the love and prayers!
What I should have done was end the thing after my "Huge answer to prayer because Scot can go" comment.
But noooooo..........
I started getting a few "Praise God" responses which were sweet. Then a few texts about what a miracle the whole thing was.
Trust me, I was thrilled that we got the doctor's appt but was a little mystified at it actually being a miracle.
Then a few more messages about a huge answer to prayer and I really started to think that I clearly did not give God enough credit for how amazing eveyone seemed to think it was that we were able to get a doctor's appt.
It was the text message from a friend telling me that she would never trust a doctor who had bad ENT days and couldn't even read a CT scan that I realized that what I meant to be a flippant commentary on a prayer request was being read as fact.
And then there was mass confusion among 58 people.
The real story is that there was no mistake in scans. Our miraculous doctor's appointment was this morning and all four Jenkins were stuffed in a small exam room where all the boys got an excercise in self-control by resisting the temptation to push lots of buttons and race around on wheeled chairs.
The doctor came in and told us that what we had hoped was just scar tissue after last year's CT scan had actually grown in size to 6mm and needed to be removed immediately before Garrett was in danger of losing the last of his three inner ear bones.
For those of you scratching your heads wondering what in the world I am talking about......here is the post I wrote in 2009 when we went through all of this for the first time.
He won't be able to swim for 2 months and can't fly for 3 weeks after surgery. All our plans for a trip to California to visit friends and family, swimming, a flight home early for Garrett to go to Boy Scout camp in Thailand....all of it out the window.
But it's ok. It's ok because it isn't cancer. Garrett's life is not in danger. We have a wonderful house to stay in all summer and incredibly supportive family and friends. It's ok.
Then another miracle happened in the form of a cancelled appointment and we were able to schedule the surgery for this next Wednesday. Scot will still be in town and that is a big, big deal for both Scot and Garrett.
Just prior to leaving Singapore I went crazy for 4 minutes and decided to join a running club that was started by a friend of mine. I joined not because I love running....in fact, I despise running which doesn't work well for someone joining a running club. I joined because they look like they have so much fun together and I always like the idea of a good challenge.
I know that I need to be able to run 4 miles by the time I get back in Singapore so as soon as I landed in Texas and went to Chuy's, I started strapping on my tennis shoes and hitting the trails. Every other day I run and it has gotten easier and easier and I despise it just slightly less now than I did 2 weeks ago.
It makes me think of the verse in Hebrews 12:
I don't know if it's a need for character development, a love of details, an attempt to insert wit, or caving to my tendency to over-communicate. My updates quickly become long paragraph messages that can create some "lost in translation" situations.
Yesterday I posted that we received bad news about a tumor in Garrett's ear. I managed to keep that post relatively short and was extremely proud of myself considering how many details are involved. I was overwhelmed by the sweet responses and immediate prayers being offered on our behalf.
The next couple of hours involved me crying, talking to my mom, Scot and I having good conversation, Scot and I being irritated at each other, Scot and I being nice again, a trip to Home Depot and Chick-fil-A for friends, a trip to Whataburger for my boys, and a haircut for Garrett.
Needless to say, by the time we got home, I was a tad frazzled (and bloated) and anxious to get on the phone to find out why we didn't have an appt with Garrett's doctor yet. My conversation with the nurse was frustrating until we finally had a breakthrough that involved a cancellation allowing us an appointment with the doctor today.
I was thrilled and decided to post the good news about getting the appt on Facebook.
And then I thought I'd throw in something witty just to show that I was actually handling all of this ok. Here is the post:
Was on the phone with the doctor's office regarding Garrett....getting frustrated because the doctor was trying to schedule surgery and I want to talk to him first but there are no appointments for that when "all of a sudden" they had a cancellation for 10:30 tomorrow morning. Huge answer to prayer because Scot can go. Next prayer? The doctor tells us he was having a bad ENT day and looked at the wrong scan and there is no tumor. Believing BIG!! Thank you, thank you, thank you for the love and prayers!
What I should have done was end the thing after my "Huge answer to prayer because Scot can go" comment.
But noooooo..........
I started getting a few "Praise God" responses which were sweet. Then a few texts about what a miracle the whole thing was.
Trust me, I was thrilled that we got the doctor's appt but was a little mystified at it actually being a miracle.
Then a few more messages about a huge answer to prayer and I really started to think that I clearly did not give God enough credit for how amazing eveyone seemed to think it was that we were able to get a doctor's appt.
It was the text message from a friend telling me that she would never trust a doctor who had bad ENT days and couldn't even read a CT scan that I realized that what I meant to be a flippant commentary on a prayer request was being read as fact.
And then there was mass confusion among 58 people.
The real story is that there was no mistake in scans. Our miraculous doctor's appointment was this morning and all four Jenkins were stuffed in a small exam room where all the boys got an excercise in self-control by resisting the temptation to push lots of buttons and race around on wheeled chairs.
The doctor came in and told us that what we had hoped was just scar tissue after last year's CT scan had actually grown in size to 6mm and needed to be removed immediately before Garrett was in danger of losing the last of his three inner ear bones.
For those of you scratching your heads wondering what in the world I am talking about......here is the post I wrote in 2009 when we went through all of this for the first time.
He won't be able to swim for 2 months and can't fly for 3 weeks after surgery. All our plans for a trip to California to visit friends and family, swimming, a flight home early for Garrett to go to Boy Scout camp in Thailand....all of it out the window.
But it's ok. It's ok because it isn't cancer. Garrett's life is not in danger. We have a wonderful house to stay in all summer and incredibly supportive family and friends. It's ok.
Then another miracle happened in the form of a cancelled appointment and we were able to schedule the surgery for this next Wednesday. Scot will still be in town and that is a big, big deal for both Scot and Garrett.
Just prior to leaving Singapore I went crazy for 4 minutes and decided to join a running club that was started by a friend of mine. I joined not because I love running....in fact, I despise running which doesn't work well for someone joining a running club. I joined because they look like they have so much fun together and I always like the idea of a good challenge.
I know that I need to be able to run 4 miles by the time I get back in Singapore so as soon as I landed in Texas and went to Chuy's, I started strapping on my tennis shoes and hitting the trails. Every other day I run and it has gotten easier and easier and I despise it just slightly less now than I did 2 weeks ago.
It makes me think of the verse in Hebrews 12:
......and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.....
Every difficult situation, tough day, depressing moment.....every time we have a chance to choose God, we are running. It might be a short run, it might be a long run, but every time we choose Him over our temptation to be anxious and worry and melt down.....we are training to have the endurance and preseverance to run the race marked out for us.
Our little family has had a lot of training over the years. We aren't perfect and there is much more to learn, but this particular race we can run.
I can't thank you all enough for cheering us on to the finish line.
I'll be the one in the back wearing a sports bra, big t-shirt, and long shorts (so my thighs don't rub together) limping across the finish line.....but I will finish.
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