Tag Archives: family

What It Means to Choose Heaven

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In my last post, I wrote “I choose heaven over healing.”

Later, I thought maybe that statement could be misunderstand. I want to be sure I am clear.

In the phone call, the doctor didn’t give me any new information. She spoke frankly of the risks and likely odds we are facing and gave her opinion on a few things. She took the facts we know now and explained what it means from her perspective. It opened my eyes to reality.

But we have not yet made the decision on brain surgery. That will most likely happen sometime in May, after we receive more specific details on the testing.

It won’t be an easy choice to make, and my last post was an outpouring of my floundering heart. All this time, I’ve been convinced that surely God will heal Tarica. He still might. We may go ahead with surgery, and she may become seizure-free.

But we might feel God’s leading to decline surgery, or surgery may not heal her—and I finally realized this. Yes, it will hurt deeply (hence the shattered-heart line—forgive my drama), but it’s not as tragic as I think it is. God can redeem our pain and turn it into good.

Ultimately, heaven is more important than a seizure-free life. Eternity is more important than time. Our destiny is more important than our children having perfect lives.

This is an unavoidable truth, but it hurts me, because I want the best for my children.

But so does God.

And heaven is the ultimate best.

Heaven is guaranteed healing, but healing doesn’t guarantee heaven.

I’m still praying for healing, but I’m also praying that if healing is not for Tarica, God will help us accept it and even grow from it. I’m praying that no matter the medical outcome, all of our family would find and follow God, although it may mean facing pain now to gain bliss later.

That’s why I choose heaven over healing.

P.S. But if God does heal her, you will have to search the world over to find a more thankful family.

In Search of the Happiest Ending

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I was writing a post titled “Why I Am Not a Food Blogger” when the phone rang.

It was Tarica’s doctor, and we talked about brain surgery.

I hung up, all my laughter gone.

Call me blind, call me naive, call me a towering monument of faith, but for the first time, I realized that our epilepsy story might not have a happy ending.

I’ve shared maybes and what ifs and questions and fears, but always, rock-solid in the back of my mind, I believed everything would come out right in the end. I’ve prayed “Thy will be done,” convinced that His will meant a seizure-free daughter.

But what if she will always have seizures?

I’m sure you thought of this possibility, from a detached distance, with the advantage of having the facts without the emotions. I’ve even said it is a possibility, said she might not ever be seizure-free, but I didn’t feel it as I did this morning, as a blow to my mother-heart.

She may never be healed this side of Glory.

I do not know if I can bear the thought.

* * *

I heard a story recently of a boy whose parents asked God to take their son Home while he was young if he would grow up to defy God when he was older. The boy died in a freak accident sometime after that. All his peers grew up and rejected God. The father professed that he never regretted his prayer.

That story hit me hard. We have three children in heaven by miscarriage, and it’s my greatest prayer that the rest of our family would someday join them. I have prayed, in a more innocent past, wincing slightly, “whatever it takes, God.”

What if it takes seizures?

What if seizures will make the difference between heaven and hell for our daughter? For our other children? For…for me?

After hearing the story of that boy, I had begun to pray, “God, if seizures help my daughter get to heaven, then help us to accept them with grace.”

But I was still convinced that God would heal her. And not just no-seizures-while-on-medication healed. I meant healed healed, as in no more seizures ever and no more medication. Ever. I hate what drugs do to her.

This is not too much to expect from a God who can do anything.

But what if He doesn’t do this?

* * *

Again and again, God has worked good in my life through hardship. Without pain, I am crusty and independent and proud. Pain turns me to God, and God turns pain to good.

What if living with this particular pain will keep us soft toward God and compassionate toward others?

It could. It might. It has.

To those of you who yearn every day for the child(ren) beyond your reach, this might sound unthinkable, but it was easier for me to grieve a miscarriage that it is to imagine my daughter living with epilepsy till death do them part. Miscarriage was only my pain, softened by the knowledge that my child is safe in Jesus’ arms. It hurts more to watch my children suffer than it does to miss them because they are with Jesus.

(And if my words hurt you, I am sorry. I’m not belittling your pain. If you’ve read the book I wrote on miscarriage, you know I know how great and terrible that grief is. Those of you who have emailed me to share your stories are daily in my prayers. I wish I could take away your pain, but I trust that God can also turn it into good.)

I hate the thought that my children need to suffer, but what’s been good for me will surely be good for them. God can do this for my children—turn their pain into good. I know this, but it feels a little like those times when the children pile into the wagon and fly down the lane.

I don’t want to watch. I don’t want to see them get hurt.

What if God knows we will be better off with seizures than without them?

Achieving seizure freedom has always been the happy ending I envisioned for us. But if that freedom would come at the expense of the happiest ending ever, then no, I do not want it.

I choose heaven over healing.

And it shatters my mother-heart.

Introducing: The Box

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We have a problem with clutter.

Late winter (you know, last week), it hit a new high. (Or was it a new low?) Boots, balled-up socks, sweaters, toys, coats, shoes—just follow the trail and it was likely to lead you to one of several little people around here.

Not much can be done about the twenty-two month old right now. He’s simply at That Stage. But the girls? At five and almost-eight, they are both capable of picking up after themselves.

I was sick of reminding them. But I didn’t want to turn clutter into a huge disciplinary issue. They didn’t need me following them around doling out punishments every time they took off their socks and let them on the living room floor.

They had to be internally motivated to put their possessions away, not externally prodded by me all the time. And whatever I did to motivate them, it had to be self-sustaining.

At first, I thought maybe I would put up a chart, with stickers for clutter-free days.

But I hate charts. (There. I said it.)

Charts are great and wonderful—for mothers who remember them.

Around here, the first week of a chart is exhilarating. Everybody is excited about the new program and the neat stickers. And then, one day, we forget to put up stickers until after the girls are in bed. Or one girl remembers and the other doesn’t. Or one girl always takes the pink stickers and there’s only green ones left and I don’t want green, I want pink, but she has them all. The gloss wears off. We fall behind in keeping track and everyone stops caring.

I am too absent-minded to be trusted with charts. I stand with one foot in the real world and one foot in the world that exists inside my head. This divided attention means many details of living can completely evade me or slip through my distracted fingers.

I’ve tried to improve. I buy vitamins that are supposed to help me concentrate and remember, but (you can see where this is going, can’t you?) I forget to take them. I keep an erratic planner. I make lists. I married a man who never forgets.

None of this has helped me much. I’m a chronic thinker and daydreamer. Vitamins and husbands aren’t going to change that.

A chart for clutter? Let’s pretend that I try it and I wouldn’t forget. So what if someone lets one sock on the floor? Would that completely erase the daily sticker? I could just hear the fuss that would make. They are children, not pre-programmed robots. Besides, we all live here, and if I look around, I can see a few of my possessions here and there.

While I was kicking this problem back and forth, I stopped beside an empty cardboard box that had been used to haul groceries home from the local discount store. I looked at it, and my chart idea vanished into the ether.

I’d like to introduce you to The Box.

DSCN1616

It’s my new best friend.

It takes care of the clutter for me.

Here’s what I told the girls: “You know how you have a problem with letting your things all over the house, like shoes and backpacks and dolly clothes?”

[Insert sheepish nods here.]

“Do you see this box?”

They did.

“Whenever I find things on the floor that shouldn’t be on the floor, I will pick them up and put them in The Box. If you want to redeem them, you will need to do a job for me. One job for every item in the box.”

“What’s redeem mean, Mom?”

“It means if you want to wear your school shoes again, you’ll need to do a job for me.” I looked at the other girl. “It means if you want to play with your dolly again, you’ll need to do a job for me. Whatever is in The Box, you can’t have it back until you work to get it.”

The best part of this program is that I don’t have to remember anything. I still pick up things that shouldn’t be on the floor, but now I just toss them into The Box. However, the girls are finding it much easier to put their possessions away immediately rather than doing jobs before redeeming their stuff to put it away. If something of theirs is in The Box, they don’t complain about the job they have to do, because they know they could have prevented the job from happening.

The Box creates internal motivation. No more nagging from me. All I do is march toward the coat on the floor, and suddenly there’s a girl diving for the coat and whisking it into the closet.

We might even graduate to a smaller box, since this one is over-qualified.

And with all this putting away clutter and redeeming clutter, the house hasn’t looked so good in a long time.

Well. Not entirely. There is still the twenty-two month old, and he’s messier than both his sisters combined.

Maybe we should put him in The Box.

And redeem him with kisses.

Is Being a Good Mom Good Enough?

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The alarm clock glowed midnight when I crawled into bed after being up for some time with a needy child. I burrowed into the covers, seeking comfort, seeking sleep.

My husband rolled over. “Thanks for being a good mom,” he said, his voice foggy with sleep.

His words startled me. He who sleeps through nearly everything awoke to say this? I huffed—in laughter, in surprise, I’m not sure which. “In what way do you mean?” Why do I question every compliment?

“You take care of him.” He sounded exasperated, as if it should have been obvious. In the startled silence that followed, his breathing deepened and slowed.

I blinked at the ceiling, remembering my manners too late. “Thank you,” I said to his oblivious form.

Tired as I was, sleep should have come quickly, but I lay awake, cradling his words to my heart: Thanks for being a good mom.

Life had been topsy-turvy lately. At times, the demands of motherhood overwhelmed me, made me doubt my ability to handle it with grace and patience. Could I do it? Hardly. I failed so often.

Every day, I worried I wasn’t doing enough for my family. I felt guilty when I couldn’t keep after my responsibilities. I lay awake on nights such as these, weary to the bone, and remembered all the times I should have spoken more gently, acted more kindly, smiled more frequently.

But he thought I was a good mom.

Is it enough to be a good mom? And while I was thinking about it, what does a good mom do? Lying in the dark, I held up that last question and scrutinized it.

It wasn’t hard to answer.

  • A good mom follows God and obeys His commands.
  • A good mom respects her husband and seeks to please him.
  • A good mom loves her children and takes care of them.

Christian mothers are required to shoulder these three responsibilities regardless of who they are and where they live. Beyond these three, I could name many other duties and expectations, but they were cultural demands placed upon me because I’m an American Mennonite housewife, not because I’m a mother. These expectations are activities such as housecleaning every spring and fall; canning pickles, jams, and five types of tomato sauces; gardening; baking bread; and keeping every closet, drawer, and cupboard organized. Yes, it would be nice to do all these things, to be efficient and self-sufficient, to be always caught up and kept after—but if I do these things, I am being a good seamstress, gardener, organizer, baker, and housewife. None of these activities mean I’m being a good mom, no matter what my Mennonite culture might otherwise say.

Not that there’s anything wrong with these activities. Many good moms are—for example—excellent gardeners and bakers. But my success as a mother is not dependent upon my ability to raise magnificent vegetables or decorate elaborate birthday cakes. I do not have to excel at everything to be a good mom.

Being a good mom is not complicated, but I tend to make it so. I obsess over the many details of living and play internal comparison games with other mothers’ accomplishments and grow discouraged with my inadequacies. I need to stop it.

You know what my problem is? I don’t want to be a good mom. I want to be a perfect mom. I want to do it right and do it all and do it so that others are impressed with my ability to train my children and keep my house. I want perfection. Being good isn’t good enough.

No wonder I get discouraged.

My pursuit of perfect motherhood is not only impossible, but it is also rooted in pride and must be yanked from my heart. In its place, I need to plant the seeds of humility, service, and contentment.

When I climb into bed each night, I need to ask myself: Did I follow God today? Did I respect my husband? Did I love my children? If I can say yes to these questions, then my day was a success.

I will have been a good mom, and that is good enough.