EWWWWWW . . . Gross!!!

Can we chat about life for a minute?  Just the real, messy, normal stuff that happens every day?  I know that might sound somewhat ordinary, but here’s the deal . . .

I started this blog for several reasons.  One, I hoped God could use me to bless someone (anyone) else.  Okay, maybe trying to bless others was slightly ambitious for someone of my average standing and intelligence.  At the very least, however, I wanted to share my ramblings in the hopes that someone out there somewhere might find something in my writing that makes them smile, or relate, or let go of some of their guilt, or even for just a tiny little second think about Jesus and what he did for all of mankind when he died on the cross to provide the ultimate gift of grace.  Again . . . perhaps a bit lofty. 

The second reason I started this blog was because there is a circus that puts Ringling Brothers to shame going on inside my brain seven days a week, and I need to put all the clowns and acrobats and lions and tigers and bears, oh my, into some kind of organized rings.  You know, so I don’t end up jumping off a high wire one day.  

Reason number three is really two reasons, or more accurately, two people.  Their names are Charlie and Libby, and one day, after they have passed the season of listening to everything I say (that’s actually so far gone it’s barely worth mentioning) and the season of questioning everything I say and the season of resisting everything I say and the season of hating everything I say, they might come back around to being curious about what I have to say.  I realize we are decades from this, and the truth is, it might not ever happen, but a girl can dream, right?  A mom has to believe her children will, at some point, mature enough to understand their mother did the very best she could.   And since I quickly outgrew the art of scrapbooking after spending enough money to redo my kitchen (dammit) documenting every moment of my children’s first few years of life, I have resorted to blogging in the hopes that I am recording something of importance for Charlie and Libby to have in the future.

So, since this blog is supposed to be providing my offspring with proof that their mom didn’t only think about whatever it is they think I’m thinking about, we are going to talk about life today. And folks, God is very, very, VERY good, but sometimes, life is very, very VERY gross.  We’ve had some serious gross going on around here.

Not sure if you read the rambling I wrote a couple months back about Charlie’s first email?  As I’ve previously mentioned, the smart bloggers can insert a link for past blogs in a spot like this, but I have yet to learn how to do it, so if you haven’t read that particular rambling and would like to, it’s called ‘A First To Remember.’  Basically, it was about the jubilation my ten year-old child felt at the beginning of fifth grade when he sent his very first email – let’s just say it was unexpected.  I mean seriously, who knew sending emails could make a little boy giddy? 

Here’s the gross part.  Sit down if you don’t have any kids over the age of five, because this is heartbreaking and you will need the support of a very soft couch or chair of some sort when you realize this is where you are headed.  I have sent my sweet, precious, adorable son an email EVERY SINGLE MORNING since the day he squealed like a little girl after sending his first email.  That was on August 14^th.  Today is October 22.  That means I have sent Charlie a loving message (along with a Bible verse) for sixty-nine straight days.  Now, would you like to know how many emails I have received from him?  Go ahead . . . take a guess. 

ZERO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Zip.  Nada.  Nothing.  Zero emails from my only son.  He has not responded even ONCE in over two months.  No ‘Thanks, Mom’ or ‘Hope you have a good day too, Mom’ or ‘It’s so nice of you to think of me every single morning for sixty-nine straight days, MOM!!!’ 

That’s totally disgusting.

Ready for more gross? 

We aren’t stomach bug people.  The last stomach bug to hit our family was almost six years ago on the Disney Cruise, where, let’s face it, the CDC would have a field day.  Have you ever been on a Disney Cruise?  There are a thousand kids with runny noses touching everything they see all contained within 300 yards.  Libby was the one to get the stomach bug on the last night of our Disney Cruise, and she was up all night utilizing a state room trash can held by her mother.  Still, she was only two years old at the time.  I may remember that night well, but as she clearly demonstrated last Friday at 3:30 am, she doesn’t. 

What I’m trying to say to you is this . . . you should include stomach bug protocol on your list of important items to routinely discuss with your children.  Put it right up there with fire safety and stranger danger, my friends.  If you don’t, you will end up with a child who has forgotten the appropriate places to vomit when she gets the stomach bug, and you will wind up cleaning every spindle and step on your staircase at four o’clock in the morning.  And then all over again for several hours the next day, because there are a lot of places you miss when it’s dark and you’re half-asleep.  Oh, and you will need to call a carpet cleaner too, for that brand new runner you just had installed. 

So gross.

There’s more grossness, if you dare.

Ever had a colonoscopy?  Good times, folks, really good times.  I don’t skip meals.  I rarely go more than a few hours without eating.  I consider it not only essential to good health, but also to my happiness and, as you’ll soon agree, my ability to parent.  When you are having a colonoscopy on Tuesday morning at 9:00 am, you have to stop eating after Sunday dinner.  You can have clear liquids on Monday, because apple juice and chicken broth are so incredibly appetizing when you are starving, but that’s it. 

Did I mention I don’t skip meals?

By 10:00 am on Monday, my head hurt.  By 3:00 pm, I had done every possible activity I could think of to keep my mind off my growling stomach.  By 6:00 pm, in the middle of the drink two entire liters of the most disgusting liquid ever created cleansing phase of the super fun colonoscopy prep work, I wanted to give up and vow to never ever have a colonoscopy.  EVER.  By 9:00 pm, I could barely walk, and sitting down?  NO.  NO. FREAKIN’. WAY.  By 7:00 this morning, I told my eight year-old daughter I was going to bop her in the head with her hairbrush if she didn’t stop fussing about the bump in her ponytail, and y’all, I wanted to do it so bad I’m not sure how I stopped myself. 

And that’s how a colonoscopy works people.  Trust me, the tube inserted in the hole not intended for such intrusions was the best part of the whole process.  I didn't mind that part a bit.  Heck, I was off in propofol dreamland with doctors watching over me who clearly knew much more about the stuff than those who gave it to Michael Jackson.  And when the probing was done and I woke up, I could eat. 

So that’s it.  That’s our latest gross, documented for my children to read when they decide their mother might have had something worth saying after all, even if it was just the normal, messy, gross stuff of life.  Because what this mama really wants her children to discover (if they ever do grow up and dive into her many ramblings), is that in the normal, messy, gross stuff of life, there is always goodness. 

There is the son who might one day remember how his mom sent him an email every morning reminding him she loves him. 

There is the daughter who got to spend the day in her pajamas watching movies on the couch, while her parents attended to her every need. 

There is the husband who drove four hours home from a work trip to be there to take his wife to the hospital for a simple procedure. 

Yes . . . there is always goodness . . . because there is ALWAYS a good God.

May you not have too much gross in your lives this month, friends, and may you always find the good in the gross when you need to.    

There is no pit so deep that God's love is not deeper still.  (The Hiding Place).

Have you read The Hiding Place?  You have to.  You must.  You really need to read it.  I’m not giving orders here, but get on your Kindle or your Nook or your Ipad and download The Hiding Place by Cornelia ten Boom and Elizabeth and John Sherrill.  Now.

Sorry.  I’m in a bit of a mood.  Pretty sure it’s the fact that the weather in Atlanta took a rude turn a few weeks ago and I now need a shower every time I set foot outside my house, and sometimes, after I’ve folded warm towels in my supposedly air conditioned laundry room.  It could also be that we’re six weeks into summer and my kids have yet to be in camp at the same time, which means this mama is dangerously close to losing it if one of them asks me what's for lunch AGAIN.  Either way, I apologize for my tone.

Okay, so . . . back to The Hiding Place.  I know there are numerous books out there about World War II and the Holocaust and the amazing acts of love that existed among the horrific acts of hate.  But please, read this one. I insist.  (How was that?  Less offensive?)

It’s difficult for me to read about tragedies.  It’s hard to hear stories of suffering so immense it could only mean total devastation for someone like me – someone who has walked the easy road since birth and found blessings around every corner of my rather straight and narrow path.  And yet, I read them anyway.   They make me cry.  They make me cringe.  Worst of all, they make me doubt my belief because how could a great God allow such immeasurable pain.  The answer comes to me even now, instantly and without variation in word or tone. 

God condones the things he hates to accomplish the things he loves. 

I have to believe that statement.  If I don't, my faith is shaken almost to the point of nonexistence.  When I hear of something so awful I want to turn my back on God - a baby boy born too early to survive, a little girl abused by the only person she trusts, a marriage failed, a life destroyed - I have to remind myself of that statement.  I have to say it out loud, over and over until I can find the truth among those simple words.  And really, the words do make perfect sense, don't they?  Because how can we find gratitude for the good without first experiencing the bad?  How can we understand God’s dominion if we don’t exert our own power and fail?  How can we see God’s sovereignty if we haven’t floundered under our own authority?   How will we know God’s mercy if we’ve never been demeaned?  How will we view God as the most high if we’ve never been at the bottom?  How will we comprehend God as shepherd if we’ve never been lost?  How will we know God is everlasting if we haven't felt the pain as something ends?   How will we accept God as provider if we’ve never been without?  How can we receive God’s peace if we haven’t been at war?  How can we know God as healer if we’ve never been hurt?  How will we view God as almighty if we’ve never felt small?  How can we explain God’s righteousness without committing sin?  How will we see God as one who sanctifies if we’ve not been dishonored?  How can we know God’s grace if we’ve never had to forgive? How will we believe God is there if we haven't felt truly alone? 

I want to know the stories of humanity, tragic and otherwise.  I long to understand how and why we came to be who and what we are.  I need to understand that decisions made by simple, normal people have the power to change life for generations.  I want to comprehend how the words and actions and sacrifices of a single human being can make an impact on the world forever.  Stories like the one told in The Hiding Place stretch my horizons in uncomfortable ways.  They force me to remember the mistakes of the past.  They show me that sin is real.  They remind me that life will never be perfect.  They encourage me to realize that people, while capable of the most repulsive acts of hatred, are also capable of the most incredible acts of love.  Most importantly, stories like Cornelia ten Boom's allow me to see how God fits into all of it. 

When Corrie and her sister Betsy were forced to ride in a train car without food and water and fresh air for over two days, with eighty other women in a compartment that should have held only 40, with no way to relieve themselves except to simply do it, God was there.

When husbands and fathers and brothers and sons were lined up in a row and shot in the head because of their heritage, God was there.

When wives and mothers and sisters and daughters were beaten and battered and forced to do impossible things in hopeless conditions, God was there.

God was there then.  God is here now.   He’s everywhere.  He’s everything.  He’s in all of it.  I simply have to acknowledge his presence and let him work in my life the way he’s worked in every life since the beginning of time.  And I have to expect some pain and heartache and strife and loneliness and unrest, because without those things, I can’t fully experience the love and peace and grace and comfort and rest he so freely offers.

God is good.  Even among the severest of conditions and the most abhorrent of attitudes and the most detestable of behaviors, His goodness abounds.  Books like The Hiding Place help me to remember that.  I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did.  I shed many tears.  I took many notes.  Much will stay with me.  And the next time I find myself in a sea of uncertainty, with waves of doubt drowning out the sound of truth, I might just read it again, and again, and again.