Emmanuel

It’s December 13^th.   Twelve days until Christmas. 

Plenty of time.

Plenty of time to get the shopping done.  Plenty of time to wrap the gifts.  Plenty of time to trim the tree and mail the cards and bake the cookies. 

Don’t panic, my friends.  There is plenty of time.

I know how it goes.  We hustle and bustle all month long.  We rush around in a flurry, here, there, and everywhere.  Our minds race with all that must be done.  The commitments pile up and the lists grow longer and we wake up in a cold sweat fretting about whether we’re on track to accomplish all that we need to accomplish to pull this thing off. 

Did we remember to move the elf?  Did we remember to read the Jesse tree devotional?  Did we remember to put a treat in the advent calendar?  Did we actually order that gift for our mother-in-law, or did we just dream that we did?

It’s okay.  Christmas is busy.  We try to get things done early, but it’s tough to put much of a dent in the responsibilities that go along with making this much magic in a single month.  There are expectations this time of year – BIG ones – and most of them fall on us moms.

In addition to the myriad of roles we play every other day of the year - you know the ones – nurse, cook, housekeeper, chauffer, psychologist, rule enforcer, wife (that usually does seem to come in last, doesn’t it?), in December, we add a slew of duties to this mama position that can make our heads spin.

We do the planning and the decorating and the shopping and the baking and the surprising.  We create the cards and order the cards and stuff the cards and address the cards and stamp the cards and mail the cards.  We rack our brains to come up with the perfect gifts for everyone in the family and fuss about how much money we’ve spent to make everyone we love feel equally special.  We plan school celebrations and ornament exchanges and tacky sweater parties.  We cut and tape and tie and hide packages in places we might never find them again, and y’all, at six o’clock this morning I was using the tip of my pinky finger to spread Nutella on the tiny mouth of our elf, because, ya know, that sneaky little fella got into the candy jar last night while we are all sleeping lying awake trying to think of new elf tricks.

It’s okay.

Christmas is hard and I’m tired too.  My body shifted into overdrive the second we put away the pumpkin pie and my brain is turning to eggnog as I try to fulfill all the requests and requirements that go along with the biggest holiday of the year. 

But it’s okay.  I won’t get it all done and I won’t get it all right.  I will forget to send someone a card.  I will burn a batch of gingerbread cookies.  I will get him the wrong color and her the wrong size and I will worry about presents when the whole thing . . . the whole month . . . our whole life . . . is all about His presence.

I will screw up this Christmas because I am a mess, and isn’t it funny how He came?  Not in a royal palace, surrounded by the splendid majesty he deserved.  No.  He came in a barn.  He came in the middle of the dirt and the muck and the animals and the mess.

He came to be human, and the barn was the perfect place for him to enter the world, because it wasn’t perfect.  A king born in a messy barn was exactly the right setting, because he wants to settle himself in our mess.  He wants to settle in our messy hearts and stay forever.

So don’t panic, my friends.  Enjoy this Advent season.  Enjoy the hustling and the bustling and the extra obligations.  Enjoy the rushing and the racing and the added commitments.  Amid your shopping and wrapping and celebrating, feel the comfort he provides.  Feel the peace he brings.  Feel the hope he offers.  Feel his light and love envelop your soul as he settles deep within, content to stay as long as you let him.


There is plenty of time to get ready for Christmas. 


There is plenty of time to get ready for His coming. 

Because He’s already here.

Bring On the Semi-Colon!

Surgery is a very interesting thing.  The anxiety dreams I’ve been having are nothing short of hilarious. The brain is miraculous, the way it weaves your fears into a film that plays on repeat while you sleep.  I’ve been late for the surgery, failed to do the prep work for the surgery, and forgotten the surgery altogether, all in the middle of the night over the course of the last week.  And in the grand finale of all surgery anxiety dreams . . . last night there were no operating rooms available, so my doctor threw me over his shoulder, my gown blowing wide open to reveal everything I never want revealed, and carried me on a trip around the OUTSIDE of the hospital to find another location to do his job.  Pretty sure that one’s never happened before, which I suppose just goes to show my brain might be slightly . . . ‘abnormal’ is the first word that comes to mind, but in the name of that whole self-love thing, let’s go with ‘creative.’

Surgery is a lot like pregnancy, I’ve learned.  It ignites an intense desire to nest.  I forced my family to cut short our Christmas trip to the lake so I could come home and get things in order before my three to four day stint in the hospital.  Not sure exactly what I’m afraid of – do I think my home and family will crumble without me?  Is my husband not capable of putting away the Christmas decorations and returning the too-large Christmas clothes and helping the kids write thank-you notes and cleaning the toilets and doing the laundry and vacuuming the basement and painting the powder room because the color is slightly too dark and has been bothering me for months and HOW MANY THINGS CAN I GET DONE BEFORE THIS SURGERY??? 

My husband is very capable.  Well, at least up until the part about painting the powder room.

Of course, my real fear has nothing to do with forgetting to arrive at the hospital on time or failing to clean out the fridge before my 4-6 week recovery period begins.  My real fear is that I might die on that operating table today because bad things happen. 

I know, I know. I could die any day of the week in a car accident or crossing the street or choking on a piece of chicken.  But today, the possibility of death seems just too close. There will be anesthesia and several hours of surgery to remove part of my colon and my appendix and several days in the hospital where people have pneumonia and the staff bacteria thrives and you just never know. 

Bad things happen.

It always sucks the air out of a mother’s lungs when she imagines the thought of leaving her children, but when your children are 8 and 10, like mine, you can’t help but let your mind wonder to the fact that they will likely remember very little of me if I do die in that hospital today.  And that stops my breath altogether.

I keep thinking of the millions of things I still want to do with them.  The millions of memories we still have to make.  The millions of things I still need to tell them.  And just in case I’m out of time, I’m going to tell them one thing, right here, right now.

Be love, my darlings.

BE LOVE.

Be love to your family and friends.  Be love to teachers and classmates.  Be love to people who serve you meals and people who ring up your purchases and people who cut your hair.  Be love to your future college roommates and your future spouses and your future children.  Be love to those you disagree with and those who make choices you don’t understand.  Be love to strangers in your city and the sick all over the country and the hurting from one end of the earth to the other. 

Be love.  The world is seeking it and you can be people who share it.  Sometimes, it will be hard.  Sometimes, you will have to search deep in your heart to find love for someone, because sometimes, people seem unlovable.  But God so loved the world that he gave his one and only son to die for them (John 3:16) and He is love and He showed us how to love and we have His love and we can BE HIS LOVE to everyone we encounter.

I’m sure I’ll be coming home at the end of the week.  I doubt the toilets will be clean, but I know my family and home will be happy and healthy, despite my absence.  I will be sore and tired and incredibly grateful the hard part is over.

But just in case . . .

Be love.

Happy Mother's Day

It’s only been ten years since I became a mother, but in that most significant decade of my life – the one where every word and deed became about someone else – in that most demanding and magnificent and beautiful decade of my life, what I’ve learned is that motherhood is often about loss. 

You lose your body first.  It begins to feel all wrong and look completely different and defy everything you once believed about what it must mean to carry another human being inside of you.  You shop for maternity clothes and feel the flutters and you can’t imagine ever being happier, while deep within, things are changing that can never be reversed.  The miracle of life, of God creating a son or daughter who bears His very image, has taken over.  Your body has done just what God meant it to, and it will never be the same.

A pregnancy goes by and then, that very image of God, that precious son or daughter arrives in a rush of fear and pain and exhaustion and the most complete wonder and jubilation you’ve ever known.  And the loss continues.  He opens his eyes just for a moment and looks so intently into yours that you’re certain he sees all the way to your soul.  His tiny hand wraps around your finger and his lips meet your skin and your heart is lost forever.  It enters him and becomes him and you know without a doubt that it will never again beat without the knowledge that all is okay with him. 

Within days, your body and heart now wholly given over, you lose the rest of yourself.  You were once a daughter, a teacher, a wife, a friend.  Now, the days and nights run together with the relentless responsibilities and you don’t think you’ll ever be anything again except his mother.  The one who feeds him.  The one who holds him and rocks him and can’t stop staring at his precious, perfect face.  The one who gives up everything else to pour herself into the helpless image of God who never stops needing.

Days become weeks, and in the middle of a dark, endless night you realize not only have you lost yourself, you’ve lost your husband.  Not completely and not forever.  You simply understand there is another source of his adoration and his cup runs over with the joy of it, and you’re glad for that.  You’re grateful he has accepted the call of fatherhood with such enthusiasm.  Yet, you know a part of your husband now belongs to his son, and while you’re glad for that, you feel the loss, and it stings.

The loss doesn’t end there.  You lose sleep worrying about him.  You lose energy trying to keep up with him.  You lose confidence trying to understand him.  You lose patience trying to teach him.  You lose your faith when he’s sad or hurt or flailing in all his imperfections.  You lose your pride as you watch your own mistakes pile up so high you can’t see through them.  You lose your mind trying to make all his dreams come true.

The losses pile up one after the next as the weeks become months and years and all you can think about is how you keep losing time with him and conversations with him and opportunities to influence him and . . . him.

He’s meant to go. 

I’m meant to let him. 

There is so much delight and pleasure and enjoyment in the blessing of motherhood.  His voice, his smile, his laugh, the way he breaths when he’s sleeping.  The elation motherhood brings comes suddenly, and frequently, filling me with so much joy it’s hard to contain.  The happiness I receive from being a mother has existed as the focus of parenting from the very beginning, and I imagine it always will.  Still . . . underneath that constant joy, the loss remains.  

Motherhood is often about loss.  

Motherhood is mostly . . . about love.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mamas out there – may the love of watching them grow always overshadow the loss of watching them go.

Well, I certainly didn’t think taking my seven year old to her very first concert was going to ignite such emotion, but hey, after the week we’ve had in America, I think it was inevitable.  And the concert was Taylor Swift.  If anyone knows writing about emotions, it’s that girl.  

Chick’s making millions off her emotions.  Oh yes, I’m sure it also has a little something to do with her talent, ambition, and well, the fact that she’s 5 feet 11 inches tall and strikingly beautiful.  Those legs of hers can’t hurt either – I mean, you’ve got to be kidding me with those things.  It doesn’t matter how much money you have and who your plastic surgeon is, there’s nobody on earth you can pay to get legs like that.  I’ve mentioned this before, but its people like Taylor Swift who inspire the question I’m certain will be my first to God when I make it to heaven. 

“Lord, don’t you think you could have divvied things up a bit more evenly when you were handing out gifts?  Does it really seem fair for one person to have the ability to sing, play multiple instruments, AND look like she belongs on the cover of a magazine?  Haven’t you heard of the phrase ‘equal opportunity’?”

Despite the fact that she’s easy to envy and idolize, both of which we are specifically instructed NOT to do by the same God dolling out gifts rather haphazardly, I am now quite a fan of Miss Swift.  I didn’t know many of her songs, I had no idea what a production a girl in her early 20’s could put on, and I honestly believe I have permanent hearing damage after the concert, but I’m smitten nonetheless.  The child is precious.  She seems genuinely thankful for her life and offers some quality messages to her admirers.  She knows who her audience is and remains true to them for an entire sixty-minute show.  Her outfits were appropriate, as were her lyrics, language, and dancing.  The two drinks I had before the show to keep me from panicking about what I was about to expose my daughter to . . . they weren’t even necessary.  And hey, although that seven year old I kept up long past bedtime was still asleep at 8:00 the morning after the concert, by that time I had already downloaded the entire Red album, which I will happily listen to now that I know how many catchy songs are on it.

Still, there is a downside to attending a Taylor Swift concert, and it has nothing to do with the hearing aids guaranteed to be in your future.  The downside is that while you bop your head and clap your hands to music that can’t help but make you smile, you look around and realize it’s all moving way too fast.  Because in every direction, all you see are little girls – young, sweet, adorable little girls – who have the whole world at their fingertips and don’t even know it.  My heart catches in my throat as I picture them now, dancing and screaming and singing with all the naiveté childhood offers.  The endless possibilities, the decades of opportunity, the unidentified dreams destined for discovery.  Those girls dancing and screaming and singing? They have an entire lifetime ahead of them, while I . . . I have already lived much of mine. 

The problem with a week in which bombs explode and workplaces crumble and you find yourself surrounded by the youth you can never again attain is that it forces you to confront your own mortality.  And when I face my own mortality, it isn’t simply the thoughts of a shortened future I find upsetting.  It’s the thoughts of the past, and how much of it I’ve wasted. 

How much time have I squandered in anger?  How many nights have I spent crying over circumstances beyond my control?  How many people have I judged without knowing their story?  How many minutes and hours and days have I spent worrying about my finances or my appearance or my reputation? 

I’ve had so much time to do the good things, the right things, and yet, I’ve wasted countless moments doing everything wrong.  I could have been dancing and screaming and singing and praying and laughing and snuggling and smiling and helping and serving and hugging and kissing and giggling and teaching and worshiping and learning and living and . . .

I can hardly catch my breath as I think about what I’ve done instead. 

So much wasted time. Why didn’t I make better choices?  Why didn’t I do the good things, the right things?  Looking back puts a vice grip on my heart, squeezing regret from every cell as I view my life as a montage of misused opportunities. 

There is really only one way to live the gift of each day, and that is to live it in love.  Yet, many times . . . most times if I’m truly honest with myself . . . I make other choices.  I choose to fold laundry instead of reading a book with my daughter.  I choose to unload the dishwasher instead of playing catch with my son.  I choose to watch a mindless television show about a dream kitchen I’ll never have instead of talking to my husband.  I choose to serve myself instead of serving others.  I choose all the insignificant things instead of making the most of every moment. 

Of course, I realize the laundry has to be folded.  I know the dishwasher must be filled and emptied on a regular basis.  The toilets have to be cleaned and the email must be checked and the groceries need to be purchased.  But how much of my time is spent on these mundane activities?  Am I filling up my life with duties that can’t possibly have a lasting impact on anyone or anything?  Am I going about the minutes of each day in an effort to check off items on my to-do list, while hopes and dreams and opportunities to love slip by unnoticed?

Time is not limitless.  Charlie is halfway to gone and Libby’s feet are almost the same size as mine.  I’ll be forty in less than three years, which means if I’m lucky, I’ve probably reached the middle of my life.  Time is fleeting.  It’s speeding and racing and . . . winning.  

I’m running out of time. 

I’m running out of time to do the right things.  To make good choices.  To spend each day hoping and dreaming and, most importantly, loving.

This week reminded me of that.  Sporting events turned deadly reminded me of that.  Fellow citizens losing their lives on the job reminded me of that.  Taylor Swift, and her audience of girls, most anticipating 22 while I recollect it, reminded me of that.  And while the reminders hold a thousand heartaches of moments forever lost, they hold endless promise as well.  They hold the hope of a future filled with blessings, as long as I cherish each day for the gift of time it is, and keep my focus on the one thing that matters most . . . the thing even an inexperienced yet extremely famous singer writes about in every one of her songs.  I will not waste even a second of the time I have left, as long as I make sure each of my seconds revolves around love.

"For God so loVed the world

                                                               That He gAve

                                                                      His onLy

                                                                     BegottEn

                                                                            SoN

                                                                                That whosoever

                                                               Believeth In Him

                                                                   Should Not Perish,

                                                               But have Everlasting life."

John 3:16

 

Happy Valentine's Day!  I hope your day is filled with

LOVE!!!

She drove me absolutely crazy. She made me laugh equally as much. She stirred up my life in a way I didn't know could happen, and I think, in the end, I'll be a better person for it. She was adorable, and oh so messy. She whined a lot, begged for treats a lot, barked a lot. And on October 24th, at only one year and eleven days old, I stroked her head as she went to sleep for the very last time.

I miss that Macie.

No one is more surprised than me, but it's the truth. Over two months have passed, and I still look for her on the vent when I walk down the stairs. When I see a deer in our backyard, I often brace myself for the barking. I think of her at the strangest times, and when I do, I wish desperately that she was still here, driving me absolutely crazy. She was the oddest purchase I've ever made - me, a non-dog person who didn't ever want a pet inside our home. And yet when she was gone, I quickly realized how much she was ingrained in our daily routine . . . how much she'd become a member of our family . . . how much she was mine.

It's a long story and I've tried to write about it several times, but the words just wouldn't come out right. Basically, Macie got sick again, and this time, she was worse. She couldn't keep food or water down on a regular basis. We had to give her a bath twice a day because of the constant stream of yuck coming out of her. Her energy level was low and she had those awful, "Please help me, I'm hurting" eyes. It lasted for over a week and, once again, there were numerous visits to the vet, lots of tests yielding no results, and the same lack of a real diagnosis. All the vet could tell us was that Macie's liver wasn't functioning properly, and they didn't know why.

About a week in, my ever looming selfishness reared its ugly head and I was no longer simply thinking, this is no way for a dog to live. I was also thinking, this is no way for a non-dog person who now owns a dog to live. I didn't want to spend hundreds (okay thousands) of dollars on bloodwork and ultrasounds and antibiotics for a dog. I didn't want to hide pills inside balls of bread and try to sneak them to a dog who didn't want to eat. I didn't want to wash a dog's bottom every few hours. I mean, have you ever given a dog a bath? When it's over, YOU need a bath. And so does the rest of your bathroom. I just wanted Macie to be okay - to be her usual barking, begging, whining, driving me absolutely crazy little self.

And then, something changed. Macie woke up one morning about ten days into this second bout with illness and her tail was down. She wasn't walking right. Her stomach was hard. Worst of all, she wouldn't even think of licking a spoonful of peanut butter or rolling over for a belly rub. I knew we had reached some sort of turning point.

By that afternoon, she was shaking uncontrollably and her tongue was white. I rushed her to the vet, shocked when they put her on a scale and said she weighed almost nineteen pounds. Nineteen pounds? She was thirteen pounds three days ago and she's barely eaten a thing since . . . how can that be? The vet examined Macie. Said they would keep her overnight to hydrate her and try a new medicine. I left in a flurry, thankful she was in good hands and anxious to get to Charlie's championship baseball game. Before I turned into the ball park fifteen minutes later, the vet called me back. Macie's abdomen was filled with fluid - that's why she weighed so much. An ultrasound showed her liver and kidneys were like black holes - barely existent, let alone functioning.

I'm not sure how I made it back to the vet's office, the tears were so thick and the sobs so consuming. But I'll be forever glad I did.  I missed my son on the pitching mound in the championship game.  I missed him getting the hit that scored the game-winning run in extra innings.  I missed him celebrating with his teammates and their families.  But I'll be forever glad I did. 

They brought Macie in to me.  Wrapped her in a towel.   Showed me the syringe of clear, pink liquid. Explained what would happen.

At that moment, I felt a sense of peace . . . of gratitude even . . . because there was complete clarity about the decision. The vet assured me that even if Macie was his dog and he had a million dollars to spend on her care, the same decision would be made. There was nothing to be done. Macie was likely born with liver and kidney problems, and she would never get better.

She looked up at me with those eyes. Those precious, big, brown eyes. And they were full of helplessness. She needed me to do something, and there was only one thing I could do.  End the suffering.

The first shot calmed her instantly, and she finally stopped shaking. The next shot took only seconds, and our Macie was gone.

With her death came great regret, as I image is the case when any life ends.  I should have given her more belly rubs.  I should have played tug with her more often.  I should have let her sit next to me on the couch. 

With her death also came important life lessons.  Lessons I certainly didn't expect to learn only eight months after Macie entered our lives, but ones I wish I had learned years earlier.  Life is short.  Love big while you can.  Overlook the mess and embrace the heart within it.  Don't worry about the little things - you can always replace a stair banister that's been chewed to bits, but you can never replace the sweet little puppy with the big, brown eyes. 

I miss that Macie. 

I suspect I always will. 

   

“I like your Christ.  I don't like your Christians.  Your Christians look nothing like your Christ.” - Ghandi

Dang y'all.  That's harsh.  It kind of makes me want to put on my boxing gloves, you know?  Get out there and rough someone up in defense of Christianity.  Quote some scripture, point out some awesomeness, hollar a few statistics. 

Ephesians 2:10 For we are his workmanship, created in Christ for good works.  BING.

The Salvation Army provides aid to over thirty million people a year.  BANG.

Samaritan's Purse has sent thousands of doctors to help meet the physical and spiritual needs of people in impoverished nations.  BAM.

Ninety-one percent of Christians donate to charities.  BOOM.

There. 

Hook. Jab. Cross. Uppercut. 

Take that sucker.  Uhhh, I mean, Mr. Ghandi. 

Then . . .

I read his words again.

"Your Christians look nothing like your Christ."

And you know what?  My boxing gloves fall to the ground as I realize . . . Ghandi's right.

When have I ever looked like Christ?

Colossians 3:12-15  Clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.  Bear with each other and forgive one another.  And over all these virtues, put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity.

If I want to look like Christ, Colossians 3 tells me exactly which traits I have to exhibit.  I can go to weekly Bible studies and offer to pray for friends and wear a cross around my neck.  I can announce to everyone I meet that I'm a Christian.  But those displays will never mean anything if I don’t show people Christ. 

I have to be compassionate.  I have to be kind.  I have to be humble and gentle and patient and forgiving.  And more than anything, I have to love.  If I want to live like Jesus, I have to love like he did, and Jesus loved BIG. 

He loved so big he fed thousands of people with a single basket of bread and fish.  He loved so big he calmed a stormy sea.  He loved so big he healed a blind man, and a deaf man, and a paralyzed man, and a mute man, and a leper, and a bleeding woman, and a demon-possessed girl.  He loved so big he brought dead people back to life.  He loved so big, he suffered . . . and he bled . . . and he hung naked and nailed to a cross . . . just so I would know how wide and long and high and deep his love really is.

 

Such BIG love.

I wonder how many people I've come across in my life who have never had the opportunity to glimpse Christ.  I bet hundreds of people have crossed my path who have never seen Jesus in a church or in a Bible or, sadly, in a Christian.  What if . . . I shudder to think of the missed opportunities . . . what if people could glimpse Jesus in me?  What if I lived and loved in such a way that I consistently showed others what Christ looks like?

Christians have the power to change the world.  I believe that.  But we'll never do it thinking about Jesus or reading about Jesus or preaching about Jesus.  We can study Jesus all our lives, but if we never serve like he did, if we never live and love like he did, all our knowledge is wasted. 

Jesus died on the cross for our sins, and that's amazing and wonderful and extraordinary.  It means we're forgiven and free.  What a blessing and an honor. 

But it's not enough to accept Jesus as just our savior.  We also have to allow him to be our example.  Yes, Jesus redeemed the world on the cross. Yes, the grace he provided is the most beautiful gift we can ever receive.  But the cross is only one part of a bigger story.  The life Jesus lived is just as important as the death he died.  We can't only look at the cross if we want to follow Jesus.  We have to live our lives the way he lived his. We have to be compassionate.  We have to be kind.  We have to be humble, patient, gentle and forgiving. And above all, we have to love.  We have to love BIG.  So big that when people see us . . . they can't help but see Jesus too.

We have to prove Ghandi wrong.

1 John 2:6  Whoever says he abides in him ought to walk in the same way in which he walked.

Romans 13:8   Owe no one anything, except to love each other, for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law.

Dogs are the most interesting little creatures.  Macie has been with our family for almost five months now and honestly, it’s been the longest five months of my life.  Nothing can compare to adjusting to life with a puppy.  Many people say having a puppy is similar to having a newborn, and while that makes sense from a poop cleaning perspective, I must say, after five months of poop cleaning with my newborns, I was still madly in love with them.  After five months with Macie, I’m pretty sure dog people have a gene not present in a single cell of my body. 

Still, in the hopes of modeling an attitude of persistence to our children, we’re keeping Macie, much to my chagrin when she shows up at the back door with mud covering her entire face AND three quarters of each leg.  It turns out our puppy likes to dig. 

Aren’t you jealous?

The funny thing is . . . I’m receiving an education from our little Macie.  She hasn’t cured my OCD yet, even though that was one of the reasons I agreed to get her.  (Leave it to me to count on an animal with a brain the size of a walnut to work through all my issues and make me normal.)  Still, I am learning quite a lot from our Christmas puppy.  She has become somewhat of a teacher in our home, going about each day imparting little lessons on life.  I guess she got that whole teaching thing from me, huh?  The desire to educate and a love of sitting directly on the vent when hot air is blowing out.  Too bad she didn’t inherit my dislike for dirt too.

Yes.  Our Macie, the pooping, digging, dirt-loving puppy who literally makes me want to turn back time and make a totally different decision that would involve an aquarium instead of a leash, is providing me with a great deal of insight into the humans in my life. 

This might sound a little crazy, but hey, if you’ve read anything I’ve written in the last few years, you know crazy is par for the course.   So all insanity pushed aside, I happen to believe Macie knows a bit about self-esteem.

I know, I know.  Dogs don’t watch their weight and color their hair and consider paying hundreds of dollars for rat poison to be injected into their face.  They don’t compare themselves to others and search all over town for the perfect outfit for that big night out and wear a pair of heels that pinch their paws into oblivion just because they happen to be the perfect shade of taupe.  They don’t even know how to use a mirror, or a scale for that matter.  Dogs can’t possibly know anything about self-esteem. 

Yet . . . I beg to differ.

Maybe it’s because she’s my dog.  Maybe it’s because I know a thing or two (or twenty million) about self-esteem. Maybe it’s because I watch my weight and color my hair and am currently considering paying hundreds of dollars for rat poison to be injected into my face . . . again.  Maybe it’s because I compare myself to others and hunt for the perfect outfit and own several pair of shoes that are worthy of being called torture devices.

Or maybe. . . it just might be . . . I mean it’s possible . . . yea, okay, I suppose Macie might know a little something about self-esteem because hers was destroyed when I looked deep in her eyes and told her she sucks. 

Yes.  I really did that.  I know you dog people hate my guts right now and plan to report me to the Animal Rights Coalition first thing in the morning, but when your puppy whines at the door to go out for the one-hundredth time in an hour and you know she does NOT need to go potty, you really do think she sucks.  And sometimes, your fuse is just short enough to tell her so.

The vet gave me a rather interesting piece of advice during one of our many expensive puppy check-ups not long ago. I was telling the good doctor that Macie wouldn’t go up and down stairs by herself, and that she absolutely hated to leave our yard to go for walks.  I thought it was cute.  I thought it was because she was so little and inexperienced and because she didn’t like wearing a collar.  The vet responded by telling me I should be sure to pet Macie from her nose to her tail.  She said mama dogs show affection to their puppies by providing them with touches all over their bodies, and that it would help build confidence in our puppy if we rubbed the entire length of her body on a regular basis.  

Honestly, I laughed like someone watching the top ten funniest Saturday Night Live skits of all time when she said it.  Not out loud, of course.  Out loud I said, while nodding my head in vigorous understanding, “Wow, that’s really amazing.  I’ll be sure to do that.”  But inside, I was laughing.  I was throwing my head back, clutching my stomach, gasping for breath by snorting air through my nose laughing. 

And then I went home.  And I lived my life for a few days.  And I was a mama to my own two little puppies.  And I realized . . . the vet was serious, and it was no laughing matter.

People are just like puppies.  We need to be loved completely.  We need to be loved from head to toe.

I can’t love only the intelligent, obedient, respectful parts of my son and neglect to love the rest of him.  I have to love ALL of him.  I can’t love only the helpful, caring, thoughtful parts of my daughter and neglect to love the parts I would change if given the chance.  I have to love ALL of her.  When my husband is bald and wrinkled and has hair growing out of his ears, I have to love his shiny head, aging skin, and furry body.  I have to love ALL of him.  Every single bit.  From head to toe.  I have to love the people in my life completely. 

Sometimes, it’s hard.  Sometimes, I see things in the people I love that, for a time at least, make them seem a little less lovable.  I see selfishness and pride and greed and the inability to pick up a towel from the bathroom floor and take it to the laundry room where it belongs.  I want to tell them, “I love you, but . . .” 

I love you, but I would appreciate it if you would follow directions the first time I ask. 

I love you, but I need you to take the trash out on time and help me with the laundry.

I love you, but I don’t want you to use that tone of voice when you’re speaking to me.

What am I telling the most important people in my life if every time I declare my love for them, I finish the statement with something I’d like them to do differently?  What message are they hearing if I claim I love them, but only if they are willing to change, to do things my way?

If I truly want to follow the example of unconditional love God demonstrates for us every single day, I have to share my love for the people in my life when they are at their most unlovable.  When Charlie is cranky and irritable and I’m so frustrated with his ingratitude that I want to send him to Africa to see what it’s really like to know sorrow, I need to take him by the hands, look him in the eyes and say . . . Oh, my son, oh how I love you.  When Libby is sassy and emotional and I’m so angry at her impatience that I want to send her to boarding school for eternity, I need to wrap her in my arms, squeeze her tight and say . . . Oh, sweet girl, oh how I love you.  When my husband is messy and forgetful and I’m contemplating the idea of tossing his golf clubs into a very deep lake, I need to press my forehead to his, run my fingers through his hair and say . . . I can’t possibly describe how much I love you.

Because the thing about unconditional love is that there can’t be a ‘but.’  There can only be . . . I love you.  Period.  End of story.  Forever.  Always.  No matter what.

I.  Love.  You.

Jesus didn’t say, “I love you, but you’re a sinner.”  Jesus said, “I love you because you’re a sinner.”  Jesus said, “Not only do I love you, I love you so much I’m willing to die so that your sins will be forgiven.” Jesus walked on the earth for less than four decades, but the central theme of his life, the core of his message to all mankind, can be wrapped up in three simple words. 

I love you.

He did.  He does.  He will never stop.

There are no ‘buts.’

I rub Macie from her nose to her tail many times a day now, and she is no longer afraid to go up and down the stairs or to leave our yard.  In fact, I might have taken the vet’s advice a bit too far, because I’ll be darned if that monster, I mean puppy, didn’t decide last week that she was going to squeeze right through the bars of the outrageously expensive wrought iron fence we bought just for her.  Let’s just say the “you suck” comment was nothing compared to what I said to her after that escapade.

I’m trying to love the people in my life from head to toe as well.  It’s not always easy.  Unfortunately, Jesus and I have very little in common at this point.  But I want to follow him.  I want his life to guide mine.  I want to use his example as the driving force in all of my words and actions. And if I’m going to follow Jesus, I have to love like he loves.  I have to love without any ‘buts.’ 

I have to love . . . completely.   

Oh Charlie, tomorrow you will turn nine. How can that be? I’m not old enough to have a nine-year-old child, am I? Did I miss something? You mean my twenties are already gone? But . . . where did they go? My thirties are half over? GASP.

Okay. It’s fine. I’m breathing again. I feel the air moving in and out of my lungs and that has to mean I’m breathing. I feel the kitchen chair beneath me. I hear the dishwasher making its wet assault behind me. I smell the puppy at my feet. I see your lacrosse cleats on the floor and your picture on the counter and I recall the warmth of your forehead against mine as we snuggled in your bed an hour ago and . . . I know it’s true. It really is just as I thought. Tomorrow, you will turn nine. Oh Charlie. How can that be?

I cannot recall a moment in my life when I didn’t want to be your mother. I remember every detail of the moment I discovered I was pregnant with you. I can picture the room I was in, the clothes I was wearing, the things surrounding me. It was the first time I ever fell to my knees to thank God. Tears streamed down my face. Tears of joy and anticipation and gratitude and an immediate love I didn’t even know was possible.

I had plans to meet your dad for dinner, so I pulled myself together and headed out the door with a newfound fear of being behind the wheel of an automobile. I was carrying a baby and suddenly, every act of living took on new meaning. I made a quick stop on my way to the restaurant for my first purchase as a pregnant woman. I bought a blue and white bib that said, “I love my Daddy,” all the while formulating plans in my mind about how to tell my husband we were going to be parents.

I made it through our dinner together without a word about my discovery – I couldn’t share such special news in a crowded restaurant. My hands shook and my stomach fluttered with nervous energy the entire meal, and every bite I took had a purpose never before understood. I was no longer eating salmon and spinach because I enjoyed it. I was eating it to nourish the child within.

Once home, I asked your daddy to sit outside with me on our back patio. I watched his expression transform from confusion to curiosity as I handed him the baby bib. When his eyes met mine, I answered his silent question with a simple nod.

Yes, our prayers have been answered. Yes, our dreams are coming true. Yes, we are going to have a baby.

Statistics claim 75% of women experience nausea during pregnancy. Leave it to me to stick with the majority. My first trimester involved a great deal of time spent on the couch, in a horizontal position, in my robe. It also involved some highly questionable food choices. Some days, all I could eat were Pringles. Other days, I could stomach only watermelon. There were days of chicken broth, vegetable soup, tomatoes, tater tots, saltines, and plain pasta. My doctor claimed my all day morning sickness would go away in my second trimester. It didn’t. He told me to continue eating whatever I could handle and not worry too much. I worried anyway.

When I wasn’t eating or worrying, I was reading. And by reading I actually mean I was devouring any and all information I could possibly find on pregnancy. I knew exactly when your fingernails began to grow in my womb. I knew how much weight you were supposed to be gaining each week of every month of all three trimesters. I also knew very early on that you were a boy. I didn’t tell a soul, but I was positive our first-born was going to be a son.

On the morning of our twenty-week ultrasound, I wore a blue shirt in honor of the baby boy I believed was growing inside of me. I lied on my back, gripping your daddy’s hand, wondering why no one had told me how much concern you can have for someone you’ve never even met. And when that nurse (her name was Mary) turned the computer screen towards me and I saw your precious profile in a grainy black and white image forever etched in my mind, I fell madly in love with everything about you. Instantly, I memorized the upturn of your nose and the fullness of your lips and the curve of your forehead. You were always my baby, but at that moment, you became my heart. You became my son. You became our Charlie.

We decorated your room, painting the walls just the right shade of blue. Your father spent hours refinishing a piece of furniture to use as your changing table. We attended childbirth classes and baby showers. I washed tiny pieces of clothing and hung them according to size in your closet. We put together all sorts of strange looking, brightly colored equipment guaranteed to carry, bounce, swing and soothe. We picked out birth announcements and visited pediatricians and scoured consumer reports for the safest car seats on the market. Your daddy put your crib together . . . twice. On his first attempt, he assembled it outside your room. Turns out cribs don’t fit through doors.

And then, on a cold night in the middle of February, my water broke and the pain came and we rushed to the hospital and the doctor said it was time and at the perfect moment . . . at the exact moment God planned for you to entire our lives . . . you arrived.

Oh Charlie. You came crashing into our world with the softest of cries and the chubbiest of arms and the sweetest, most mesmerizing face on the entire planet. And our existence instantly became an incredible journey we could never have imagined. The journey that takes a human heart and links it to another in a way that is so complete, so certain and true, it can only be described as a forever purpose of love.

It has been an amazing journey; one filled with all the things we expected; laughter, anticipation, learning, surprise, hope, joy, pride, fear, concern, disappointment, sorrow, prayer. But most of all, it has been a forever purpose of love. Loving our child with everything we have and with all that we are. Loving him in every moment, in every circumstance, in the very best ways we know how.

Oh Charlie. I love you so much. I will love you forever. I will love you no matter what. And I’m glad you’re turning nine tomorrow. Because that means I have had three-thousand two-hundred and eighty-five days with the most wonderful boy I’ve ever known.

I pray for thousands more.