What's Your Problem?

“Now his older son was in the field, and as he came and drew near to the house, he heard music and dancing. And he called one of the servants and asked what these things meant. And he said to him, ‘Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fattened calf, because he has received him back safe and sound.’ But he was angry and refused to go in. His father came out and entreated him, but he answered his father, ‘Look, these many years I have served you, and I never disobeyed your command, yet you never gave me a young goat that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fattened calf for him!’ And he said to him, ‘Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours…‘ (Luke 15:25-31)

After I had my second child, my mother told me, “Whatever you do for one child, you have to do for the other. If you don’t, one will be jealous.” My mother was true to those words. My two siblings and I were treated the same, received the same and, to our chagrin, punished the same. We were never jealous of each other because we all shared the same benefits as a family. When one made an accomplishment, we rejoiced together. It was a nice, happy world.

In the parable of the prodigal son, I was always puzzled over that older brother who was so angry with his father. I thought, “Why didn’t his dad take care of him, too?” I blamed his father for not treating him fairly. My mother’s words were the explanation—he didn’t do for his older son what he did for his younger son so that’s why he was jealous. I thought the one that was loyal and faithful would be the one who received more celebration. That would seem fair…at least in my estimation. It wasn’t just the alleged favoritism to the younger son that bothered me. What made it unnerving was the father’s purported attempt to explain it away saying—you’re always here so you already get everything. He might as well have said, “What’s your problem?”

Has anyone ever said that to you? It hurts. It’s disparaging. It’s a complete dismissal of your feelings and a grand way of being told to shut up. I’m not saying that this was the father’s attitude in this parable. What I am suggesting is that the older son’s erroneous perception triggered his angst. It wasn’t the younger son’s feast or the forgiveness of the father that stirred his anger. Those things by themselves were good things for him to enjoy, too. The real issue was the filter in which the older son perceived his circumstance because he didn’t already know his value. He didn’t know his value, because he didn’t really know his father. In a reversed situation, the father undoubtedly would have done the same for him. “Whatever you do for one child, you have to do for the other.”

The way this story is postured puts so much emphasis on the lost son and his return that the attitude of the older brother isn’t one in which we immediately relate. That is, until we’ve felt slighted. Then our empathy for him sets in. Our Western culture entitles us to that. We’re justified to fold our arms, look away and refuse to go into a party that clearly isn’t for us. The thought of doing such a thing would just be absurd. Right? But when I think about my own siblings, that attitude would never have surfaced because even though it was not my turn, per se, to be celebrated, I always knew that I could be and would be celebrated. I had no doubt that my parents gave equally to us even if it was in different ways and at different times. My best friend said it to me this way—the older brother still had his inheritance; he just hadn’t experienced it yet.

In our own impatience to want what we feel is rightfully ours, we can easily forget that God does not withhold anything from us. If we know Him…if we really, really know Him, we would know our value to Him. We would know that he celebrates over us while we are with Him and he celebrates over us when we fall astray and return to Him. We would know that His love is far-reaching to all of us and He has freely given the same benefits to all of His children. So what really is our problem? If we look closely, there isn’t one.

"Good grief, Charlie Brown..."

Good grief. What an oxymoron. It's like telling someone to "act natural" or asking Congress for "bipartisan cooperation."

Today marks two months since my dad died. It still sucks. It still hurts. I still cry like it just happened. I feel angry at nothing in particular. I'm annoyed by triviality. And I don't want anyone quoting Scriptures to me because guess what? It doesn't help. And, no, I don't mean that I've turned my back on my faith. It means just let me feel my pain. It's normal. Good grief.

While there have been instances where I've wanted to do a facepalm with my hand on someone else's face because of their incompetent attempt at sympathy, there have been exponentially more times where I experienced the surprise of thoughtfulness in places where I least expected it. And also in ways that I didn't realize it would bring me so much comfort. These are the things that I define as "good grief."

CHILDHOOD FRIENDS
Seeing, hearing from and receiving cards, emails and Facebook posts from my childhood friends--way back from when I was barely in kindergarten to elementary to junior high to high school and to college. Back in those days, my parents knew all of my friends. Seeing some of them at the wake, the funeral, the burial and all of the days in between and since then, made me feel their love for my dad, too.

GRAD SCHOOL/REGENT FRIENDS
Y'all know who you are. You're in a category by yourself!

MY CRAZY COUSINS
We hardly see each other because we're spread out all over the place, but your genuine love and deep respect for my dad as the patriarch binds us together and keeps us close. Reunion anyone?

RANDOM SPOT CHECKS
Because everyday is different, the randomness of friends sending me a note, text or voicemail message always seems to come at just the right time. And thanks for not expecting me to respond right away.

THOUGHTFULNESS TOWARD MY MOM, SIBLINGS, BIL, HUSBAND AND KIDS
Thanks for caring enough to ask how they are doing as well. I sincerely appreciate those that ask how my husband and my brother-in-law are doing. Even I sometimes forget how much they are mourning, too. That kind of thoughtfulness goes beyond.

LIKING MY FACEBOOK POSTS
When you "like" a post I make about my dad, I feel like you acknowledge my need to keep his memory alive.

THE SILENT NOD OF UNDERSTANDING
This is mostly from those who have experienced the death of a loved one, too. No words needed. The hugs and the looks of "I know" are of great comfort.

THE HONEST "I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO SAY, BUT I'M HERE" FOLKS
Refreshing! That's all I can say. Just letting me know you're there is plenty and much appreciated.

THE SHEDDING OF TEARS
When I share something about my dad and the other person starts crying...man, that moves me! Such tender hearts.

THE TOUGH GUYS (AND GALS)
Kind of like THE SILENT NOD OF UNDERSTANDING, but a little different. They know what's happened, but they don't really say anything about it. They let me talk if I have to and listen. And they transition well to keep carrying the conversation with no awkwardness. That's a gift and an art.

Interesting...I started out writing in a funk. But now that I've meditated on the kindness I've received from so many people, I feel much better. Good grief. :)

The Everlasting Gift of a Father

There are two signature acts that my dad would do when I was a little girl. One was when we would hold hands crossing the street and he would give me a big tug upward on my hand to step up on the curb--a tug so intentional that my feet would almost dangle off the ground. The second is when he would tuck me in at night and he would wrap the blanket tightly around my feet. Both of these gestures are etched in my mind and no one can claim its affection to me other than my dad. I’ve recently found myself doing both of these things for him. When I took him to his radiation appointments, I held his hand and tugged upward as we stepped up on the curb. And now when I help him into bed to rest, I wrap the blanket tightly around his feet. Who knew that decades earlier those impressions would flood its way back into my memory both to give me comfort and to serve as the passing of a mantle?

I’ve had a difficult time as of late with the aging of my parents. I’ve been clinging to every word they speak, every time I can wave goodbye as I drive away from their house, every chance I can say, “Let me do that for you.” It’s as if I want to make a permanent record in my mind that I’ve appreciated them enough and made up for the times when I wasn’t the ideal daughter. But I’m realizing that the two gestures that I mentioned, which have now reversed in exchange, hold a deep and silent bond between my father and me that allows me to accept whatever comes.

I believe in a loving and merciful Father in heaven. The good that I find in my earthly father is but a small reflection of Him. Even in the absence of words or the limited quantity of opportunities to share, to have had a father or father-figure in any measure, I believe, is a gift—an everlasting gift in a temporary realm.

Let me explain. I had a chance to take my parents to the Commissary today. The crowd inside was insane because of the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. My mom maneuvered the shopping cart ahead of us through the produce and I walked closely beside my dad who I set up in the motorized shopping scooter. With his impaired vision, I’m not sure that was the greatest idea, but we made it through sans difficulty. We pulled to the side briefly to sample the apple cider and I bent down to tell my dad that we would wait right there until mom got what she needed from that section. The woman serving the apple cider said, “How old is your dad?” I said, “He’s 79.” She said, “My dad is his age. He’s in hospice now.” With tears in her eyes she continued, “It’s so hard.” All I could do at that moment was hug her and say, “I know…I’m so sorry.” We smiled at each other, nodded with understanding and then I continued on with my father. In hindsight, I kept thinking of all the things I could have said to her, but words seem insufficient. Then again, words aren’t always necessary.

What I’ve come to understand is that pain accompanies loss in any degree. No one wants to experience it, yet without it, we would be blind to the mercy, comfort and compassion of the Heavenly Father. And we, in turn, would not know how to deliver mercy, comfort and compassion to a world that is hurting.

I dedicate this post to many of my friends that have said goodbye to their fathers—ranging from many years ago to very, very recently. Still unsure of words, I want to at least say, you are a special gift to me and the everlasting gift that your fathers placed in you lives on.

No guts, no glory

I only broke one bone in my body in my whole lifetime. My pinky. I broke it when I tackled a girl while playing rugby and she landed on it. Snap! I didn't even feel it happen. The girl who fell on me felt it more than I did. She jumped up and said, "let me see your hand!" She started yanking on my pinky thinking she dislocated it and was trying to realign it. My adrenaline was running so high, I still didn't feel it. I stayed in the game and the next time the ball came to me, I caught it and almost immediately dropped it. The pain set in. I just kept on playing thinking I would ice it later. A few plays later, I took a huge swipe in the leg that not only took me out of the game, but put me in an ambulance headed for the emergency room. That marked the end of my rugby days. No guts, no glory. Whatever.

The ER doctors got such a kick out of my injuries. They couldn't believe a 5-foot-1, then-110-pound girl was playing rugby. I chatted with the doctors, told them my pinky hurt, took a few x-rays and then that's when they told me. "You broke your finger." What? It never occurred to me that I would actually get hurt playing rugby. It was just a game...or so I stupidly thought. My leg was fine--just badly bruised--so I limped out of the ER with the aid of my sister and my pinky was in a splint. I wondered how I would hide my injury from my mom. She always warned me not to play that sport for fear I would get hurt. But did I listen? Of course not. No guts, no glory. That's what was printed on my sweatshirt when I was leaving the hospital, but that's not what I was saying when the bill for the ambulance came in the mail.

My pinky healed, but I have what you call a mallet finger. The extensor tendon in my distal interphalangeal joint was torn. In other words--the tippy top of my pinky won't make straighty no more. It's crooked to this day. It totally improved my fourth finger vibrato when I played the viola, but that's another story. It was the pain of the healing process of my broken bone nearly twenty years ago that is so applicable to my journey today.

I'm hurting right now. Overworked, overwhelmed, over it. When I pray in times of distress, I tend to finally tune my ear to God's wisdom. Just like with my mom scolding me about playing rough sports, I finally heard her only after I was in pain. Why do I always wait until something goes awry before I listen? God told me that I'm broken. And if I'm going to heal the right way, he had to immobilize me, put me in a cast so I can't move. He had to hold me in place, however painful, until my bone was set straight. As if my leg were in a cast, I want to run, but I can't even walk. The pain of waiting. The pain of knowing that I could be doing more, but can't. Because I've played so recklessly throwing caution to the wind, I'm now facing the pain of repair. When I broke my pinky, I never realized how important that little bone was in my daily activity. Everything that I did with my hands hurt. I struggled to wash my hair, put on my clothes, drive my car, pick up my books. I was never unaware of my brokenness.

Today, I'm in a state of spiritual brokenness. I have to give myself time to mend in the hands of the Ultimate Healer. I don't like not being able to move. I don't like not being able to fix things on my own. I don't like sitting still. It takes intestinal fortitude for that. It takes guts. No guts? Then no glory--for God. As opposite as it seems in our culture to deny ourselves selfish glory, it's more profitable to live a life with an awareness of our brokenness. His voice is clearer to me in that state. And when I heed Him, I just might find myself not immobilized, but free.

I want to end this with a few lyrics to what has become my theme song. "In the Waiting" by Vicki Yohe:

I want a peace beyond my understanding

I want to feel it fall like rain in the middle of my hurting

I want to feel Your arms as they surround me

And let me know that it's okay to be here in this place

Resting in the peace that only comes in the waiting.

Soli Deo gloria. For the glory of God alone.

Where are you?

Life gets in the way of life, doesn't it? I've become acutely aware that my existence over the last several years has simply been a reaction to the "tyranny of the urgent". Everything is urgent--kids, laundry, business, job, bills, taxes, exercise, meals, Facebook, emails, texts. What's NOT urgent anymore?

I was becoming disheartened with it all so I sought out a life coach. After two months of "oh yeah, I should probably call her", I finally did. Eye-opening. She asked, "on a scale of one to ten, with ten being the most urgent that you think you need coaching, where are you?" I said without hesitation--"ten". She sounded surprised. I suppose it was because there was a calmness in my voice and I wasn't coming apart at the seams. She asked, "why do you think you're at ten?" I explained, "even though I spend a lot of attention on details, I like to see the big picture. And the big picture shows that there is a huge cliff ahead and if I don't change course now, I'm going over that cliff." There's an urgency for me to make changes, yet the urgency of maintaining where I am can't be ignored. Cognitive dissonance. Until I verbalized where I am, I was pretty much unaware of how I actually arrived there.

Small tangents have separated what I value from what I practice. I was a personal trainer once upon a time. I played rugby. I spent four to five days a week taking tae kwon do. I worked out all the time. Then life changed. I went to grad school, studied all the time, ate all the time, worked full-time. I drowned out fitness altogether for what I thought were urgent matters. Here I am now--fifty pounds overweight. It's not like I don't KNOW what to do to fix this. It's that the knowledge never really made it down into my heart to PRACTICE what I know to do. I was in the gym practically 24/7 so I never had to think about working out. I was just surrounded by it. So when I surrounded myself with books, I just adapted to that environment. I valued fitness, but I no longer practiced it. How does that happen? The subtlety of not knowing where you are over a period of time.

I often think about how long Adam and Eve were in the Garden of Eden before they shared that apple. That sneaky snake was subtle. It probably only took a slight glance away from the value of the entire garden to eventually partake of something so small in comparison. Who knows how many years Adam and Eve just succumbed to the beautiful garden environment without internalizing the value of their existence there? As soon as they turned, God said, "Adam, where are you?" I venture to say that it wasn't a sing-song "Aaaadam...where arrrrre yoooooou?" It was probably more like, "Adam. Where are YOU? Because I didn't move." Adam had to come to terms with the fact that he separated himself from what he valued most. Was it overnight? I dare say it wasn't.

The good news is that there's redemption. We can turn back to what we value. We can ensure that every step we take is toward what we treasure most. It's not going to matter what you do or how you do it. Just be certain that in that moment you know where you are.

Family Quips, Quotes and Quirks

Me: Faith, do you want a hot turkey roll up?

Faith: No, I just want cold turkey.

***

One Father's Day weekend--

Me: Faith, don't forget Father's Day is tomorrow and hug Daddy.

Faith: Okay...so when's Kids Day?

***

I came home yesterday from school and obviously they were reviewing LEFT and RIGHT. I was a little disheartened to find an "L" written on her right hand and the "R" written on her left hand. I asked her, "Faith, do you know that's wrong?" She said, "Yes, the teacher messed up."

***

During the Christmas season--

Faith: Mommy, is it Easter again?

Me: No, Faith, it's time for Christmas now.

Faith: But it's raining hard again.

Me: Oh...that's a NOReaster, Faith.

***

So I'm reviewing musical notes with Faith and she properly identifies the quarter note, half note and whole note. I draw a dotted half-note and ask her what that one is. She said, "that's a half-note with a mole."

***

Read the Christmas story to the kids as I tucked them in. As Faith was falling asleep, she said, "Mommy, why was Jesus born on the table?" I said, "no, Faith, he was born in a stable." Then she said, "oh" and fell asleep.

***

While planning the family Christmas bruch, I was reminded of how last year I mistakenly put mimosa in Faith’s sippy cup. She drank the whole thing and said, “Mommy, can I have more juice?”

***

I was holding Nick in one arm and feeding him mac 'n cheese in the other when he laid a big cheesy kiss on my cheek. "Eww" and "aww" at the same time!

***

I dusted off and showed Dave our 2009 resolutions. He said, "Hey, these are still good. Just scratch off 2009 and write 2010 at the top since we didn't do any of them anyway."

***

Sign of the times: "Mommy, how do you spell dot-com?"

***

We did prints of Nicky's hands and feet for his one year birthday while he was sleeping. We were doing pretty good until Dave sat in the paint. So we managed to get a butt print of Dave as well. Too bad no one was documenting this on video.

***

Nicky at 2 1/2: Nicky took his hacky sack ball and threw it at me hitting me right between my eyes. As I leaned over in pain, Nicky said, "Mommy, catch!"

I Just Need a Little Mustard

I was never really a fan, per se, of "the power of positive thinking." I suppose from my days in Amway (don't judge), the mentality of positive thinking was ingrained into my mind. Peddling laundry detergent and "a great opportunity" can put you face-to-face with rejection quite often and you had to be positive to keep going. Woo-hoo FREEDOM! (I'm doing the little hand movement that goes with the cheer.) I do like to think positive simply because I can't stand to be miserable in thought. There's something about dwelling in the negative that makes me sick to my stomach. As I've gotten older and have grown in my Judeo-Christian denomination, I realize that positive thinking is a gift of God. And that gift is called faith.

I wrote earlier about my name and what it means to me. When my daughter was born, we named her Faith. Little did I know at that time how prophetic her name would be to me. Who knew that I was entering into a season where my faith would be tried and tested so intently?

Jesus said, "if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there' and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you." I look at my baby girl and I think of that verse all the time. When she was a tiny baby, she was like a little mustard seed. As she grew, so did my faith. But looking at her as a little child, I realize how my faith needs to remain as a little child--innocent, inquiring, believing the best in everything...believing I can move mountains. Faith is four and a half now and I'm amazed at what her life has already taught me about how to live my own.

***

By all natural accounts, my father shouldn't be here right now. After his first open heart surgery in 1985, the doctor estimated he would live about five years. It's now been, not five, but twenty-five years. While I attribute a lot of that to my mother who constantly stayed on his back about everything he ate, I believe it is ultimately the Lord's hand that preserved him. In 2006, when Faith was only eight months old, my father faced his second open heart surgery--but this time it was laced with numerous complications. My father arrested on the operating table. I remember my sister coming down to the hospital cafe to tell my brother and me that the doctor called from the O.R. and said, "it's not going as they expected." She didn't need to say anything more. We prayed and we called everyone we knew to pray. The second call came from the O.R. and this time my sister looked at me and said, "Grace, you go." I still remember walking to the telephone as if I was in slow motion wondering what I was going to hear. "Things have turned around and your father is done with the surgery." Already, a spark of hope.

The months following were difficult. Because of the trauma my father faced during the surgery, his rehabilitation carried on for months. He encountered multiple strokes, multiple aneurysms, partial blindness and muscle weakness. My father managed to press his way through cardiac rehab, physical therapy, occupational therapy and a plethora of medications, procedures and doctors appointments--and all to the amazement of his doctors, had recovered from what appeared to have been a vegetative state. Since then, we've taken a family photo every Christmas to mark his amazing recovery--which my sister sends to his surgeon in thanks every year. Amazing.

Now, another four years later...lung cancer. I struggled. At what point do you stop exercising your faith to believe for a miracle? When the doctors tell you to prepare yourself, is that when you stop? I couldn't connect the dots. One part of me was hearing the report and another part of me was facing God in bewilderment. What was I supposed to pray? Ask God for healing? Ask God for my dad's comfort? Nothing was making sense. It took me about a week before I could cry. Did you ever try to force yourself to cry? I felt so confused and conflicted inside that no emotion could surface...until the day I started saying things out loud.

What is taking place in eternity right now that You've taken my friends and my friends' children to be there already? What is awaiting in eternity for my father that he should go now? Can't it wait? Am I standing in the way of what You have called for him to do over there? Do I dare ask You to heal him and keep him in a place where there's sickness, disease and suffering? Is it selfish for me to ask that I have my father with me longer? With his grandchildren? To see them grow? Is it wrong for me to question the circumstances that we find ourselves in? I refuse to bargain with God. I refuse to ask for anything that is not in keeping with His will, but how can I "prepare myself" and my mind not be lured by what is promised in the Holy Scriptures of health and healing? The tears just poured out.

In desperation I asked my mom, "what are you praying for? What are you asking of God?" And she said, "I only ask that God give me the strength to deal with whatever comes." I was in awe.

Just from that one simple sentence from my mom, I've learned that unwavering faith isn't the absence of these questions that roam in our minds when faced with adversity. It's not about holding a fake demeanor of strength when you're wrenching inside. It's about relinquishing everything you believe and resting in the fact that God holds our best in His hands and we just have to be open to receive it...whatever comes.

When I came to grips with my own faith this time around, an undeniable peace came over me and I started recognizing how in the smallest ways, God is reminding me of His care:

When my dad was hospitalized, my job gave me the reprieve I needed to be there and my husband's schedule allowed him to care for the kids.

When I was the first to receive the news of my dad's diagnosis, my long-time friend, who is a physician at the same hospital, was miraculously at my side at that very moment. This same friend also made her palliative care team available for my family--above and beyond the routine care that is offered.

When my dad had his biopsy, it was determined to be treatable.

When the doctor recommended a long-term feeding tube (because the tumor paralyzed one side of his vocal cords), my dad proved he was successful in eating regular food and drinking thick liquids.

When my dad had CT scans and MRIs, it was determined the tumor was localized.

When my dad received his chemo treatment; he experienced no ill side effects.

When my dad awaited home health to deliver equipment, they sent a Filipino man who spoke his language AND spoke loudly enough that my dad could hear him well.

When we were initially told weeks to months, it was extended to years.

I'm grateful in the smallest things. No matter what we face in the coming time, I know God is there. It's not the power of positive thinking. It's this little mustard-sized thing called faith that gives me hope and encouragement that what I believe is not in vain.

UPDATE: On Friday, July 2, 2010, after six rounds of chemotherapy, my father received the official word that he is CANCER-FREE! Thank you, Lord.