It's not Ok

A dear friend lost her mother today. She called to tell me and I knew what had happened before she said a word. This friend is a warrior, a trooper. She minimizes her pain out of habit and when she heard my shock and pain she started to say "It's ok" but stopped herself in the middle. She knew not to say it's ok. She knew she shouldn't because she had to be honest with her best friend. She didn't say it was ok.

And it's not ok. Every fiber of my being wanted to reach out to her, appear in person and yell, as loud as I could "It's NOT OK."

My cousin lost her father a few months ago. Her mother came to my shower, months after her husband's passing. I asked her how she was, and she held back her tears. It's hard she said. I knew that this event was supposed to be for me, but I wanted to tell her she could cry for him. It IS HARD I wanted to shout.

Death is not ok. It wasn't meant to be. The pain we feel, even if it's inevitable, is not ok. It's not supposed to be easy. This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

God didn't make us for death. In the garden of Eden he meant for death to not exist. No one should ever know the loss of a loved one. No one should know what it's like to experience cancer, heart disease. mental disease. These things are not written into our being.

We experience death, so much pain and suffering, and our insides scream at what's happening. It's not because it's natural, it's because it's not what God intended us for. If you ever needed proof that this world is not our home, look upon death. 

God meant us for abounding life, pure and eternal. Sin entered the world. We learned, from our parents' knee, that death is a part of life. Oh, dear one, it's not. 

Death is not part of the original plan of God. God never wanted us to know the suffering of death. It is not ok, it is not easy, it was not part of what God had for us. 

God has a remedy, of course. He would never ask us to carry a burden that was too big for us. Yes, people die, against what he originally intended, but they live again. We will see those God has saved in heaven. 

It's a small conciliation, I know. Right now, it does seem that way.  Believe me, I know. But when we rail against death and people console us saying, "Death is a part of life" and that death should be embraced, I squirm. 

God watched his Son enter the world. He watched the lies told against him. He watched the brutality. This is NOT OK! This is not how it's supposed to be. I hurt for others, I hurt for myself. I wonder if I truly understand what it was like for God, to watch the son he sent, massacred at the cross. 

Fight against it. Fight against the feeling to make it right. It is so wrong. It was not how it's supposed to be. Everything in your being tells you that. This is wrong. Perhaps that feeling is a whisper from the other side. 

Turn your eyes on Jesus, who took death on the cross. Know that it's ok to say this isn't ok, and to hope for a true Eden, which will happen. Perhaps we feel so wronged at death because it is wrong. Death is not what was intended for us. 

My Mom's Favorite Books Are My Favorite Books

I don't remember how she convinced me. I don't remember if she had to convince me at all. I only remember toting around my giant old copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn around with me and finishing it at a family reunion in Indiana.

I had always been a reader, although not the kind of reader my mom would have liked. I begged her to bring me home the next in the Sweet Valley kids series and being crazy with joy when it appeared on our dining room table on Friday nights. My mom lamented that I wasn't reading Black Beauty. I'm just proud that I was so excited over books that I would rather read them in one sitting than watch television.

After being utterly delighted with A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, I started to listen more to what my mom suggested. She was OLD as far as I was concerned, but she got that one right. I still read Sweet Valley kids and The Babysitter's Club, but when she brought out her old copy of They Loved to Laugh it was unlike anything I ever read.

I read the book utterly enthralled. Is this what reading is? Not just a mild interest in what will happen to my favorite twins Elizabeth and Jessica (I was now reading about their middle school life in the seires Sweet Valley TWINS), but being utterly taken away with someone that I could not quite understand but still feel a connection to? 

After that, the next suggestion, Marjorie Morningstar, was an easy decision. I'm glad she waited until I was older for that. I finished that book devestated, but with a better understanding with what was happening to me. My mom had it right.

My mom had it right for a lot of reasons. But mainly, her greatest asset in all of this is that she used to teach high school English. I used to think of her as someone who could correct my grammar in homework, but her skills went far beyond. Could she actually size me up and decide what book would be best for me when? 

She didn't say a word when I picked up Of Mice and Men at the tender age of 12 and an avid animal lover. She frowned when she found out I picked up Along Came a Spider arbitrarily off our bookshelf without permission. She never told me no when it  came to books. She just suggested. And she suggested well.

A few years later, she remarked that perhaps I would like the book Rebecca. Again, she was right on target. From that I discovered Jane Eyre. I don't think she ever pressured me toward a book or discouraged me either. She knew me, she knew herself, she knew her training, and she placed  books before me.

Today, I reread A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, They Loved to Laugh, Marjorie Morningstar, Rebecca, and Jane Eyre every few years. I wish I could say that it's because they remind me of mom. I loved those books before she was sick, before she died. I love those books because she knew me, because she trusted me. I hope I make the same decisions for my child like she did for me. Placing them before me with the other crappy books, biting her lip, and hoping I found beauty in them. 

I am grateful to my core that I remember sitting around my dad, my mom, my brothers reading, and me being frustrated that I couldn't do it. I'm grateful that I got so upset that I couldn't read that I threw open a book in anger and stared at it with all concentration hoping that all it took was sheer will to understand what my everyone else found so fascinating. I'm grateful for Goosebumps, for Sweet Valley Kids, for Harry Potter.

I'm grateful most of all that my mom was right about those books. I'm grateful that I get to share them with her. And although I can't claim that I love these books because she is gone, there is a very sentimental part of me that's gets a little weepy when I read and realize that these are the lines she loved, her eyes read these words too, and we both loved them. 

Hopes for my future child

There are a lot of mom blogs out there and I read them all. It's helped me sift through what matters and what doesn't, for me at least. Maybe things will change in a few years, but right now, these are the most important hopes I have for my future kids.


I hope you love something and are really bad at it. I hope you're third string defensive lineman, choir ballerina, cover the absenteeism policy for the school newspaper. And I hope you do it anyway. 

I hope you love animals and are kind to them. I hope you beg me to go back for the dog on the highway when we're going to the school dance.

I hope you seek peace, even when you're in middle school and people strive on strife. I hope you keep seeking peace when it doesn't make you popular.

I hope you will be brave in your own way. Whether that means jumping off the high dive, trying out for a team, or spending a semester abroad in Italy. 

I hope you love books and the stories they tell. I hope you can get lost in the stories of biographies and memories and fiction when the world is too much.

I hope you love Jesus and trust in His promise to you, even when you're tired and don't feel like you deserve His grace. 

I hope you're not disappointed in the lack of toys and organized play you'll have. I hope you'll be grateful for the time you spent creating your own fun, perhaps pretending you're one of the boxcar children in a trailer in the backyard.

I hope you get in trouble for reading too much.

I hope you'll never beg us for a new phone, a new car. I hope you'll be grateful and have a contented heart. 

And dear one, who is not yet conceived, I hope you know how much I love you. I hope that you know that you're decisions have consequences, and although we can't take them for you, we'll take them with you. I hope you'll always be coming home.