Red Hot

My body fills with red hot anger; my heart, stomach and lungs feel as though they are full of hot coals, fresh off the fire.  My whole body shakes, my momentary existence wrapped up in my selfish desire for peace and comfort. Living, moment by moment joy forgotten in the struggles of the day.  

I look down at the two little light brown eyes who are no longer shocked by the rage inside my heart.  And in a way, this too makes me angry.  I am powerless and no longer have effect on her.  All I want is for this daughter of mine to sleep, as I know her body needs.  But she resists.  And she, in kind, responds with her own shouts of anger.  The person I am in this moment is not who I want to be.  I am shocked by how easily I've gotten to this point and by how little she had to do to bring me to the edge. My rage scares me and even in this moment, I am aware that the only fruit of my anger will be fear and distance between her heart and mine.  But I desperately need reprieve so I allow my body and soul to be taken by the fire.  

Each person is tempted when they are dragged away by their own evil desire and enticed.  Then desire, when it has conceived, gives birth to sin and sin, when it is fully grown, brings forth death.  {James 1:15}

Death.  Yes, spiritual death- I feel it deep in my soul and I see it in her eyes.  Her soul's doors shutting me out, protecting herself from the words that spew from my nearly foaming mouth.  

And then something miraculous and beautiful happens.  Breath of Heaven fills my soul and Living Water quenches me.  I crawl into my daughters bed and collect her sobbing body in my arms.  I pull her tear stained face against my chest.  And for the very first time, I know that she can actually physically feel my love.  She relaxes and her sobbing subsides.  I lay her on her pillow and stroke her cheek with my hand.  She closes her eyes, raises two chubby hands to my cheeks and pulls me in for the sweetest, most life giving kisses a child is capable of giving her mother.  

My journey in mothering is wrought with ugly moments.  Moments where I've chosen to continue in my rage; where I've missed the blessings of unexpected kisses and laughter.  

But then there are these moments, precious moments, bathed in God's Grace, ushered in by the Holy Spirit.  And there is no greater blessing in motherhood than the unexpected joy in the mess of the everyday  

And that is chara- joy in the awareness of God's Grace and favor.  Joy in the work of the Holy Spirit when we are at our weakest.  Joy in needing Him. Joy in our Rescue by a Loving God.

A Beginning

I sit across the table from a woman I'd never taken the time to truly understand or see.  She had always just been Mom.  I'd cried with her, carried her burdens in my heart, loved and, at times, hated her but I had never truly seen her.  Over the years she has given me little more than glimpses into her story, though I've cherished each as a gift to my heart in understanding and loving her. 

The gentle bustling noises of the small town deli create a play list for quiet conversation.  The busyness and stress of her day briefly forgotten as we share a simple, quick morsel in the rushed moments between her two jobs.  The conversation has shifted and her tired eyes fill with a sadness of old.

We were just talking about the new life growing and being knit together in my womb.  She had asked if I was afraid and I admitted that I was more fearful than I had been with my first two births and wondered if, in her four birth experiences, she could relate.

She responds simply that my birth, the last of the four, was the most fear-filled of them all.  I think to myself I've heard this story and am not prepared for the glimpse into her life and heart that she is about to share.  Her eyes glass over with remembrance as her mind is taken back to August 21st of 1987. 

She was little more than 7 months pregnant with what she thought was one healthy baby.  Poor and having no insurance, she had been unable to find a doctor who would see her throughout her pregnancy.  She had had no prenatal care and had no doctor to call.  So when she became incredibly sick and needed medical attention, she went to the local teaching hospital in Orange County, California.

A doctor finally agreed to see her after she waited six agonizing hours in the waiting room.  She was taken to a room with one doctor and nearly 15 students.  No privacy to be had.  She was nothing more than a teaching moment and they treated her accordingly.  They spoke about her as if she wasn't in the room; as if her pain were not real; as if she were not human.

Finally, unable to understand what the doctor was saying, my mother interrupted and asked the doctor to speak plainly to her.  His cold eyes met hers for probably the first time as he said, "you are pregnant with twins, one is dead and we don't expect the other to make it."  And he left the room without a reassuring word or kind hand squeeze. 

The words pour from her mouth with acceptance.  Sadness is a part of her story, she doesn't fight it.  I am caught off guard and take a minute to process as best I can.  But I am even more unprepared for the words that follow.

My father, a man I know very little about thought I lived with him for the first 14 years of my life, refused to be in the room with my mother.  He believed that the death of his only son, the twin who was still born, was a punishment from God because my mother did not respect him enough. 

Left alone by those she loved, my brave mother gave birth to two children, one who she would never know beyond the remembrance of his chubby checks and curly hair.  The doctors and nurses left her the room as she held me and my brother.  And my father, he chose to never hold or even look at my brother.  He never even came in the room to comfort my mother.

She smiles through somewhat moist eyes as her mind returns to the present moment.  And then she speaks these words, "But Mindy, He was there.  I felt His presence and it was so thick, like butter, that you could have cut Him with a knife."

For a minute, I am confused.  I think to myself, trying to recall her words. Who was she talking about; who was there?  And then I notice the slight smile on her face and I understand. 

God met my mother in the deepest, darkest, most lonely moment a mother can ever know.  His presence was so thick, she felt she could breathe Him in and that is the deepest form of chara, joy that anyone can ever know.  To be held by and breathe in JOY Himself in our deepest grief. 

And that is my beginning, bathed in my mother's lonely, broken chara.