Our Time is Now: 53 Days of Vomit

I am not inclined to say that everything happens for a reason.  Stuff happens, and it is often unfair, unexpected, and uncalled for.

I AM inclined to say that perspective can give purpose.

When I was expecting my first three children by birth, there were nine months of hopeful expectation, baby showers, anticipation, and falling in love with the growing child inside of me. Preparing a beautiful nursery, purchasing the perfect coming home outfit, sending out invitations and announcements were a beautiful part of the process.

When I was expecting my three children by adoption, well, I wasn't expecting them.  They arrived in my life as a toddler and two preschoolers.  There was no expectation, no baby showers, no anticipation, no preparation.  A phone call, a "yes", and an hour later, they arrived.

I think back at all the things that happened with my biological children in their infancy and toddler years.  Countless hours soothing them, holding and rocking them, waking at night to console them. Visits to the doctor for immunizations, well checks, ear infections, and broken bones. There is so much that happens to create the sacred bond between a mother and child in those first months and years.  The precious time that I had with my first three children in their infancy is forever a part of me, and a part of them.  There is a physical, visceral connection that happens between babies and parents in those very early days.

I missed all of that with half of my children.  They missed all of that with me.

Until now.

My family has been tested in the past six weeks.  There have been five hospitalizations, countless doctor visits, time off work and school.  It has been hard. I've missed out on time with my husband, time with my other children, and with friends.  I haven't cooked dinner, cleaned the house, or even showered much at all.

I stopped for a moment to think about the purpose in this time of trial.

It's almost exactly like maternity leave.  I am bleary eyed, weary, and exhausted.  I am caring for two children who need me very much.

I am being given the opportunity to have a sort of maternity leave with my daughters who came to me as preschoolers.  I have spent countless hours soothing them, holding, and rocking them, waking at night to console them.  Visits to the doctor, countless visits.  There is so much that happens to strengthen the sacred bond between a mother and her children during times of illness.

I imagine them as infants.  I wonder what it would be like to hold their tiny bodies, to hear their newborn cries, or to see their first smiles.  I often think about rocking them as babies;  I think about having those precious hours, days, and months to get to know them.

But that wasn't my time.

My time is now.

Our time is now.

There is purpose in puke, there is joy in darkness, there is healing of souls, minds and bodies. This is our time.  53 days of vomit.  It is a season in our lives, a season that will come to an end.  And it is bittersweet.   Everyday that goes by, I can more easily discern their cries, interpret their groans, and feel their pain.  The physical, visceral connection between mother and child is being sealed.

This is a game changer.

Our time is now.  Our time for joy is now.  Our time for life and love is now.

Snacking with Jesus

Our church invites everyone to join in communion, every Sunday.  There was a Sunday that we had a child with us who was unfamiliar with communion.  I asked if he wanted to join us, and he did. This little boy walked with me to the front of our church.  As we approached, he asked "What is this, Sarah.  Why do you do this?"  In that moment, the best words that I had were something like:

"It's kind of like a snack to remind you that Jesus loves you, and that you love Him." 

The little boy looked at me, smiled and nodded, almost tipped the cup over on the altar, and took communion with me.

Snacking with Jesus on a Sunday morning. 

My daughter LOVES the communion bread, and the grape juice.  As we walked toward the communion table this past Sunday, she BEGGED me to have two servings of communion.  Of course I said no; we have to make sure there are enough Jesus snacks to go around. She asked if she could have mine.  Of course I said no; I need my Jesus snack SOOOO very badly this week.  She even asked to go up for "seconds" after we had returned to our seats.  No way, girlfriend.  We don't do that. 

Doesn't communion mean that everyone takes their own, single serving of Jesus, during one single moment on Sunday morning?

Wait. What?? 

I just denied my daughter a double serving of Jesus.  I just refused to share my serving of Jesus with her.  I REFUSED.  I mean, that Jesus snack was MINE, it wasn't for sharing.  I told her, on no uncertain terms, that people DO NOT return to the altar for "SECONDS" of communion.  

Oh my lands, I totally missed the point, and the opportunity, to show her what communion means to me. 

The homemade communion bread at our church is AMAZING, and you can't beat Welch's grape juice.  They make a delicious pairing.  But surely it's not enough to sustain us for the hour, or the day, or the week;  it was never intended to.  It's a sacrament, for that moment.  And in that moment, it's not intended to be shared between people, not intended to replace lunch, not intended to return to for seconds.  Because it's not the end.  It's the beginning.  I mean, I MAY sneak an extra piece piece of bread for her next week, as a peace offering, but then I will tell her that it is intended to be only a snack.  Communion must happen in all of our moments, in all of our days.

Give us this day our Daily Bread.  We need DAILY bread.  DAILY communion. 

As I consumed my Jesus snack this Sunday, I cried.  I knew that the communion cup was being emptied, so that my cup could be filled again.  I knew that I was taking this in, so that I could give it away again.  In the very same moment, friends were surrounding my very ill little girl, in another room of the church.  She needed to be hospitalized.  We scooped her up, and headed to the hospital. As I rode in the ambulance, I was thankful for communion, and thankful that my cup had been filled. 

Here I am today, empty and hungry again, but knowing that seconds are freely given. If I relied on that single serving, not to be shared, Sunday portion of communion, I would never get through my days and weeks.  I need daily sustenance.  Homemade communion bread and Welch's grape juice on a Sunday altar is good nourishment for the Sunday soul.  But everyday isn't Sunday.  

Today is Monday.  My Monday communion was taking a two hour nap on a hospital sofa, dreaming of my mother, and praying for all of my people.  When I woke, I saw my sleeping girl across the room, I had messages from my husband and children back home. I took a sip of cold coffee, and ate a few potato chips as my daily bread, while hearing the words "It is well" playing in my mind.  

Living my life in communion means living everyday of my life in communion.  Double servings, sharing with others, and going back for seconds.  Forever and ever. Amen. 

You can pray on a trampoline and not even say Amen.

I pray with every breath that I breathe in and breathe out.  Except when I don't, and I am distracted by life.  I pray when I feel lonely and overwhelmed, and I pray when I feel thankful. Sometimes I find myself not praying at all, because I know that God sees and hears me anyway.  I do not have a faithful prayer life.  I am not strongly disciplined nor am I religiously schooled.  I am not a good example. But my children are.  

There was a chilly spring day, when a young boy who had stayed with us a short time, was jumping on the trampoline.  After a while, he came in, took off his boots, and said these words:

"When I was outside, I laid down on the trampoline, and I prayed to God. I prayed that he could put a thought in my mom's head so she knows I love her. I prayed that she finds a bigger house so that I can get with her again. I prayed that if she gets hurt that He will heal her. I prayed for some basketball teams to win too. Before I got taken from my mom I didn't know how to pray. Then someone taught me. Now I can do it all the time. Do I HAVE to say amen at the end? I did, just in case." 

Amen.  AMEN. And AMEN.

We can pray while jumping on the trampoline.  And we don't even have to say Amen.  We don't have to know how to pray.  Someone taught this boy that he could talk to God.  That's all he needed to know. He could talk to Him.  Whenever he wanted to.  Wherever he wanted to.  

Another day, my 12 year old son taught a little girl how to shoot basketballs while jumping on the trampoline.  She struggled with the basic tenets of life, but she blossomed on that trampoline.  Her smile beamed, and her heart soared, as she enjoyed a game with our son.  

The trampoline in my backyard is somewhat of a holy place for my children.  They leap, bound, and flip toward Heaven.  Their cares are naught.  Their prayers are lifted.  

Prayer on the trampoline on a chilly spring day.  The ordinary meets extraordinary.  A little boy communes in prayer while playing in my backyard.   A littlle girl learns to shoot baskets.  He didn't know what he was doing, she didn't know what she was doing, I don't know what I am doing.  Except letting the divine intercede with the mundane, letting light shine through darkness, letting extraordinary mix with ordinary.    


Amen.