In Their Shoes

Both of my girls have gone through stages this year where they like to try on other family member's shoes. Abby mostly tries on mine, but Grace will try on anyone's shoes that she can. One day when Grace brought me Abby's shoes to try on, I thought of what it's like to be in Grace's shoes.

The night before, for some bizarre reason, Grace had been wide awake between 11 and 1. I believe in taking care of my babies at night--I want them to trust me to take care of them even when it's inconvenient, and I believe with all my heart that it's what Jesus would do. So I got up with her. And when I started to feel desperate, Cameron stepped in for a turn. (Thank goodness for a husband who will help at such times!) But there were definite moments in those two hours when I was frustrated and wondered why in the world she was awake. Were her incoming teeth bothering her? Was her stomach hurting? Was she getting sick? Did she have a bad dream? Or did she wake up to review and ponder her new toddler vocabulary? I will never know. But do I spend enough time thinking about what life is like in her shoes?

When I am helping Jake with his homework and feeling frustrated that he can't remember a word, do I remember that it really is a lot of work to begin to string letters and sounds together into words and sentences?

When Abby is pretending something in her little preschooler world and I want her to finish a task or hurry to go somewhere, do I pause to remember the joy of childhood and let her finish what she's doing?

My mom sent these cute wooden Dutch shoes, and both girls love them!

Do I think of what it's like in their shoes?

Do I think of what it's like in Cameron's shoes when he gets up early to go to work all week and has school all weekend?

Do I think of what it's like in my neighbor's shoes? Or the shoes of the rude driver in front of me? Or the grumpy person at the check-out stand? Do I think of what I could do to lighten their burdens?

Isn't Christ's knowledge of what it's like in each of our shoes one thing that we adore about Him?

I don't have Christ's omniscience. I don't even have His perfect love. Not yet. But I can keep trying to think of what it's like in someone else's shoes.

Baptism by Oatmeal

Recently I was walking past the pantry and noticed Abby sitting inside. She had taken the lid off the oatmeal bucket and was sitting next to it sweeping her hand around in the oatmeal. I was a little afraid of the disaster potential.

Me: (calmly so as not to startle her and cause any sudden movements) What are you doing?
Abby: My hand was getting baptized.

I'm just glad it was her hand and not her foot that wanted to follow Jesus.

Grateful

It sneaks up on me and I never quite know when it will hit. Someone says something or does something. I see something, hear something, or feel something. Suddenly I can do nothing but quietly weep with overwhelming gratitude. I had cancer and I am still alive. I am with my precious family. Hopefully I can still grow old with Cameron. Hopefully I can still raise our children. Hopefully we can still have more children one day.

I have never felt like I have had words to adequately express how traumatic it was to be diagnosed with cancer while I was pregnant. Words don't describe the agony of wondering if you will live long enough for your unborn baby to remember you or the anguish of picturing your sweet little toddler at your funeral.

But on the other side of such surpassing sorrow is soul-deep joy and gratitude.

At Thanksgiving we all pause to reflect on what we're grateful for. This year, as in every year since my cancer, I am just so grateful I am alive.

Our Favorite Thanksgiving Tradition

I confess to being a bit of a holiday worrier. I worry that Fourth of July celebrations are too much about fireworks and hot dogs and not enough about remembering the sacrifices of so many and the freedoms we enjoy. I worry that Easter and Christmas celebrations are often more about the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus, materialism and chocolate than about Jesus. And I worry that Thanksgiving celebrations are too much about gluttony, football, and Black Friday shopping.

These were my thoughts last year when I remembered a scripture story from Joshua 4. The Lord was about to deliver Jericho to the Israelites. But first He instructed them to gather up 12 stones from the Jordan River (which He had just parted for them to cross over, just as He had the Red Sea in Moses' time). He then gave this instruction:

"That this may be a sign among you, that when your children ask their fathers in time to come, saying, What mean ye by these stones? Then ye shall answer them, That the waters of Jordan were cut off before the ark of the covenant of the Lord; when it passed over Jordan, the waters of Jordan were cut off: and these stones shall be for a memorial unto the children of Israel for ever."


God wanted the Israelites to remember and teach their children the mighty miracles He had performed for them. Today, we want our children to remember the mighty miracles and blessings God has given to our forebears and to us.

So for a week or two around Thanksgiving we pass this bowl of 12 stones around the table at each meal. Each person removes a stone and says one thing they're grateful for, and we keep going till the bowl is empty. For us, it is a joyful tradition of remembering what God gave the Israelites, the Pilgrims, and us. We have so much to be thankful for.

With Them

The house was finally quiet. My kids were asleep. I paused to mentally review the day, and I came to a startling realization: I hadn't played with my kids that day. I had taken them to story time at the library, and I had read their books to them. But I hadn't taken a moment to instigate a tickle war, twirl them in the air, or race around the house giving them boisterous piggyback rides. I hadn't drunk in their laughter or breathed in deeply the beauty of their smiles. I hadn't really looked at them or been with them. They had played together happily all day, and I had been busy with household tasks. I had missed out.

So the next morning I was delighted to see a light dusting of snow on the ground. I helped Jake suit up to go play. I listened to him talk about the snowman family he was going to build in the yard. (I didn't tell him that such a humble fall offering wouldn't even make one snowman.) I smiled as Abby chattered about how excited she was to eat some snow (a beloved pastime she picked up last year.) I laughed as I watched Grace try a few handfuls of snow herself.

Later that week I enjoyed watching Abby pretend, listening to Jake tell me about his Lincoln Logs, and playing peek-a-boo with Grace.

I also endured a tantrum or two and witnessed lots of opportunities to encourage little people to apologize and try again. But small moments of misery are the price we pay to experience the joy of children, right? Next year Jake will be in first grade and I won't have as many opportunities to watch him build snowmen, push his little snow shovel all over our yard and sidewalk, or pull his sisters on a sled. Every day they get bigger, learn something new, grow older. While they are home, I want to be with them. Laugh with them. Play with them. Listen to them. Love them.

Being Number Three

Sometimes I think it must not be easy for Grace to be the third child...like when she really wants me to look at picture books of baby animals with her and I really need to help Jake with his homework. There is only so much of me to go around, and it's not always easy.

Other times, I think Grace is very lucky to be the third child...like when she is absolutely not content to play by herself, and I really need to roll out tortillas, and we reach a happy compromise when I set her on the counter to watch. She dips her hand into the flour bucket, first gingerly, then with bold strokes and big handfuls. Soon half the contents of the container are on the counter. But because she is my third child I watch and think to myself that I'll just sweep the flour back into the bucket when I'm done and it will be OK. 

Sometimes it may not be easy. But sometimes it's not so bad after all.

Prosthetic Eye FAQs

Here are answers to some of the questions I occasionally get about my prosthetic eye. If you have a question that I don’t answer here, leave it in the comments section and I will be happy to respond. (Please note: at the bottom of the post there is a picture of me without my prosthetic eye. It is not overly graphic, but if you aren't comfortable, don't scroll to the bottom.)

Q. Can you drive?
A. Yes. The oncologist who removed my eye informed me that the only thing I can't do with just one eye is fly an airplane. I have since heard of monocular people who have flown, but taking to the lofty blue has never been tempting to me with either one eye or two.

Q. Does your real eye get tired?
A. No. I figure my chances of going blind are higher. (I deal with that fear in this post.) And I have been advised to wear glasses to protect my remaining eye. But those are the only considerations so far for my live eye.

Q: What is your prosthetic eye made out of?

A: In former eras prosthetic eyes were made out of glass, earning them the name “glass eyes”. Now they are made out of acrylic (plastic).

Q: Is your prosthetic eye round?

A: When I met with my oncologist two days after my eye was removed, he showed me some prosthetic eyes. I was confused that they weren’t round. Prosthetic eyes are actually shaped like a thick contact lens.

My prosthetic eye

Q: Where did you get your prosthetic eye?

A: I chose an ocularist (there are two in Utah) to make my eye. Creating a prosthetic eye is a three-day process. On the first day he measured the pupil of my live eye and made a mold of my empty eye socket. The second day I sat there while he painted my prosthetic eye to closely match my live eye. The third day I went back and my eye was finished and he put it in for me.(I really like my ocularist, but I felt a bit like a specimen in Frankenstein’s lab during the process.)

Q: Can you take your eye out?

A: Yes, but I usually don’t simply because I don’t need to. If it gets extremely itchy I might remove it to soak it or give my socket a brief rest. But that would only be for a few minutes.

Q: Does your prosthetic eye move?

A: Yes. When my eye was removed the muscles were detached from my eyeball and attached to a small, round, coral-like implant. The muscles move the implant. My prosthetic eye sits on top of the muscles and moves similarly to my live eye.

Waiting for my ocularist to clean my eye 

Q. Does it hurt to wear a prosthetic eye?
A. No. I can't feel it when I wear it; and as long as I'm not too rough putting it in and taking it out, that doesn't hurt, either.

Q: What does your socket look like?

A: When my eye is removed nothing holds open the eye lid, so you can’t see in the socket very well. But if you were to hold my eyelids open, you would see pink tissue that looks like the inside of your lip.

Halloween Aftermath

Closed doors. Hushed voices. Whispered negotiations: bartering, trading, back and forth, shared halves. Resolution.

Bedroom floors that look like this.

Trash cans that look like this.

Pillaging babies that look like this.

Other than a few minor altercations and a toddler tantrum or two, the Halloween aftermath hasn't been too bad around here. I don't like all the scary, gory images that are associated with Halloween. But I do love seeing my kids dressed up gleefully running from house to house. I love the fairly peaceful transactions that have occurred as they have reached compromises and shared treats. And I especially love hearing Jake say to Abby, "Stop eating so much candy! You've got to save some to decorate our gingerbread houses." Yep. Halloween is a winner.

There

I once heard an experienced mother share a thought on being present for our children. She said that her children were grown and she remembered their childhood experiences with fondness; but she had worked hard to be there for them emotionally and physically as they were growing up, so she didn’t long for those bygone days. She had seen others who missed their children’s milestones for a variety of reasons and later looked back wistfully and wished they could turn back the clock.

I have thought of that concept a lot through the years. I am grateful I can be there for my children, but it isn’t always enjoyable. When Grace’s diaper leaks all over both of us while my kids are whining for breakfast, Cameron is usually at work and no one is there to hold down the fort while I shower. If one of my kids has a tantrum or spills grapes or gum drops all over the aisle of the grocery store, no one is there to reassure me that I am doing the right thing and this too shall pass. Right before church when Cameron is at meetings and Jake informs me that he just cut Abby's hair, I can take a deep breath and put my best foot forward.

The haircut Abby got after Jake's barbering job is so cute it makes me think I should get mine cut to match.

But being there also means witnessing all the magical moments of childhood. I see Grace’s excitement before she goes down the slide. I feel a sense of contentment when she plops in my lap with yet another book to read. I laugh out loud when she enjoys her lunch so much that she tries to lick her plate. I look at Abby’s precious face when I play with her and wish I could freeze the moment forever. I see her giddiness each week when she goes to her dance class, and I can’t help smiling.

I take pride in Jake’s accomplishments as he’s learning how to read. I watch in deep satisfaction when he helps Grace stand up when she falls or helps Abby with her seat buckle. I feel a glimmer of joy when my children share or serve or are kind to each other.

A few weeks ago Jake wanted to walk to school, and we arrived a bit early. Jake wanted to toss a ball with me before class started. Deep down inside, I wondered how much longer he will want to play with me instead of his friends. Thank goodness I am there for all these moments. It is sweet.

It isn’t easy. It isn’t glamorous. But I love being there.