on noticing the care-givers

I just wanted him to notice me. It had been an hour since he returned home from his meeting at the church. I spent most of that hour in bed, nursing a pulled muscle in my back. Nursing a heart-hurt as well. Seems as if there have been a few of these kinds of aches lately. Internal, soul-pains with no immediate cure but for the passage of time and the tenderness of God. And so I waited for him to make that trek down the hall to our back bedroom … to notice me. To ask a few questions. To join me in my misery.

Ever tried that one before? Using your pitiful estate to procure collective pity? I can’t be the only one out there wielding this emotional manipulation. We all (especially us women) have an arsenal full of management techniques we’re willing to implement in order to secure the attention of others. Unfortunately, mine wasn’t working. My husband is an “S” on the Myer-Briggs Personality Test, meaning that he gains information through his senses. If he can’t taste it, touch it, feel it, hear it, or see it, it doesn’t exist in his cognitive awareness. So, while I’m back in the bedroom nursing my wounds, he’s not thinking about checking up on me; he’s simply noticing the partially shut door, indicating to him that I’m resting and wanting to be left alone.

What I’m wanting is for him to intuitively know my need without me having to tell him—that’s part of my being an “N” on the Myer’s Brigg, an opposite of being an “S.” But really, this isn’t a post about personality types. Mostly, it’s just about my needing to be noticed, and when he didn’t acquiesce to my silently kept expectations, I added a few frustrations to the wounds I was already self-medicating with self-pity.

Why isn’t he coming back here? What’s more important than my pain? He’s usually so attentive to my needs? Why isn’t he taking the time to notice me?

An hour into my self-soothing, I received my answer. Not through him, but rather through the faint sound of silverware clinking together in the kitchen sink.

He can’t notice you, Elaine. He’s too busy noticing the messy kitchen—those after-dinner dishes that never got washed. He is taking care of you, just through different means. By the way, who’s noticing him? When was the last time someone paused long enough to stop his/her personal self-centeredness to ask Billy, “How are you? How are you handling your pain … your wife’s pain?”

Noticing him. The guilt from not having made many meals in that kitchen for nearly a year is bad enough, but to intuitively feel the pain regarding his pain on this one (again the “N” at work in me) added to my heart ache.

I can’t tell you the last time that someone ministered to my husband along these lines. I don’t know if it’s a guy thing or a preacher thing (maybe even a human nature thing), but it’s not right. As the primary bread-winner and care-giver to a sick wife, my husband carries a heavy load. I couldn’t ask for a better help-mate as we have navigated and continue to navigate these uncertain times. But few have been those who have noticed him … have taken the time to ask the hard questions, wait for the answers, and then act upon the pain that is obviously masked by his need to be strong for all of us. Who’s noticing him?

Few.

Why is it that few people take the time to notice the care-givers of sick patients? The friends, spouses, children, extended family members who are caring for the infirmed? Is there a threshold for concern … as if there’s only enough room in our hearts to offer compassion, send comfort to the sick? Is taking on the care-giver simply too much burden added to an already heavy-laden list of those needing care? When did we stop noticing the corporate nature of care-giving? If it “takes a village” to raise a child, then why would it be any different with those who are suffering? Suffering need, needs a village of concerned inhabitants to tend to the sick, care-givers included. They should not be overlooked. Instead, they should be noticed. Be consulted. Be loved, even as the patient is loved.

As the wife of a husband who has valiantly endeavored to “love me as Christ loves the church,” I am sometimes saddened by the response of the “church at large” to love on my man. He needs to be noticed. And I can honestly tell you that he isn’t wielding any weapons in his emotional arsenal to procure attention. He’s just not the type. He’s a humble man with a beautiful heart willing to bend low to wash the feet of a stranger, despite his own feet being sorely in need of a thorough cleansing of communal love.

I don’t tell you this to elicit a response in our direction. I tell you this in hopes that you might consider a care-giver who is within arm’s reach of your ministry today. Someone who needs noticing, who needs a few minutes of your time and your tending. Someone who would benefit from a phone call, a note, a lunch date all offered in the name of God’s love because you understand that loving “the most excellent way” (see 1 Corinthians 13) means putting others’ needs above your own. It’s such a simple thing … noticing the pain of others. It doesn’t take much to abate the human need to be noticed. It simply requires your willingness to re-direct your attention away from self and to channeling that attention in the direction of others.

Perhaps, today, you could give your attention to the care-giver of someone who is sick; in doing so, you give to the patient as well. Don’t wait to be asked. Just do. Do it today; do it because our God has done the same for us.

He noticed us. He notices us still. We must give our hearts–our energies and our efforts–to the same. As always…

Peace for the journey,
~elaine
PS: The winner of Michael O’Brien’s CD is #13, Stephanie! I’ll have this in the mail to you be week’s end.

I love you this big…

I love you this big…

“Sons are a heritage from the LORD, children a reward from him. Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are sons born in one’s youth. Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them. They will not be put to shame when they contend with their enemies in the gate.” (Psalm 137:3-5)

I jokingly commented to my neighbor last evening…

“Of all the women least likely cut out for motherhood and children, somehow I wound up with a quiver full of them.”

I’ve been a mom for at least half of my life—twenty-two years of rearing and raising a brood under my roof. Sometimes getting it right. A lot of time failing miserably at the task of loving, but at all times with the understanding that mothering is a privilege … a sacred trust not to be taken lightly.

With parenting comes pain. Unavoidable pain—good and bad. Good pain issuing forth because of the natural flow of give-and-take while growing a child into an adult. Bad pain because sometimes that growth is accompanied by the willful, stubborn choices of both the parent and the child.

Today there’s some good pain in my heart. An ache not unfamiliar to me as a mother of four beautiful children. Today, my eldest son moves to Charlotte where he will be attending graduate school in the fall. A van load and car load just pulled out a few minutes ago, and my obligatory wave at the end of the drive-way was met with a few tears and the all-too-familiar, wrenching kick to the mothering gut.

I first felt it four years ago when we left the parking lot of Nick’s college campus. Sobbed most of the way home and then sobbed some more when I opened the back door and found a bouquet of flowers waiting for me on the counter. I still have the card on my nightstand.

“I love you so much! Thanks for an incredible 18 years. I am so grateful to have you as a mother and you have my love and respect. Reliant K writes: ‘If home is where the heart is, then my home is where you are.’ Your Son, Nick XOXO” (August 18, 2007)

Today there are no flowers to greet my pain. Instead, I take one from my quiver and give it back to the world. Today I release my “twenty-two-year-old, so-much-like-his-mother” son to his life as an adult. Today I trust and believe in those two plus decades’ worth of heart investments that we’ve made together knowing that they have been enough to grow a boy into a man. A man of honor, respect, depth, and godly intention.

I will “not be put to shame when my enemies come and contend with me at the gate.” My son’s got my back. Nicholas, he whose name means “victory of the people” is strong and courageous and will be a leader in this world. A name well-suited for this man who has overcome many obstacles in his short tenure upon this earth and who has always done so in the light and shadow of the cross.

It’s time for you to run,my boy. Time for you to live your life as a man. This mother will miss you; but even more so, this mother is ready to release you to the world.

Live it like you mean it, Nicholas, and always, always, always, take good care of your heart. I love you this big.

Mom

what crowd are you running with?

She lapped me twice yesterday. Twice. She an avid marathon runner. Me an avid “hope I get through this jaunt without tripping on a rock” walker. My lap around the neighborhood is about a mile in lengt

h. Her lap a bit further than mine. We made our cursory nods at one another the first time she passed me. She’s not much of a talker. Running is serious business for this gal. But when I heard her steps encroaching upon my territory the second go around, I decided to break our customary silence.

“I’m going to ‘facebook’ that you lapped me twice today! I used to run, but I can’t anymore. I’ve been through cancer, and it’s slow

 

ed my pace. You’re my inspiration!”

It was then that she did something I’ve never seen her do before. She stopped running (she was now several paces ahead of me), turned around and said…

“No, you’re my inspiration. Look at you. You’re jogging slowly. Someday we’ll run together.”

I nodded my thanks, and we departed company. It’s highly unlikely that I will ever be able to keep pace with her stride, but I liked her idea—this “running together.” It started me thinking about the men and women with whom I currently keep pace. Those who are stepping the path of cancer and who are moving forward with their healing. There are many of us. Too many to name in one post. Another 1.5 million will be added to the roll call this year alone.

And while I may not be able to run with the marathon momma in our neighborhood, I’ve been privileged to run with many valiant cancer-warriors in the course of my last year. Some of them I was able to meet face-to-face this weekend.

All of us cancer survivors. Three of us breast cancer survivors. One a momma-survivor—her precious son, Andrew, marking the path home to heaven increasing our hopeful expectation for what awaits us all at the end of the road. I am honored to call these women friends; they have stood with me, prayed for me, touched me with their love—all from a distance, and just this past weekend, in the flesh. As I recently wrote in my book proposal…

“Suffering need, needs a suffering friend. Not just any friend, but a friend who has walked a similar road.”

Certainly, we need a variety of friendships. But there is something uniquely special about having a “come-alongside” friend who grasps the fullness of our pain, whether that pain issues forth from cancer or from some other type of “disease” that is eating away at our flesh. We need those who will keep pace with our stride, not move ahead of us or lag behind but who willingly enter into our struggles because their stories mirror ours. Out of the comfort we have known we must, in turn, offer comforting comfort to others (see 2 Cor. 1:3-5).

I don’t know what that will look like for you in the days to come, but I imagine there will surface a person in the next week who will need the benefit of your comfort. Perhaps a “suffering need” with which you are well familiar. Promises regarding a “future run together” fall flat to a heart that is suffering. What proffers hope is an offer of willing participation, a decision to stop running ahead and to start keeping pace with personal pain. A slowing down so that the hurting heart might catch up, look up, live up in the midst of trial.

God needs you to minister his comfort to his children. You cannot be all things to all people, but you can be a friend to one. Would you be willing to pay attention to the lives that cross your path today? There is someone who needs the tenderness and kindness of heaven. God has entrusted you with the privilege of this glorious dispensation. Suffering need, needs a suffering friend. Out of the comfort you have known, minister comfort. As always…

Peace for the journey,
~elaine
PS: According to random.org, the winner of Glynnis Whitwer’s I Used to Be So Organized is Kathy S. And because my friend, Cindy, is the queen of organization and simplicity, I’m sending her a copy as well. Leave a comment today to be entered into a give-away for Michael O’Brien’s CD Be Still My Soul.

Legacy (a reflection from "She Speaks")

 She nestled in next door to me, to my left and within an elbow’s reach of bumping into mine. Around the table set for eight, we began our dissection of rolls, salad, and sweet tea. Her choosing a seat next to mine put a smile across my heart. She’s a good fit with my favorite people group, and as things go with my favorite people group—those exceeding me in wisdom and age by at least twenty years—I heartily welcomed her as part of my evening digestion.

Some meals feed the stomach; other meals feed the soul. This meal would provide nourishment on both counts. Thus, the “feeding began” with a few words of initial impartation from my heart to hers.

“Tell me a little about yourself. Where did you come from, and why are you here?”

“I’m from Arizona, although it’s not really my point of origin, and I’m here with my daughter this weekend. I’ve never been to She Speaks before, but I wanted to come and see what the buzz is all about. Mostly I came to support her. Can I show you something?”

(Honestly, she could have shown me a pair of nail clippers at that point; she “had me” at her words about “point of origin.”) Instead of nail clippers, she pulled out a copy of the newly released book by Glynnis Whitwer, I Used to Be So Organized: Help for Reclaiming Order and Peace.

“My daughter wrote this book, and she dedicated it to me; I didn’t even know it until today.”

She opened the book to the dedication page, and we read the words together. Her name was written there—in print and on display as a lasting memorial to the parenting investment … the loving deposits, she’s made into the life of her daughter over the years. Glynnis obviously “had her mother” with these initial words of personal dedication. It was a Kodak moment, at least of the heart kind—one that I mentally snapped and reflected upon throughout the remainder of the evening.

I watched them as they broke bread with one another and wondered about how many tables they’ve shared over the years. The evening was filled with little moments of mother-daughter give-and-take. Caring for one another in simple ways. Passing the salt. Passing softly spoken messages. Passing the tissue box. Passing touches. Passing love.

At one point in the evening, my new friend gently placed her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. It remained there throughout the serenade beautifully voiced through Michael O’Brien. I could barely contain my tears while witnessing this love pass from a mother to her daughter. A stretch of grace from a mother’s womb to the fruit of that womb.

A grace-filled tribute to legacy.

The keynote speaker for the evening spoke of legacy. Ann Voskamp challenged us in regards to those “book/movie trailers” we’re creating for the next generation. What seeds are we planting? What trails are we blazing? What steps are we marking? What stones are we gathering? What remembrances are we collecting? What will be the lasting memorial of our earthly tenures?

As the evening drew to a close, I thought about the “book trailer” that I had just watched unfold before me at the table. Not the one on the stage screen, but on the screen closer at hand—the 3D, in the flesh trailer that rubbed elbows with me throughout dinner. Clip after clip of loving legacy between a mother and her daughter. I’m not sure anyone else noticed it, but I was privileged to sit ringside to its witness. As I prepared to leave our time of fellowship, I looked at my new friend and said…

“This is the book trailer; the way you love your daughter and the way that she obviously loves you in return … this is the trailer that matters. Keep to it … keep to your loving.”

Weary and worn from a day’s worth of peddling my words to publishers, I threw a few more out there; not on behalf of myself, but rather to validate and commemorate a precious love between a parent and a child.

Legacy–a trailer we leave for the next generation.

  • Traveling with the ones we love.
  • Talking about the ones we love.
  • Touching the shoulders of the ones we love.

Not a bad formula for making a life-trailer. Traveling. Talking. Touching. What better words of final benediction could be spoken over our lives? I want them to be spoken of me one day.

She traveled with us. She talked about us. She touched us with her love.

This is the book trailer, friends. The one that matters. Keep to it … keep to your traveling, your talking, and your touching this week. And thank you, new friend, for being willing to rub elbows with me. You had me at your “point of origin.” As always…

Peace for the journey,

~elaine
PS: Leave a comment to be entered into a give-away for Glynnis Whitwer’s new book, I Used to Be So Organized. There will be another give-away with my next post for one of Michael O’Brien’s CD’s. Shalom.

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