Eli's Stitches

I almost titled this "Eli's First Stitches", based on what other parents have told me about their kids, but I refuse to give up hope this is the last time we have to go through this! 

It's been a week and one day since the incident, and I wanted to write it here for posterity (which really just means for me so I can go back and read it in the future -- who else will read my old blog entries but me?).

Last month, Jonny was taking care of all the kids by himself while I was at the womens' retreat for my church at Alasso Ranch in Hawkins, Texas, which has no cell service except when you get to high ground, stand on your tip toes, and tilt your head to the side so the phone is as high up in the air as you can get it.  (I only slightly exaggerate.)

When I managed to get a call out at about 4:00 to tell Jonny we may be later than I had anticiated, he said, "Well, Eli and I just got home from the hospital."  And then the call got dropped.  Not cool.

I quickly went through some physical gyrations akin to gymnastics in order to find exactly the right spot to get another call out.  This time, the connection was solid and I was able to get the whole story.

Jonny and the kids were outside washing the truck, and all three kids were in their bathing suits "helping."  At one point, Jonny called to Eli to come to him, and Eli came running.  Just as he came up to my row of flower pots, he tripped over his own feet (it wasn't even wet), and his head slammed into a pot.  This one, to be exact:

He hit the pot right on the bridge of his nose, causing a deep gash about an inch long.  Eli cried.  Blood gushed.  Jonny scooped him up and ran into the garage, searching for something to grab and cover the wound to get the bleeding to slow.  He found an old bassinet sheet, and applied pressure to the wound.  Eli started fighting him, and then he realized that he was also applying pressure over his nose and mouth so that Eli couldn't breathe. 

Olivia ran in the house to call me, and when Jonny came in, he told her to hang up, that there was nothing Mamma could do right now to help.  (He thought that my voicemail had picked up and that would be all I would hear was him yelling that Mamma can't help right now, but fortunately it hadn't connected to voicemail yet.)

His mind was racing, trying to figure out what to do with 2 girls in dripping wet bathing suits and a bleeding son who clearly needed medical attention.  He sent Olivia across the street to her friend's house and told her to tell the dad that he needs him NOW.  By this time, Olivia is crying, and so she and Amelia run across the street to get the dad.  I'm so glad no cars were coming because even though she's usually pretty good about looking both ways, I imagine she wasn't focusing on anything but getting help.

Our neighbor told me later that when Olivia came to the door, he was watching TV and he thought Olivia was there to ask his daughter to play.  But then he heard Olivia say to his daughter, "My dad needs your dad NOW!"  He said he jumped up and came across the street to see Eli bleeding and crying, and Jonny sitting in the garage holding him.  Jonny asked him if he could take the two girls for a little while, and of course, he said it was no problem.  (So thankful for good neighbors!)

Once the girls were taken care of, Jonny had to make a choice about how to get to the hospital:  the Jeep, which is a stick shift, or his work truck, which he's not supposed to drive except for work purposes.  He didn't want to have to stop applying pressure to the wound, so he decided on the truck, and he held Eli all the way to the hospital while he drove like a maniac to get there.

By the time they arrived, Eli had calmed down somewhat and wasn't crying near as hard.  At the ER, they rushed them back immediately, and amazingly, a plastic surgeon happened to be there (he wasn't even on duty, and was there with his son) and the ER doctor grabbed him to stitch up Eli.  Even more amazingly, the plastic surgeon was in-network for insurance purposes.

From what I hear, the stitching process was traumatic for all involved.  Three adults couldn't hold Eli still as he fought them with all he had.  Eventually, the surgeon got 4 stitches in, and the trauma was over.  At least for Eli.  For Jonny, I think it will live on for quite a while.

Here's the best picture I have of him with his stitches, though at this point he had already managed to pull one of them out:

And here he is at Easter, post stitch-removal:

As you can see, it doesn't lessen his appeal any.  He's still quite the dapper young man.  ;-)

This weekend, I'm going on a trip to New York and leaving the kids with Jonny.  He says he's worried about breaking another kid -- here's to hoping he doesn't. 

Awkward Love

Over the past 6 months, I've begun working with the elderly in our church, as well as some other outreach efforts for single parents. Unfortunately, a lot of praise has been heaped on me for this work, both privately and publicly at church. Just last week, someone told me I was amazing (or something like that) for doing this.


The truth is SO far from that statement that I felt compelled to set the record straight, to tell the pure, unvarnished truth. (And yes, I have an ulterior motive for sharing, so stick with me.)

At Christmas, we delivered homemade baked goods to our elders. I spent countless hours coordinating the baking and the delivery of goodies to almost 50 seniors all around the suburban perimeter of the nation's 16th largest city, from almost-to-Lake Worth, to North Richland Hills, over to east Arlington, down to Alvarado and all the way over to Cleburne. If you measure point to point, it's an almost 135-mile perimeter.

It was a major undertaking. But, relatively speaking, it was easy. Give me a spreadsheet, Google maps, and willing volunteers, and I'll coordinate all day.

But give me a pan of brownies and ask me to deliver it to someone I don't know, and you'll find me sitting in the passenger seat of my car across the street from the elder's house, doubled over from anxiety with my head resting on the dashboard, moaning that I don't want to do this, until my husband finally runs out of patience and says, "Are you going to do it, or not?" You'll then hear me try to talk my husband into doing it for me, to which you'll hear him reply, "No, this is YOUR thing." (Not that he was mean about it – it was a much-needed tough love moment.)

You'll then see me walk across the street (dropping my phone in the street unknowingly so we'd have to come back for it later – serves me right), knock on the door timidly, and almost rejoice when no one comes to the door (despite hearing someone inside) and I have to leave the brownies on the doorstep. Score one for a completely unamazing me. Or maybe that one is worth two.

Later, if you heard the phone call to an elder that I DO know, you would hear the most miserable attempt at small talk you have ever heard spring forth from anyone's mouth. Or not spring forth, which was the problem. Although I hate it, I'm usually halfway decent at small talk – I practically do it for a living, having to engage in it preceding every single meeting that I attend. But this was just pathetic. The elder wasn't the talkative sort, and in small talk,, you gotta have give and take in the conversation. There was no giving on their part, and really bad giving on my part. Come to think of it, that's usually my trick – get the other person talking and then I don't have to. But it didn't work this time. And it made for the most uncomfortable conversation I've had in a very long while. Score another one for a completely unamazing me.

Another time, if you watched me deliver food to a sick, housebound elder, you would see me drop it off and do a horrible job at ministering to her because as I'm getting in the car, I realize, "Gee, I probably should have prayed for her, since she's sick and all." But praying with people isn't my thing so I get in the car and drive off without going back in. Yeah, you got it -- give me another point. Or two or four or six. Not praying with someone who's sick might even be worth twenty.

But in my defense, let me say this: I'm getting better. A week or so ago, you could have watched as I drove up to the apartment of an elder I had never met. No doubling over this time, no hiding in the car for prolonged periods of time, no wailing and nashing of teeth. I took a deep breath, said to my daughter, "Well, I'm nervous about this, but the Lord will be with us." We then walked up to the apartment, went in, delivered the cupcakes, had a lovely conversation, prayed with the elder that she would have a blessed day on her birthday, and we left. Flawlessly executed. And SO far from where I was in December.

Why share my most embarrassing moments in this fledgling ministry? Two reasons:

One, just because you're too scared to do something doesn't mean you shouldn't do it. Joyce Meyer says, "Do it scared." And she's right. When we went back to the elder's house in December where I dropped my phone, the brownies were no longer on the porch. They reached their intended destination, and they were a blessing. If I hadn't gotten out of the car, no blessing would have been received.

Two, just because you're not good at something doesn't mean you shouldn’t do it. Despite being really sorry at this gig, there HAVE been people blessed because of my involvement, even the people who I didn't do a great job with. Before she took a turn for the worse and had to leave her home, the elder I visited and didn't pray for (who is also the same elder I called and had the less-than-stellar conversation with) began perking up and showing less signs of depression because of the increased contact.

Here's the deal: Love doesn't have to be shown in a flawless manner in order to be felt. Awkwardly-shown love is still love. And it will still bring forth fruit.

You may not be an expert at whatever it is that the Lord is asking you to do. In fact, I can almost guarantee you're not because that's the way He works – He pushes us out of our comfort zone into an area where we have to rely on Him and not our own strength. But He'll be with you every step of the way, blessing your efforts despite the faltering, sometimes downright messed-up execution. He doesn't need us to be good, He just needs us to be willing and He'll take care of the rest. (Think Moses and Gideon as examples, if I'm too unbiblical of an example for you.)

So, no more excuses. If I can do this, you can do whatever you're supposed to be doing. Get out there, and do it scared, and watch what He can do with it!

A Sheep, a Coin, and a Son

Here's a statistic floating around Facebook this week preceding Easter, especially on the statuses of the pastors with whom I'm friends: 82% of "unchurched" people are willing to come to church with a friend if asked.


Being the cynic that I am, I can't help but wonder about the source of this statistic, and their methodology, and, of course, whether or not it's actually true. (I also hate the term "unchurched", but that's for another blog.)  Since I'm a cynic, let's deduct a 16% margin of error. That's a big margin, but it still means 66%, or 2/3, of the people who don't attend church are willing to come if asked. That's a pretty high percentage.

It made me think about something new I saw in the parables of the lost things Jesus told in Luke 15, the parables of the lost coin, the lost sheep, and the lost son.

Just in case you are one of the "unchurched" (there HAS to be a better way to say that), or a "churched" who doesn't read their Bible, let me give you the run down on these 3 stories:

(1) Lost Sheep: Man has a hundred sheep, loses one of them, leaves the 99 in the open country and goes searching for the lost sheep until he finds it. He carries it home on his shoulders, calls his friends and neighbors together, and they all rejoice over the found sheep.

(2) Lost Coin: Woman has ten coins, loses one, then lights a lamp, sweeps the house, and searches until she finds it, calling all her friends and neighbors together to rejoice. (As an aside, if I called my friends and neighbors every time we found something that was lost at our house, I would need a cell phone plan with WAY more minutes. At least until the friends and neighbors stopped taking my calls, which would probably be after the 10th call in the first hour. Hey, I have 3 kids – don't judge.)

(3) Lost Son: Younger son demands his inheritance, goes off, squanders it, is in dire straights because a famine hits the land, gets a job as a pig feeder, is so hungry he starts eying the pig slop but wasn't allowed to eat even that, then comes to his senses and returns home to a rejoicing father and a jealous brother and a feast with a fatted calf.

How did these three things get lost?

The sheep was in the open country so he probably wandered off unintentionally. He wasn't paying attention like he should and looked up a few hours after grazing and realized he was too far from the rest of the herd and didn't know how to get back.

How does a coin get lost? In our house, it's because someone neglected to take care of it, and it ended up where it shouldn't be because of someone's actions (like dropping it in the tiny space between the washer and dryer) or inactions (like not putting it in their piggy bank). It's not the coin's fault, given that it's an inanimate object and all, and the coin couldn't exactly return itself without assistance.

These two losses are very different from the loss of the son. The son made a conscious decision to leave. And no amount of going after him to find him would have made him come back. He had to make his own decision to return. The father was there with open arms, ready to accept him, but the father did not leave to go looking for him.

I think as Christians, we assume that all "unchurched", and especially those who went to church at some time in their lives and no longer do, are in the category of the prodigal. We figure that they know where we, the church, are, and if they make the decision to return, then they know where to find us. We'll welcome them if they come (or be jealous & judgmental, but I hope we're all more likely to be like the father and not the older brother). But we're not going to go out and ask if they'll come with us because we know they have to come to their senses before they come back.

But the story of the lost son isn't the only one Jesus told. He told two others. In the two other stories, the sheep and the coin COULD NOT have made it to where they needed to be if someone didn't go find them.

Those who are like the sheep and the coin aren't "unchurched" because they decided to blow the joint and never return. Some of them, like sheep, may have wandered off, then looked up and didn't know how to get back to where they really want to be. Others, like coins, may have been lost due to someone else's actions (like a fallen pastor or unchurched parents who never took them), and they can't get back unless someone helps them.

Unfortunately, you can't tell by looking which category people fall into. You have to ask and get an answer before you know. And you may have to go searching for those in the first two categories before you find them.

Look at the 3 stories. They represent 3 categories of people who are lost. And 2 out of 3 of those categories are people who are willing to be found, or, put another way, willing to come to church when asked.

That's a majority. That's 66%, who are willing to come if asked.

Who will you ask to church this Easter, now that you know you can't tell by looking whether they're a sheep or a coin or a son? And now that you know you have a greater statistical chance of asking a coin or a sheep?

On Sorrow upon the Loss of a Place

Sorrow is a funny thing.  When the triggering event happens, it's like a constant companion, never leaving your side.  Slowly, you start to notice it leave your side for brief moments, and usually you're actually surprised when you realize it was gone for a moment.  As time passes, those brief moments become longer and longer, until finally sorrow turns into something like a stomach virus -- it has the potential to come on you at any time, without warning, and mess with you, but you live most days without it. 

Today was a stomach virus day. 

For the last time, I visited the house that my grandfather built, and where he and my grandmother lived for most of my life.  A house filled with lots of good memories, but, several years after her death, now standing empty and waiting for a closing so the new purchasers can move in. 

I took the kids through the house, showing them where everything used to be:  the table where all the adults sat for countless family meals (where I always aspired to sit), the bedroom I slept in when I got to spend the night, the corner where the Christmas tree was put up each year. 

I had been afraid I would cry, but I was doing so good that I thought I'd get out of there without shedding a tear in front of everyone.

But then Grandpa came over and said, "We had lots of good Easter egg hunts and lots of Christmases here." 

And the tears flowed.

It's silly, because there haven't been any good memories made there for over 10 years, not since Grandma began exhibiting signs of Alzheimer's.  And it's silly, to feel such sorrow at the loss of a place.

But it's not just a place.  It's the loss of a part of who I am and who I was.  This safe place where I spent so many hours of my childhood, sprawled in front of the console TV on Sunday afternoons after family dinners, watching westerns on Channel 39; where I helped Grandma and Grandpa in the garden; where I celebrated every Christmas for over 20 years; where I ate the best homemade rolls, homegrown tomatoes, and home canned green beans that a person will ever eat... that safe place is gone to our family forever.

My encourager husband said that we should think of it this way:  now it's our turn to build a life and, eventually, a house, that will become that safe place for our family and our grandchildren. 

He's right.  It's the natural progression of things -- an older generation passes on and eventually YOU become that older generation, holding up your baby while Elton John belts out "It's the CCIIIIRRRCCCLLEE of LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIFE" in the background.

OK, not quite, but you get the point.

We left the house today, and Grandpa and his new wife stood and waived where Grandpa and Grandma always stood and waived.  And I drove down the driveway, barely able to see through the tears.

You know something funny?  Grandpa and his wife (who also lost her long-time spouse to Alzheimer's) live in the exact same model of house Jonny and I live in, built by the same builder.  It's our starter house, and it's their downsized house. 

Two couples on opposite ends of the spectrum, but yet both in a similar place -- a further symbol of how circular this life is.