Hmmm...ok. Here's a story.
Once upon a time, I was born.
I gave no thought to my parents' schedule that day, and for the next 18 years or so, I continued in that tradition, mewling at all hours for food, pacification, and in time, the keys to the car. I demanded to have my way--sometimes with tears and a stomped foot, sometimes with the silent treatment.
I accepted privileges as my birthright and begged for more. I expected and received exquisite care. I gave little thought to the number of sacrifices which were made to secure my comfort or the number of times my parents rearranged their lives to suit mine.
Thankfully, my mom and dad spent a good deal of those 18 years helping me overcome my delusions of grandeur, but it was not an easy task. The effort was immense. Relentless.
I imagine there were days--especially during the early years...and the later years...and the ones in between--where they may have wondered if they would EVER get a return on their investment.
I'll bet they sometimes wanted a little more "me time" than I would allow. I am sure I slowed them down, frustrated them, broke their favorite things, broke their budget, and broke their hearts from time to time.
And yet they persevered. And thanks to them, it looks like I may end up a fairly solid citizen.
Amazingly, I never once heard them tell me how much they loved themselves. They were probably too busy putting themselves last, and as a result they missed the memo about how if they had only spent more time in self-adoration, they could have "cured the world".
Bummer.
Instead, they allowed ME to experience firsthand what love looked like, and the beauty of selflessness, and the fragrant offering of one life poured out for another.
So, what about THEM? Well, according to my opening quote, all they got was older, poorer, and tired-er, due to wasting their best years lavishing love, grace, and forgiveness onto their children.
Children.
Draining. Time-consuming. Inconvenient.
****
Here's another story.
Last week my husband, Jamey, had knee surgery. It threw him into an arthritis flare the likes of which I have never seen him have before. He hasn't slept through the night since then. He knee remains swollen and has needed to be drained and injected twice. He is in relentless pain from head to foot. All the time.
In order to better aid his recovery, right after his surgery the kids and I initiated Week One of "Homeschool Boot Camp: Summer's Over" complete with early morning crashing, banging, and yelling, and random bad attitudes throughout the day.
The house is trashed. Meals have been cobbled together. Budget parameters have been blown out in every direction as I have discovered emergency curriculum gaps.
Jamey's response: Concerted efforts at not adding to my burden by quietly waiting for knee ice, or lunch, or heating pads, or meds. He either doesn't ask or tries to get it for himself.
He has not mentioned the house, other than to urge the kids to do their part.
He has eaten sub-par meals with appreciation.
He has not commented on the budget issues.
He has faithfully attended the boys' baseball games with his bum leg slung up between two bag chairs.
He has taken out the trash (before I could stop him).
He has put away clean laundry (while on crutches).
He has cleaned up the kitchen.
He even went out yesterday and mowed our entire lawn so I wouldn't have to. It took him hours to recuperate.
Frankly, we have been impediments to his peaceful recovery. Why would he put up with us?
All cost. No benefit. And irritating to boot.
********
And another.
Driving with Kaiden today, I passed a little convenience store. A lady was sitting in the middle of the parking lot.
Odd.
It made me look again, and as I passed the scene, I saw a white haired woman, meticulously dressed, scrabbling in the gravel to find her footing. Her purse lay some feet away, and a small group of people was running toward her.
But two women were already there. Flanking her. Bearing her up on either side.
Both of them had snowy-white hair, frail arms, and legs that looked no stronger than hers. They were bent to the limit of their bodies, wrapping her up and lifting with all their might.
Three white-haired matrons from the generation who survived the Depression and decades of war upon war, raising children in a time of tumult and change, living by the strength of their hands and minds, playing their small parts in small communities, bearing up under tragedy, persevering in hardship, weeping, rejoicing, adapting, serving...
...and now they are old, and suddenly one morning when one of them falls, the others don't have the strength left between them to help her up.
Of what use is that feeble woman to us? She is just a speed bump in the parking lot.
Sure, once upon a time her arms were strong enough to manage a household and her legs could carry her through long hours of work. Now they can't even carry her safely from store to car.
Trembling. Slow. Useless. Cumbersome.
*****
How about one more.
We met a young couple, newly married. She was beautiful. Bright. Articulate.
He was broken.
They had been on their way to their first family Thanksgiving as man and wife, and their car was crushed. So was he. When I saw him, he could barely move, could barely speak. In an instant, a life of promise was turned into a giant question mark.
What could he then offer, since the only certainty for them was the struggle ahead?
We met them at a rehab center while we visited with our friends who were fostering a baby girl.
She had also been broken. Lying still in her bed, she couldn't even offer the "benefits" of a normal, cooing baby. No smiles. No chubby fingers reaching out. To top it off, she wasn't even "theirs".
And yet they all stayed. The wife, wiping her husband's chin, translating garbled speech, advocating for his care.
And the family, praying for miracles, combing the baby's tiny curls, decorating the room in case she should one day open her eyes.
Ugly and weak. Burdensome liabilities.
*****
Someday, you will become a ball and chain to someone.
You will spend a week or a year--or ten years--carping and moaning, or blowing up over nothing, or being depressed.
You will hurt people you love, and maybe even enjoy it. You will say things that you would never want said to you, and you might not even regret it right away.
Or perhaps you will get old and slow and lose your memories.
You will repeat yourself and smell funny.
Maybe you will forget everything about everything that used to mean everything to you.
And when that happens, don't worry! You can scroll through ONE WEEK'S worth of Facebook posts and gain comfort from the wisdom found therein.
Like this gem.
Or this one.
Or this one!
And then you'll be able to go to your spouse or your children or your friends and say, "Don't bother putting your arms around me. Don't ask God to grant you the patience and humor and love that just might be my last lifeline. Don't try to see past my brokenness to the heart of my pain and need. Don't do to me as you'd want done to you. Don't offer me forgiveness and grace from the riches of our shared history. Don't try to lift me out of my funk. Leave me. In fact, stab me in the eye before you go."
**Caution: The previous paragraph contained sarcasm, a literary device which can be effective in small doses but which has been known to create grave concerns and even sleeplessness in readers of a more literal mindset.**
I wish I could say that the quotes I posted above were highly unusual and very difficult to find. I wish I could say that it took a week of constant Internet trolling to dig up those *nuggets*, but it didn't.
It took reviewing about a week's worth of Facebook posts. And I have generally nice friends. Salt of the earth folks.
Funny how when horrible things are written in quirky script or printed over a nature scene, they gain credibility.
Funny how we are all so reluctant to call garbage by it's true name when it is offered up by our "friends" in a public forum.
Garbage, folks.
Selfish, rancid, heartless, destructive garbage.
Call it where you see it.
And:
Stop liking it.
And:
Stop sharing it.
Even when your mom posts it. Just write, "Mom, this quotation is a fusty-smelling, maggot infested pile of pig swill. I loathe everything about it except the kitten picture, and if there was such a thing as a 'hate' button, I would push it a million times."
She'll forgive you. She's your mom for goodness sake, and then you will at least have done your small part to curb the fountain of bilge that is hitting us all in the face.
If you think I am exaggerating, I have devised a little experiment to prove me right. Below is an inspirational quote I came across the other day.
Heartwarming, no?
Actually, I made it up, and it is awful.
I double-dog dare you to post it and just see how many of your friends "like" it, or (God forbid) share it.
And then if they do you can ask them where their discernment has got to and if they have made any plans to recover it at some point;)
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