Ask God and Grammie, Not Google

I'm a couple feet behind her in the kitchen, trying to give her enough space to show I have a confidence in her that I don't feel.

Because clenched tightly in her tiny, six-year-old fingers is an egg.  And on the counter is a half a dozen more that she'd be breaking, hopefully into a bowl.

The last time we'd baked, she had dropped two onto the floor, and the others had left a sticky trail from the carton to the bowl. The stickiness had lasted long after my best efforts to wipe it up.

But still, I give her the space and grace she needs to try again, and watching her jack-o-lantern grin tell me that she needs this more than I need a clean kitchen.

"How many eggs does the recipe say we need?" I ask.  I wait for an answer, but get none.

"Mom?" she asks instead.

"What's up?"

She looks down at the egg.  "Is there....Is there a baby chick in there I'm eating?"

*********

I can't help it.  I grin.  The teacher in me loves questions like these, and the mom in me loves her tender heart.  

"I'm not sure," I lie, relishing the teaching opportunity.

And I reach for my phone. I start to Google it so I can show her what good research is, but I stop dead in my tracks when I remember the last time I'd used this method. 

It'd blown up in my face.

My son, 4 years old, had argued with me that penguins could fly.  (Such is my 4 yo's nature. *forced grin*) 

To prove they couldn't, I googled "Can penguins fly?" and clicked on the first video that had come up in the search, which happened to be a BBC video, an April 1st prank.  They'd used computer animation to make it look like flocks of penguins were flying around Antarctic skies.

"See?" my son had said, sliding off the couch and ignoring my dropped jaw. "Penguins can fly."

"No, Ry," I stuttered.  "It was a joke, see?  See, not everything you find on the internet is real, and they were joking."

"Penguins fly, Mama," he retorted firmly.

And he left the room.  

To this day, he probably thinks that penguins take to the skies. *face palm *

So instead of having something like THAT happen again, I decide to come up with a different way to find the answer she needs.

"How about we call Grammie?" I ask.  "She would know."

So we call my mom, who assures my daughter that the eggs hens laid were, in fact, unfertilized, and that we aren't eating babies.

By the end of the phone call, my daughter not only knew the answer to her question, but she had learned that our bodies work that way, too: that girls have eggs inside and we release them and they leave our bodies if something from a boy doesn't fertilize it.

Boom.  Egg question answered, and we threw an intro-to-baby-making class in there as well.

And it occurred to me, in that moment, that we depend on Google way too much.  We neglect relationships with others and flock to screens, instead.

We seek knowledge in this world more than we seek wisdom.

And often, we probably get it all wrong.

************

I ran a tally this week of how many Google searches I'd done. 

ONE HUNDRED THIRTEEN. 

Sure, some of them were necessary, like finding the phone number to the clinic or starting time of my kids' school. But most weren't. Most were impromptu questions based on a fear I'd suddenly had.

And I wondered how many of those Google searches calmed me with truth or fueled my anxiety.  

I wondered how many of those Google searches produced outright lies.

I wondered how many missed opportunities I had to call my 96 year old grandpa, my best friends, my mom, or my sisters, when I needed advice.

And I wondered how many times my consultation with Google had replaced an encounter with God.

********

One realization I've had this summer is that every conflict in our lives is an opportunity to lean into the Lord and learn something about Him: His nature, His truth, and His will.

And in this age of Google and endless information available 24/7 at our fingertips, it's easy to neglect the Creator of everything and depend, instead, on the creator of software.

I wonder if we've lost our wisdom with all of this knowledge.

How often do we go to Google when we're afraid or conflicted, or even when we're searching for information?

And how different would our mental health be if we went to God and to loved ones first?


What would happen if we leaned into the Lord instead of leaning into a computer screen?

I heard at an education training that teachers' jobs are harder than ever. They are expected to prepare our students for jobs that don't even exist at the moment. 

The person leading the training asked, "So how do we do that?  Seems impossible, right?"

And yes, maybe it does...

If you depend on things like technology and Google.

But I think, if I can, I'm going to try to teach my kids to depend on God.

And their Grammie. <3

THE TIME I DID A HONDA COMMERCIAL

This was so fun. A couple of months ago, a good friend of mine asked if I'd do her a favor and show how my pretend-car was perfect for my jewelry business.  I jumped at the chance!

My actual car has been on the road for a decade, and my family of future six-footers barely fits in it, so it wasn't hard at all to pretend that this beauty was actually mine. I've been pining for a new vehicle!  I've always loved acting, advertising, and marketing, so I knew it'd be a great way to showcase my PLUNDER jewelry gig, too!

I think that's probably what makes me such an unusual author! I am completely enamored with the arts' collision with business.  I can't wait to see where that passion leads me.

Hope you enjoy the video! :)

While We Wait

My two-year-old son has a mind of his own.

At lunchtime today, I poured some applesauce into a bowl, handed him a spoon, and asked him to join us at the table. He proceeded to throw himself on the floor in an all-out-tantrum: fists flailing and tears streaming down his face as he shouted, "No! No! NO!"

"Use your words, kiddo," I demanded, trying to cool my mommy-jets so I didn't fall into an all-out-tantrum as well.

Still sobbing, he showed me his spoon, then sprinted into the kitchen and dropped it into the sink.

He's not into words just yet.

"So you don't want your applesauce?" I asked, desperate for clarification.  His response was another frustrated cry.  He ran to the silverware drawer and got a fork, then to the cupboard and got a plate.

"So you want something else to eat, something you can eat with a fork and a plate?" I feebly tried again.

More cries, more frustration from my two year old.

He ran back to the table, plopped his plate and fork on his high chair tray, and poured the applesauce onto the plate. He impatiently handed me the now-empty bowl and climbed into his chair.

Oooooookay.  The kid wants to eat applesauce off of a plate... with a fork.  And he's been refusing a bib for months.  This has "disaster" written all over it.  

Two-year-olds.

My mommy-gears working at full force, I decided to let him try it. Kids learn to walk by falling, right?

"When the mess comes - and it will come," I said, "you can clean it up." 

That'll teach him a lesson, I thought smugly.

I sat at the table and looked at him expectantly. He stubbornly met my gaze, lowered his fork into the ever-expanding puddle of applesauce, and brought it to his mouth. 

Ninety percent of it leaked through the prongs and back into the puddle.  

He was deterred, but only slightly. This time he lowered his face to the plate and made quicker scooping motions.  He was more successful this time, but was still making more of a mess than he was making progress.

After five minutes of unsuccessful trials, he brought the plate to his lips and started drinking the applesauce in, using the fork as a kind of plow to bring the leftovers into his mouth.

He did it.  The little turd had accomplished what I had said he couldn't do.

And even though it wasn't the easy way, or even the way that made the most sense, he stuck to his guns and saw his plan come to fruition, albeit with a few modifications along the way. And because he succeeded, he didn't seem to mind wiping up the remnants of food at all.

That little turd is a lot like his mama.

My parents will be the first to tell you that they have never encountered a child as stubborn as I was. I didn't necessarily set out to be naughty, though. I set out to be right. I didn't settle for being patient - something in the deepest core of me just couldn't.

But that has changed in the last year.

You see, about a year ago today, I signed on the dotted line with a reputable literary agency, one with New York Times and USA Best Sellers on its impressive representation resume.  I was excited and overwhelmed - anxious to get started, yet nervous I would fall short of my own lofty expectations.

I had been a "closet writer" for many years: loving the vocation but lacking the audacity it took to claim the title. I had spent years writing a book I loved, one that I felt spoke to my heart as well as entertained me.  And after I thought it was ready, I pitched it to the agent of my dreams, who loved it, too.

It was enough to make me go public with my secret identity.  I wrote a blog about my experience, and had the support of everyone I knew.  Close friends were excited that I was finally sharing my talents - sharing the "real me" with the world - and people from my hometown were proud.

They were proud.

And I was proud, too.

But more than anything, I had dreams - big dreams. I secretly wished that in 2015 or 2016, my name might be right there with those other best-sellers, that my book would be printed in twenty different languages and get movie rights, that people I don't know personally might actually come to a book signing.

Now a year has come and gone.  And although it happens much less frequently, I still get asked the questions. 

"So how's that book thing going? Can I buy it yet?"

I don't get frustrated with the people who are asking.  They're my biggest fans and support system. Of course they're going to ask.  And to be honest, I'm glad they're still asking. It shows that they believe in my book, too.

I sigh and smile, and I tell them, "I'm still working on it. My agents are pros. We're making it absolutely perfect before we submit to publishers."

And we are.  

My agents have had many sleepless nights reading and re-reading my story to make sure there are no flaws, that the pacing is just right, and that the characters and setting have become real. I've had many sleepless nights fixing the problems when my novel fell short.

We've done this for a year.  Without reward.

Let me clarify that last sentence: Without monetary reward.

I can't speak for them, but what I've learned while I've waited might actually surpass any of the monetary gains I get from this novel.

Like my own life, the book's premise and main character have morphed into something almost unrecognizable from what it was in its early stages. It's become something I didn't expect, but something better than I could have ever imagined.

It's turned into something beautiful, and all because I - for once in my life - was patient.

I had to be. I am one of many clients at my agency, and I came with a novel that needed some overhauling.  I am one of tens of thousands of writers, and most have more experience than I do.

This year, I had to wait my turn.  I was forced to.  At first, I was somewhat petulant about it. But as we're entering the final stages before submission, it's easy for me to see what I've gained while I've been forced to wait.

I've learned that some of the most beautiful things created take the hardest amount of work.  And some of the biggest sources of pride can exist with no applause.  

          - Is my book published? No.  Not yet.

          - But am I proud of it?  Damn right I am.

I've learned more about the writing craft in a year than I've learned my entire life, have met incredibly nice people in the business, and have learned as much as I can about the publishing process.

But I've learned patience, too.

As a child, I was stubborn and made things happen, and as a teenager, I was the same. As an adult, I got even worse.  

Prior to this year, I was successful at getting my way.  Like my son and his applesauce, I was able to say, "I am going to do this MY way, in MY time, and I WILL get it DONE." I'd look at the problem from multiple angles and approach many different sources in order to solve it.

Yep, most of the time, I reached my goal.  But, like my son, I was left trying to clean up the leftover messes.

And there were messes:

Hurt feelings.

Exhaustion.

Impatience.

Empty laughter instead of everlasting joy....I could go on.

And all because I had to do things my way.

Now, I know better.

What I hope to teach my applesauce-covered son is this: Your way works... as long as you're okay with cleaning up the mess your stubbornness leaves behind.

But God's way works even better, makes no mistakes or messes, and can create something more beautiful than we ever imagined.

If you take the time to think and learn and listen, if you just stop acting and reacting, God can put amazing people in your life.  He can lead you to notice things you never noticed before.  And God can make you happy with the blessings that you have, not only what big dreams you're chasing after.

This last year, my life didn't go the way I thought they would.  But I am so thankful - SO THANKFUL - that he used this time of waiting to imprint more important things upon my heart.

Dear son of mine, I hope you know that God always - always - has big things planned for you. He has being things planned for all of us.

Especially if we're patient enough to wait.

  

To Lester, On Veteran's Day

It was sometime in the winter, probably around 1994.  

I was a freckle-faced preteen searching for food and water after church.  I left my sisters behind and made a beeline for the table next to the back wall.  It had all the good stuff on it: the brownies and the cookies and the cakes that my mother refused to keep in the house.  I had to take advantage of the treasure before she could stop me.

I had just loaded up the small paper plate when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It wasn't my mom, though.  It was my granddad.  He knew me well enough to know my antics. He also knew that he was the only one who could tell me to lessen my sugar intake without me arguing.  He shook a playful finger at me, had me put a couple of items back, and steered me back toward my family.

My grandma was talking to another man who was about my granddad's age.  On paper, the two men looked similar. Both were probably a little less than average height, with graying hair, glasses, and dark eyes. But anyone who knew them knew they were completely different. My granddad was quiet and playfully grumpy. The man my grandma was talking to always smiled and exuded joy wherever he went. He and my grandma had grown up together, had graduated high school in the same year, class of '42.  

"Hi Lester!" I greeted with my mouth full.

"Heya, kiddo!" he replied, offering me a high five.

That was Lester: always smiling, always full of joy.

~.~.~.~

It was 1997. Ish. 

Mr. Einrem, our Social Studies teacher, had just flicked on the lights.  I was only partially relieved as I stretched and turned to look at my classmates, who were unusually silent. The images of the nightmare we'd finished on VHS still lingered in my mind, and they were probably lingering in theirs, too. 

The "Memory of the Camps" documentary was infamous at our school, mostly because it required a parent signature in order to watch, which automatically sensationalized it, of course.  And though I'd been adequately prepared for the content, the video had still made me feel sick. To be honest, learning the entire unit about the Holocaust had been harder than I'd ever imagined.  

I'd been an idealist even then, had an acute sense of right and wrong, and simply didn't understand evil.  I wasn't sure I ever would. The Holocaust, when read about in textbooks, was comfortably far away. The video of skeletal men, of bodies being dragged through the dirt, however, made it too real for me to remain unaffected.

After going home from school, my mom checked in with me to see how my day went. I told her about the documentary, about the images that had disturbed me the most. "I can't believe they let that happen," I'd told her. "And do you know some people are denying it even occurred?"  

My mom shook her head. "Yeah, I heard something about that.  It's a good thing you guys are learning about it." She paused. "You know who you should talk to?  Lester Becker.  He liberated a camp, you know."

My jaw dropped. "Lester?" But that was impossible - had to be.  A black-and-white documentary had made me lose hope in the world. How did he witness hell-on-earth and come out one of the happiest men I'd ever met?

Partly because I loved history, and partly because I loved Lester, I asked him if I could interview him about his experience. He was more than glad to, was excited that a person my age was taking an interest. I walked up to his house - a brick ranch with a meticulously kept lawn - and knocked on the door. Despite knowing how depressing the subject manner was going to be, Lester welcomed me in with his ever-present smile. He brought me to a dim room full of piles of newspaper clippings and articles from his military days. I distinctly remember a thick binder full of his memories. We spent over an hour discussing each page in it.

He told me stories, and I listened raptly, though I couldn't tell you anything about them now. I'm embarrassed to admit that I don't remember a single detail. I only remember seeing tears in his eyes when I asked the hard questions, and seeing a smile on his face when he'd follow up with the good things that happened, too. He had been especially proud of his army buddies, the ones he fought alongside with to save innocent lives. 

He kept reminding me of the good he'd experienced after telling me a stories about the bad.

It takes a great man to leave an impression like that.

But that was Lester: always smiling, always finding joy.  

~.~.~.~

It was April 2001.

Cheap, shiny streamers were draped over wires that were suspended above our heads in the high school gymnasium. Some gaudy, six-foot, centerpiece that had something to do with a theme I can't remember was standing a bit more limply than it had just hours earlier, when all of the couples had posed for pictures next to it.  Confetti dusted the floor, but despite the filth, I kicked my shoes off. My feet were still hurting from wearing heels the night before.

Prom had been a success, one of the last rites of passage that I would go through as a high schooler. I wasn't necessarily sad about it; I was the kind of girl who would miss the pasture parties, Friday night football games, and bonfires way more than any formal. 

And I did end up missing those things, but I missed moments like this, too: the day after the dance, when our local FFA Chapter held an honorary dance for the elderly: a Senior Citizens' Prom.

Despite the aging population of our town, only fifteen to twenty people had shown up.  About as many teens did, too.  Believe it or not, volunteering was kind of "the thing" in my class of over-achievers. At this event, we didn't have a lot to do, because the decorations were already put up, food was already out, and Lester Becker was enthusiastically choosing which music would suit the audience.

The job suited him well.  He made the drive to Sterling, Colorado - almost an hour away - every Saturday night to dance to this kind music: Big Band, he called it...it was even older than the "oldies" music on the AM radio station.  He was energetic, definitely in his element.

We made eye contact. He gave me a wide, toothy grin and left the music table, making a beeline toward the gray folding chair that I was occupying. Swifter than most men in his seventies, he extended a hand out to me.  "Well, let's see what ya got, kiddo."

I returned the grin and accepted the challenge. That night, we laughed as he tried to teach me the jitterbug and an extremely basic swing.  I sucked, and he knew it.  But he'd find some way to compliment me, asking me if I thought I could play part of the tune on the same trumpet I had used to play the taps at our military funerals. 

He did it because he was the kind of guy who laughed, who was nice for the sake of being nice.  And he loved that I valued him enough to learn something that made him happy.

That was Lester: always smiling, always showing joy.

~.~.~.~

It was June 2015.

I was on one of my brief trips to my hometown. With two kids, a part-time job, and a novel to write, I relished my weekends at my house, so my trips to Chappell from Denver were becoming quick overnighters. Some would say that it wasn't worth the money to travel and only stay a night. But I needed a small-town fix. And not just any small town: I needed my small town.

I had a to-do list when I got there: see my parents, maybe get hair done, see my sister, let kids play with their cousins. But most of the time was spent at my granddad's.  He was over ninety, and Grandmom had just lost her battle with cancer a few months earlier. I didn't want him to be lonely, and loved my time with him, anyway. I spent most nights at his house, watching a game or a movie and listening to his stories. But I didn't really get out to see anyone else.

For some reason, I chose to dive into Burgie's real quick one morning. Burgie's is truly a small town gem: part bowling alley, part restaurant, part flower shop...and at one time it was a part fitness center and dime store. That day, it was part coffee shop.

I entered the building. A bell chimed with my arrival, and familiar faces greeted me and asked how life was going. I answered their questions and asked a few of my own, letting my heart rest in the comfort of country-goodness. 

I saw Lester across the room. I rose and walked toward him. He smiled broadly as I approached.

"Lester!" I exclaimed.  "It's so good to see you."

He grinned even wider, but tilted his head a little bit.  "Now remind me who you are..." he said.

I paused, but just for a beat. My mom had told me his memory wasn't very good. I'd have to feed him the information.

"I'm Amanda Green," I prompted, using my maiden name.  

He was still happy, but studying me intently.

"You know, Lester," I said, taking a seat."You used to dance with me."

"You don't say," he said.  He looked at the man on his left for verification. The man nodded, bless him. He probably didn't know if it was true or not.

"I do say," I replied, laughing. "You were amazing! I wasn't very good, but you were patient when you tried to teach me." I quieted my voice.  "You taught me about the war, too, you know."

"I did?"   

"You did." I grabbed his hand. "And you know what?" I said quietly. "You were a hero." He looked at me incredulously. "You're still one," I added.

He grinned sheepishly. "Well, isn't that somethin'.  I don't remember doing any of that." He sat a little straighter. "But I'm sure glad you told me that today." 

And he smiled again.

That was Lester: always smiling, always joyful... even if the cause of his joy was muddled.

~.~.~.~

Now, it's November 2015.  Tomorrow is Veteran's Day, and it's for this reason - I think - that I felt compelled to write about one of my favorite heroes.  Lester is a veteran. He's lived through experiences my civilian-self wouldn't be able to comprehend, and somehow, he came out an even better man because of it.

I see old veterans, now hunched over with canes, rather than marching with strong backs, and I think of the life they've embraced after war. I think of the history their lives hold, the beauty they've created, even when our world got ugly. Some, like Lester, have lost precious memories of the kind of men they once were.

And I want to tell them, "You were a hero. You're still one."

And I see new veterans, who still have their strong backs but nowhere to march, who are trying to cope with the things they've witnessed and try start their new life over as a civilians. They bite their tongues as we complain about first-world problems and fight enemies we will never understand in nightmares we will never experience.

And I want to tell them, "You were a hero. You're still one."

I see children who have only seen war through the television, who have hidden fears of what this world will be like when they are old enough to run it.

And I want to tell them, "You'll be heroes. You come from them."

Remind our heroes that they're not forgotten, today and every day. Their memories of war- whether old and dormant, or new and threatening - need to be recorded. And their commitment to thriving in this country after the war is over needs to replicated.

We're blessed to live here, in a country where that's possible, surrounded by quiet heroes like Lester. It's because of him - and of people like him - that we all have the chance to have lives where we smile, full of joy.

To The Other Woman

There is a woman who I've competed with for well over a decade.  She had my husband's love before I did, knows him in an absolutely intimate and familiar way that I never will, and he thinks she's perfect in every way.

Thankfully, I'm not talking about a woman my husband's age.

I'm talking about my mother-in-law, who embodies the picture of perfection in her son's eyes.

The very nature of her relationship with my husband, the way she has familiarized herself with his temperament, the way she has seen him - and loved him - through every stage of life... It's all something I will never be able to compete with. I will never receive the same level of adoration that he has in his heart for her. Their bond is unique, untainted by time or distance, and unbreakable by the presence of new women in his life: like me (his wife), or even his young daughter.

From the moment all of our husbands were born, there was an unmistakable bond between mother and son.  I don't think I truly understood this bond until I had a son of my own.  And naturally, jealousy occurs, comparisons are made, and feelings are even hurt, but truly, no matter how close we are (or aren't) to our mothers-in-law, we should always be thankful for the following three things. 

Always.

To my mother-in-law:

#1: Thank you for raising the man I love. 

Raising kids is hard.  It's the hardest thing I've ever done, and sometimes when I'm at my wit's end, I picture you, decades earlier, going through the tough times and doing the hard job of parenting. I recall your stories of sleepless nights, caused by anxiety and worry and sickness.  I think of you handing out consequences that tore you up inside so that your children would learn a lesson. I remember how you went without so that your children could have a better life, how you sacrificed so much of yourself to ensure they had things that you didn't have.

And because you did all of that, I ended up with the amazing man I did.

Did you make mistakes? Undoubtedly.  I know I have.  I know I will. But even the fact that you made mistakes soothes my soul, because I know that even though you worried about your mistakes (as I worry about mine), your boy ended up being an incredible man. It shows me that I can give myself grace, that I can love my children and do my best and that they will be amazing.

#2: Thank you for spoiling my husband from time to time. 

Okay, all of the time. 

And admittedly, I hated this at first.

The first time I met your son, I heard stories about you, and I thought they were legends.  Who could prepare such meals?  Who could keep such a house? Who could adhere to the needs of all of her children and make them each feel incredibly special? 

And then the inevitable follow-up question would come: 

How will I ever be able to compare?

The truth is, and always will be: 

I won't. 

I won't ever compare to you.  

I won't ever be able to stand next to you on the highest pedestal, the one my husband placed you on so very long ago.   

And that's okay.  Because I was not made to be that person.  God's intention for our relationship is completely different than the intention he had for yours.

But because you honored my husband the way you did, I am reminded that I should honor him, too. And although I may not do it as often or even to the degree that you did, I am thankful for the reminder that I should love and respect him - and yes, even spoil him - every chance I get.

#3 Thank you for raising a provider, a protector, and a partner.

Thank you for teaching your son that women deserve to be loved and respected, and that he should be a warrior for that battle until the end of time.

Nothing pains my husband like the thought of someone hurting the women he loves.  He will go to the ends of the earth to make sure that I'm safe, that my daughter is protected, and that you live your life unharmed.

And the tender love he shows us - the endless and bountiful protection his arms provide - all started because of his love for you.  From the moment he was laid in your arms as an infant, he adored you above all others. He wanted to give you his best (remember those dandelions he'd pick for you from the yard?), stand up for you, and learn from you as well.

That intense love has spilled over to the life we share together, and I reap the benefits of it daily.

You have done so much for me, mother-in-law.  You have given me advice and recipes and home remedies.  You have encouraged me in my own pursuits and have trusted me to raise your grandchildren safely, with sacrificial love and endless understanding.  But the biggest thing you ever did for me, and for everyone who knows him, is raise an incredible man who I'm honored to call my husband.

And that is something that I will always - ALWAYS - thank you for, no matter the circumstances.

"Rivalry" aside, I will always be thankful that you are the "Other Woman".

For Ian, Rest in Peace

It was 2008, and the school year was going great. It was a once-in-a-lifetime class for me: no parent complaints, amazing students who were respectful and eager to learn, and not a single bullying issue. It was the year that teachers dream about, the year that gives us strength for the harder years that seem to take up most of our career.

I had an amazing group of boys that year, smart and kind and funny and thoughtful: boys you knew would grow to be phenomenal men.

One of those boys was Ian.

I'd known Ian for quite a while because I'd taught his brother my very first year of teaching. As a first grader, Ian would trip over his own feet trying to catch up with his brother, and his big blue eyes and freckled nose melted my heart to mush. I'd seen him grow through the years and was always hearing about how gifted he was from his prior teachers, what a great heart he had.

And I got to see his amazing heart in action throughout his fifth grade year. I still remember vividly how - upon hearing that a child with disabilities was getting teased - Ian teared up. He internalized everyone's sorrow and heartache.

He wanted to make this world kinder.

I also remember him writing hilarious stories, his nose crinkling as he smiled when reading them aloud in class. He'd be so excited to tell a joke that he'd start laughing before the punch line.

He wanted to make the world happier.

He'd invent solutions to problems, and his thought process was so transparent that I could almost see the neurons firing in his brain as he discovered something new.

He wanted to make this world better.

And he did. He made it beautiful.

For awhile.

But Ian was diagnosed with osteocarcoma (bone cancer) in 2012.

And Ian died of his disease in 2013, when he was just 15.

For those few months, Ian suffered. I watched his round face grow thin, and his healthy body become bone. Watching him battle the disease tested my faith in a way it had never been tested, and one day I prayed about it.

But it wasn't exactly a reverent prayer. It was an angry one, full of accusations and hostility and bitterness and utter despair and helplessness.

But God - being His amazing Self - put a peace on my heart as I meditated. And He did it through a story: one I had to write immediately, although Ian was still with us.

And it was one I had to write from his parents' point of view.

At the time, I was a new parent, and I struggled with my sorrow regarding my love for this boy, but also struggled with the "what ifs" that I had as a parent. What if that were me? What if my baby - my heart - had to leave this world? How could I possibly be strong enough?

So God inspired me with words, and after writing the story, I sent it to his parents, who were - and still are - close friends of mine.

They identified with the story and asked me to read it at his funeral, which I did with honor.

Today, though, I'm sharing it again, because I find myself lost in this crazy world. And for some reason, the story grounds me. I'm sharing it with the blessing of Ian's parents.

If you're lost, feel free to read it, too.

God bless. And rest in peace, dear Ian. I miss you.

The days were getting shorter and the temperature colder as I began my nightly ritual of cozying up on the couch. I threw the blanket over me and grabbed the remote, turning the channel on the TV to my favorite news station.  Opinions were being shouted across the desk about the current governmental authorities. Images were popping up, showing my comfortable self at home pictures of soldiers running toward gunfire, children rummaging through rubble to try and find loved ones, and riots brewing in foreign streets. They seemed to jump off the screen and float into my living room, a constant reminder of the evil that coexists in this world with us.

A commercial comes and I turn my gaze away, subconsciously seeking happier thoughts. Chasing them, of course my eyes land on a picture on one of our end tables. It has bright, beautiful colors and is encompassed with a tasteful wood frame. I pick it up and immediately smile.

The person in the picture is a boy, more precious than any other I’ve ever seen. His brown, shaggy hair hangs down, covering his forehead as he proudly showcases the latest style. His pale face is masked with a thousand freckles sprinkled over the top of his nose, and his blue eyes sparkle as if he alone knows the meaning to some inside joke. His upturned nose crinkles with the laugh, and it’s almost as if you can hear it: the joke he’s told, the chime of his laughter, the pause he emits as he waits for others to get it.

Tears well up in my eyes as I hug the picture to my chest. The picture of the boy, so happy and so, so, incredibly good, brings about only positive emotions at first. But, as always, sadness quickly follows, and the picture is yet another reminder of the despair that is omnipresent in our lives.

“Why?” I ask myself again. I think back to the images on the television. “Why, with so much evil in the world, did God have to take something so incredibly precious? So incredibly good?” I close my eyes. The picture of the boy still pressed to my chest, I think of him, remembering how kind he was. And my god, was he funny. He was always cracking up. He was smart, too: intelligent beyond his years, always questioning and always creating. During the all-too-short time I had with him, he amazed me every single day. He brought nothing but happiness into the lives he touched, nothing but good to the world.

How could God take away something so good for me?

How could He take away something so good for the world?

How could He ignore my prayers?

How could He? How could He? HOW COULD HE?

I think back to those last weeks, when we’d found out our days with him were numbered. I’d pled with God. I’d told him I needed him, that I would switch places with him, that he would bring far more to this world than I ever could.

But God did not answer that prayer, and my boy was gone before I knew it. My own heart had been ripped out of my body.

I lay there on the couch, hating the world, sadness overcoming my body with wracking sobs. Over and over again, I repeat the words to myself: How could He? How could He? How could He?

I’d been faithful. I’d prayed so hard. I’d gotten second, third, fourth opinions. I’d asked that God work through those doctor’s hands.

How could He?

Suddenly my mind feels heavy – numb - after being shocked with the jolt of emotion that coursed through it. I allow my head to lower and my eyes to close.

And the scenery changes around me. I’m surrounded by complete…nothingness. I turn around quickly but only whiteness surrounds me: it’s not bright, just a muted colorlessness. I sit across from another person. Oddly enough, I know who he is, even though I’ve never laid eyes on him.

 I glare at him, hoping that he crumbles under the force of all my anger.

“How could you?” I ask again, this time aloud. Again, I spew my thoughts from before, my reasons for the man standing before me being unjust. I make my points by ticking them off my hand with my aggressive pointer finger, making them more hateful, full of spite and sadness and bitterness and despair. “After all I’ve done, that he could have done….how could you?” I finish with tears flooding my eyes.

I am so caught up in my own rant that I fail to see that the man in front of me is crying, too.

“I’m so, so sorry,” he says, tears still streaking down his face as he reaches for my hands and holds them in his own. “I’m sorry.”

I look down so I don’t have to deal with his sadness; it’s enough that I have to deal with my own. “Why?” I ask simply. “Why him? Why my son?”

Again, the man in front of me silently sobs, softly rocking back and forth.

“He had so much time left, so much to add to this world, so much happiness to give to others.” I pause, then ask again. “Why?”

The man looks at me through blurry eyes, leaning forward, still holding my hands. “He didn’t belong here,” he whispers.

I take a second to digest this reasoning, really think it through. “Didn’t belong here?” I ask. “Didn’t belong here? What do you mean- of course he belongs here! Of course he belongs with me, in this house, with his family and his friends! There is nowhere else he belongs!”

A moment passes with no answer. “He belongs with me,” I plead desperately. “In my arms. So I can watch him, do what’s best for him. When you gave him to me, I thought that meant you trusted me with him. Why trust me with him and then take him away?”

He wipes away his tears and takes a deep breath. “It’s a hard thing for a parent to do, to love a child unconditionally and then be helpless as he suffers.”

I nod silently, still weeping, glad he could at least address the hurt I was feeling.

“There are reasons I gave him to you, you know,” he says. “You were born to love him, to guide him, to help make him the person who was so special that he touched thousands of lives. I knew only you could love him like you did. Only you could give him the foundation you did and the faith to know he’d make a difference.” He motions to the picture I was still holding. “Kids like that, they don’t need a lifetime to make the world a better place.”

The man comes over to my side and sits down. He pats my knee and turns my shoulders so I face him. He holds onto them to make sure I am focusing only on him, nothing else. “He was too good for this fallen world,” he says. I shut my eyes to try and reason away his words. “You’ve seen the news images,” he continued. “You’ve seen the evil. He’s too good. And he never belonged here.” He tilts my chin up so I have no choice but to see his face and hear his words. “He never belonged here,” he reiterates.

The words play over and over in my mind. “He never belonged here.” I weep over them, am lost in them.

“Then why did you bring him here in the first place?” I ask. Maybe my hurt would have never occurred had I not known this love.

The man in front of me frames my face with his hands once again. “My child, he came so you and everyone else who knew him could have just a taste of the magnificence to come.” He smiles. “That boy,” he says, pointing to the picture I held so closely to my heart, “He brought nothing but goodness to this world. And the world that’s waiting for you over here? Well, it’s filled with nothing but good.”

My tears begin to dry up. “Nothing but good?” I ask. “Does that mean-“

“Yes,” he answers before I get a chance to finish. “That means that only good things, like that boy, will be with you in my world someday.”

My heart beats stronger with those words, the promise that I will hold my little boy in my arms again, but as always, doubt begins to creep its way back into my mind.  “It’s too far away,” I say suddenly. “And I miss him too much. How am I supposed to wait until then to see him, to be with him? To love him? To tousle his hair and listen to his jokes?”

The man hugs me tightly once more. “You’re going to have those moments. The ones where you are overcome by sadness and despair. But when you do…” He holds me out at arm’s length again. “You come to me and find peace.”

He looks off into the distance, sadness present in his eyes once again. “Because I know what it’s like to give your son up to another place, to have watched him – so full of purity and goodness – live in fallen world. I know what it’s like to have seen your son suffer.”

He looks down and shakes his head, shakes out the horrible memories.  He looks me in the eye and speaks earnestly. “But I also know what it’s like to see your son again, away from this world. And it’s not too far away, you know. It may not seem like it, but life has limits. Eternity is what’s forever.”

He pauses, then gestures to the emptiness in front of him. “I want you to close your eyes and picture a beach,” he says.

I do as I’m instructed.

“This life is just one grain of sand on a whole beach. That beach, full of all those grains, is eternity. I know you’re suffering through this life, that it’s not perfect. But pure goodness and joy is in all those other grains of sand. Those grains of sand are what’s to come. Now open your eyes.”

I follow his instructions. “Focus on what’s to come, my child,” he says. “Because the good you miss now in this life will be the first to greet you in the next.”

My eyes pop open. Salty tears are dried on my cheeks. The TV is still on, the blanket is still covering me as I sit on the couch. I slide it off and leave it behind. I turn the television off and head to bed.

Remembering what’s to come, I no longer need the blanket to warm me. I have my memories. And I no longer need the TV to distract me. I have the promise of eternity to concentrate on. I stop suddenly in my tracks and turn to go back into the living room. There, on the couch, lay the picture of my son, who had shown me what love really was. I pick it up and take it with me.

It is a reminder of the goodness that will, someday soon, surround me once again.

He smiles up at me from the frame, ready to tell me another one of his jokes.

To Christians: Bake the Cake

... And do it happily.

I'm actually hesitant to post this.  I love political debates, but typically don't like to use my blog as an avenue to do it.

But I've been consumed with this issue this past week.  And judging by leading stories on Yahoo! and social media, we all have been.

Anyone who knows me knows that I lean conservative and am a passionate Christian, so it probably surprises them to hear me say that we, as Christians, should always bake cakes for gay weddings, and we should do so with a serving heart.

We should serve Jesus by serving non-Christians, those very souls who believe so differently than we do.

Christians, you are not acting Christ-like by refusing to bake the cake.

If you are an owner of any small business and you have an opportunity to serve someone who believes differently than you do, you should do it.

You should bake a cake for atheists.

You should bake a cake for a Muslim wedding.

You should bake a cake for a Bar Mitzvah.

You should bake a cake for gays.

Jesus didn't only serve those who believed He was the Son of God.  He didn't just love those who did His will.

The ugly truth that conservative Christians need to face is this: gays are persecuted in our country, and it happens every day.

Not all Christians believe that being gay is a sin, but Christians that do, please hear me:

A sin is a sin, is a sin.

No sin is greater than another.

We should not judge others.  Instead, we should concern ourselves with being the best reflections of Christ that we can possibly be.

What would Jesus do, if he owned a bakery?  Would he kick a gay couple out and refuse them service?

Or would he bake them a cake, feed them, engage them in a conversation, and have them wondering what it is about this man that makes them feel so...so loved? Would he draw them closer to him through this act?

Wouldn't Jesus love the sinner through the sin?

I've heard multiple people say that baking a cake is a symbol of acceptance and approval of gay marriage, and that we shouldn't accept or approve of gay marriage because God doesn't.

Bull.

God has the power to judge.  He has the power to accept and approve behavior.  He alone has the power of conversion.

We do not.  Do you hear me?  We. Do. Not.

Jesus didn't say to his disciples: "Convert others!  Make sure they adhere to all of what I said in my sermons! Hold them accountable and don't let them think you approve of their sin!"

Instead he said, "Follow me. Spread the good news."

Who are we to think we are so special that our approval and acceptance and judgement should mean anything to others? Do we really think WE do the converting here? Or does Jesus?

Are we really that self-righteous?  I shudder at the answer.

It's obvious that it would be not only beneficial to our religion, but biblical, if we were to act like Jesus.  Christians have gained the reputation for being self-righteous and judgmental, and in many circumstances, rightly so, in my opinion.

If we were to stand up for the last and perhaps, the most important, commandment Jesus left us with  (Love one Another), as passionately as we were to stand up for other scriptures, we would become more like Christ Himself, who regarded the Pharisees - the enforcers of rules - as not doing God's will.

But love looks differently in different situations, you might say.  As a parent, sometimes love means drawing a line and using your judgement.  Even Jesus showed anger when he turned over the tax collectors' tables!  Sometimes, a lesson is best learned this way.

I have to admit, this thought crossed my mind, too.  But it's wrong.  Learning from the Bible requires us to take into account what Jesus said and what God commanded, but it makes us look at the circumstances in which it was said.

And when you look at the circumstances Jesus was in when he said and did certain things, you realize that Jesus changed his tone when working with different factions of society.

When faced the persecuted- those who had been judged by his people - He showed mercy and grace, and undeserving, unrelenting compassion and love.  It was with His own people who were judging and treating others as outcasts that He showed the most anger.

We should bake the cake.

And if you can't, then you cannot serve cake to anyone.

Anyone.

Because we all have sinned, in some way.

You cannot serve those who partake in premarital sex.  You cannot serve cake to an alcoholic.  You cannot serve cake to a person who has been unfaithful, who has used the Lord's name in vain, who has pined over the neighbor's new car, or who has lusted after a person.

You might say, But a gay wedding is parading their sin! I'd let them buy a cake, just not one for their wedding. Jesus wouldn't serve those whose sin is so easily visible!

Really?

Would Jesus not comfort a pregnant teenage girl, whose sin is more visible than her sexually active peers? Would Jesus not love a born-again Christian with a Swastika tattoo?

Visibility doesn't make a sin worse.

Christians, abstaining from baking a cake for a wedding will not change the way they view Jesus.

But baking the cake and sending the couple off with a sincere "God Bless You," will.


Saying that, we live in a country where all freedoms are guaranteed.  KKK members are allowed to march through our nation's capital.  Sometimes you can be refused service for choosing to wear no shoes or shirt.  And all businesses have the right to refuse service for any reason they want to.

It's a right protected under Federal Law.

Federal.

There's no need for further state laws to enforce a right that's guaranteed already.

There's no need for this law.

But there's no need for people to be forced to serve others, either.  We live in a country that boasts a free market.  If one person won't serve a group of people who differ from them economically, racially, religiously, or sexually, then we should protest, spread the word on social media, and do business elsewhere. Let their business fail.

But we should not make a law against their right to refuse service.  It's a dangerous slope to go on, one that makes the government too big and have too much of a say in how we can live our lives.

And furthermore, we should not threaten violence or incite hate.

Do me a favor, and even if you're not a Christian, teach us how to live as Christ told us to live.

Show us why it's right to go ahead and bake the cake.