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Five-Pounder in the NICU: God’s Plans Partially Revealed

There’s a small section in my book, Not Just on Sundays, where I talk about how God loves making weakness strong. It is based on this verse:

2 Corinthians 12:9-10, Apostle Paul speaking, ESV

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

This verse always takes me back to the first few weeks with my newborn Chickie more than a decade ago when we were living far from family (we always are), residing in student housing at Stanford University, and counting each dollar as we went through the checkout line, sometimes turning some food away and not putting it into our carts. We had gone from a military income and housing to poor* students again. I had entirely stopped working, and Salad Boy (my affectionate name for the hubby) was trying to hammer out the Ph.D. Needless to say, with an almost-three year old and one just having arrived, there wasn’t a lot of margin or wiggle room in our lives.

Just about everything was stress-infused and tight. The one thing that brought sweet relief every week was the prayer group we ran out of our home for graduate students on a Wednesday night through InterVarsity Christian Fellowship. I would put my toddler to bed, and we would listen to concerns and seek God together for at least an hour every week. I loved (at the time) to decorate, and I would often make a yummy treat, but mostly our gathering was to nourish our souls. Sweet, sweet times were had as we looked up together, not knowing when and where answers would come, but we knew this:

They would come. He listens. Always.

So, at that time, my daughter’s birth was mostly uneventful. Like all of my other kids, she was early-ish but not premature. She came at 38 weeks. The only part that more or less stunned us at the time was the fact that after I birthed Mr. Nine Pound Four Ounces in 2000, she came out, same gestation time: five pounds, two ounces.

The usual jaundice issues kept her there longer than our stay should have been. I became good at pumping milk and visiting her, aiming to have at least half her day’s nourishment be breastmilk. It was hard to let that go, but there was a toddler at home also needing my time and attention.

Soon after she was released, we began the almost-daily process of taking her to have her bilirubin checked, which meant pricking her heel. This is what led to the return to the hospital, where a small part of hell broke loose in our lives and hearts.

While my in-laws were visiting us in our campus housing when Chickie was just over a week old, my mother-in-law noticed the baby’s rise in temperature. I wasn’t overly concerned at first until it spiked a bit more. I was already a bit stressed by the constant pressure to get this baby’s weight from five pounds (dipping at one point to four pounds, twelve ounces) to a less-premie weight. We certainly could have had it worse. I know babies born significantly earlier and smaller who survived amazing odds. I wasn’t worried about her being healthy, or in survival mode—not initially—but I was worried where development might be slow with such a tiny start. We all wondered how the doctor could keep telling us, prenatally, that she was at least 7 pounds. And we all were concerned at what point the placenta stopped doing its job. I was so grateful she didn’t try to wait a few more weeks to arrive.

Getting back to that night. We gathered up, Salad Boy and I, and took her to the ER. I think my mother-in-law was there at some point as well, or maybe she went the next day. Either way, the response was serious, and before I knew what was going on, they were talking about infection—not sure of which antibiotics to rush into her—and a spinal tap.

Dear God, Where ARE You?

It became clear, they needed to make sure there wasn’t something worse going on, so the spinal tap was performed, and next thing I know, my baby girl had a central line put into the side of her shaved head. Within a few days, the infection was determined to be Staphylococcus aureus. It took almost a week, but they ruled out the infection traveling into or affecting any organs. I don’t even know if I’m medically describing this well. My sister is the medical professional. I’m just bumbling along describing the journey the best that I can.

During that time a few things were true:

—People were praying.

God sent so many people to tell us they were praying for us….people we didn’t even know had a shred of faith. It was incredible.

—People were showing up.

Besides my in-laws extending their stay, my other set of in-laws volunteered to come as well. A sweet friend of the family flew out quickly to take care of my son while I tried to spend almost all waking hours with my baby in the hospital, sometimes sleeping overnight in a cold feeding/family room. Other people offered to come out, but it was okay and not necessary beyond a certain point. Their sincerity meant a lot to us. One of my (to this day) dearest friends came into the NICU with me while I fed and held my tiny fighter. That memory has etched itself forever in my treasure chest of her loving Chickie and me as the arms and feet of Jesus.

–My tiny nugget (which is what we called her at the time) screamed her little head off while she fought for her life. I mean: She SCREAMED!

We would be two floors down at the complete opposite end of the hospital, Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital Stanford, but when we approached the elevators, Little Girlfriend could be heard protesting vigorously. I remember her being the tiniest in the NICU at that particular time, but all of the nurses remarked how incredibly loud she was! (She also had brown hair with blonde-tipped highlights, as if she had stopped, in the middle of all of this, to get her hair done. That was almost prophetic as she cares a lot about hairstyle and style in general all these years later.)

—God used every single second of that time—none of it wasted.

I could go on and on, but that’s not what this particular blog is about. As one example, my almost-three year old had a savant-like map ability. He directed the friend of the family who stayed with him in Tiny Kid Voice how to get to places on campus and in the surrounding community. Thank You, God, I took the time out to answer all of those monotonous, intense questions while we would be out driving. What if I hadn’t?

All five pounds of the nugget version of Chickie fought and screamed her way back to health. There were years of hoping for better growth, ruling out scary chromosomal disorder possibilities, and waiting to see if anything slowed her down. She was a peanut for a very long time. My oldest still reminds her of her nugget days.

What has remained consistent is not only that she is the healthiest person in my house since all of this happened, but she continues to have a warrior spirit. God gave it to her—so I hesitate to mess with it, except to offer disciplinary correction and to soften it with grace. But Chickie wages her personal wars quietly, with grace, but with strong conviction about justice. I have no idea how God will take a penchant for fashion and mix it with the loud and big heart Chickie has. She is ridiculously quiet around adults and some others, but as one Sunday School teacher once said: “She is like a stealth bomber. You don’t know what’s there until it’s suddenly upon you.” It was said with love.

Her story isn’t finished being written yet. I have no idea what God will do. I also still have to redirect her sometimes. She still has some growing and maturing to do. But, what I do know is:

God took this tiny, weak, very sick little nugget, and He gave her a voice…one that survives, endures, and hopefully is used for Him someday, somehow. He loves to bring strength out of weakness.

We all have stories like this one. I have plenty for my other kids as well. Where can you trust Him more today for making the impossible possible? He wants to wow and delight you, to bring the miraculous and His purposes to the ordinary. We just have to ask and invite Him into our lives.

Why settle for just “getting by” when we can be part of an amazing journey with the Father?

——————————————

*I use the term “poor” very relatively and loosely, as our economic situation even at that time did not compare to much of the world.

2 Comments

Posted by Bonnie Lyn Smith on October 7, 2014 in Ministry Moments, The Healing Cloak of Jesus, Tweens/Children

Tags: 2 Corinthians 12:9-10, intervarsity christian fellowship, jaundice, lucile packard children's hospital, making weakness strong, NICU, not just on sundays, power made perfect in weakness, sick infant, staph aureus, Staphylococcus aureus, then I am strong, when i am weak

PUBLISHED! My Heart in 332 Pages.

01 Oct

Today, “Espressos of Faith” celebrates the publication of Not Just on Sundays: Seeking God’s Purpose in Each New Day (available now at amazon.com!) with a little reflection on how it feels to hold that book for the very first time.

Thank you for being on this incredible journey with me. Your readership has made me strive to use my voice in better ways. I surely hope I accomplish that most of the time, but I so appreciate your grace on the days I fall short.

—————————

I hate the mail. I really do. And when my kids bring it into the house on the way in from the bus stop, I feel immediately anxious. Part of this comes from being conditioned to only receiving mail twice a week when we lived in the Marshall Islands. When we did get mail, it was essential mail only. No junk mail. But not here. In the U.S., two-thirds of the mail is advertisements, political campaigns, and credit card/insurance offers. I can’t stand that stuff coming into my house and claiming real estate on my countertops, which is what happens since someone else sets it down, and it might be days before I notice it. So, yeah, I have issues about my mail. Our postal worker must hate me because I personally only collect it twice a week. She gets very creative about how she stuffs my standard-size mailbox. It’s almost a game at this point.

But I was expecting my book proof for two days, so the mail was starting to seem a bit more exciting. And the mail usually comes at 12 PM. But, of course, this time it came at 3 PM. I must have gone down to the box about 10 times yesterday. I think I wore a path in the lawn. The mailbox even started just opening as I approached it, like a big yawn, because it was so happy I was finally taking an interest. Okay, that last part was a bit of an exaggeration. But it did spring open with a bit more enthusiasm than usual.

And then it came.

That box-wrapped-around-a-book thingie.

I had about two minutes alone with it before the kids piled off the afternoon late activity bus. I quickly went inside, ripped that thing open, and cradled it. Several decades of wanting to be a published book author, and several years of actually writing it later—

—and here it was.

There would be time for checking headers, footers, pagination, blank pages, and overall formatting and content in a few minutes. But at that moment, my book and I danced. I wept. My heart grew five sizes bigger inside my chest. It was real. It was here.

And it was mine.

But I didn’t just shed tears for joy. I shed tears for healing, for hope, for health, for heartaches, for all of the stories wrapped deeply into those pages. As I opened it to take a peek, I felt so many things want to leap out, ready to spill into other lives now. Things I had kept close to me. Things that were begging for release.

Ready or not, here I come.

I had prayed my words would be a comfort and a hope to others. That nothing in there would poke at anyone else’s hurt, but only serve to show the way to the light at the end of the path.

But it’s also me word-naked before the public now. Before friends, family, and complete strangers who otherwise didn’t know the ins and outs of my mind and life to that great extent.

I was standing in front of the book mirror with my pages open. And everyone could read me now.

That is exhilarating

and

terrifying

all wrapped up in one bow—or box, as the case may be.

And in my prayers as this book came to publication, I asked God to please let it be a message of hope, healing, encouragement, and faith, and that it would give people a glimpse of His amazing love for them. I asked that nobody would misunderstand or be hurt by anything written, and each time I read it through, I tried to read it from a different perspective, wanting to feel the hearts of those in my potential audience. I prayed that His words would go deep into the people who need to hear them. I prayed He would show me any places where I was not reflecting Him correctly, where I was too edgy, too snarky, too negative, and take them out—that He would only let me write and keep in what was edifying, to build up others. That can be a challenge when hitting topics that are sensitive, like abandonment or relational struggles. Those can be so hot-button that everyone thinks it is written about them (even if I don’t know them!). But, actually, it is. Because it’s written about all of us, myself included.

So, I hold my breath now, trembling a little at the thought of letting this long-term project go out into the world—no matter how limited the audience. I have held it for so long in my arms, and pushing “publish” set things in motion that now cannot be reversed. Me—real, raw, tender, vulnerable, and a little quirky—I’m out there. But beneath this tiny voice trying to get out is a bigger, more important one that I so desperately want people to hear: the voice of the Father’s amazing love and how it speaks so patiently, mercifully, and compassionately into my very imperfect life. How He speaks to all of us, if we’re listening.

As I read some of my own shared struggles as well as those of other writer/blogger/author friends of mine, I keep coming back to this: The written word is a tremendous responsibility.

It’s a responsibility not to lash out (there are ways to express frustration and pain without cutting anyone).
It’s a responsibility to be honest, even through fiction—not always that the situation we present is our own but that we know how to present a situation because we’ve done our research and listened deeply and attentively to those in that particular struggle.
It’s a responsibility to share our own lives, when appropriate, with integrity and in a way that is not dishonoring to anyone.
And it’s a responsibility to have hands outstretched in love, opening up our audience instead of excluding or polarizing people.

I pray I have done that in Not Just on Sundays and will continue to do so through the next few projects I hope to accomplish. It’s important to write well and to regularly receive feedback. It’s equally important to love and respect your audience and those in your story. Without that, our stories are in danger of becoming sour, distorted, and cynical.

Thank you, fellow writers/bloggers/authors, for inspiring me with the way you beautifully maintain that balance.

And thank you, readers, for your willingness to participate in the flawed-but-ever-growing journey.

I love that we have a God who is with us, who saves, who takes great delight in us, and who rejoices over us with singing. Wherever the journey takes me, I want to remain close to understanding that deep in my heart. I hope that you can too.

Zephaniah 3:17, Zephaniah the Prophet speaking

“The LORD your God is with you, the Mighty Warrior who saves. He will take great delight in you; in his love he will no longer rebuke you, but will rejoice over you with singing.”

—————————

Not Just on Sundays published today, October 1, 2014. It is currently available at amazon.com and amazon.co.uk.

4 Comments

Posted by Bonnie Lyn Smith on October 1, 2014 in General Website Posts, Journey to Publication: Excerpts from "Not Just on Sundays"

Tags: author integrity, encouragement, faith, healing, loving voice of the Father, not just on sundays, published, writer integrity, zephaniah 3:17

Just Can’t Stop Pretzel Breathing

18 Sep

So, I learned a new technique a few months ago from my son’s therapist. It’s about breathing in while folding my arms around each other and pulling them in against my chest. Something about the breathing in, folding, and exhaling interrupts the body’s stress processes and calms us down. In other words, it takes the “wig” out of “wigging out.”

Well, I thought I’d just be reminding my son of this lovely new tool, but instead, I find myself pretzel breathing in rush hour traffic on the way to karate; while watching my kids painstakingly slowly pack their backpacks up and tie shoes as I hear the bus rolling up; when we are fighting homework battles with one who isn’t big on receiving feedback; when arguments break out between siblings right when I need to get out the door; when the dogs eat the important mail; and when the person in front of me in line is simultaneously on the phone while trying to order bagels and coffee for 30 people who aren’t currently with her.

Yeah, I really just can’t stop pretzel breathing. I’m not sure if it’s counterproductive or not to replace OCD/anxiety symptoms with obsessively using techniques to interrupt them, but I pretzel breathe to the umpteenth power. Cannot get enough of it. It’s a new compulsion, and I’m not even the patient.

I even went so far as to demonstrate my awesome new skill at my moms’ prayer group at the start of our prayer year, and since then, one prayer warrior mom has reported she’s in love with it too. Really, all of the pills* in the world to fix this, that, and the other thing, and all we have to do is twist and breathe? Sign me up!

It works so well that I don’t think I’ll ever stop. I’m pretty sure my gravestone will read: “Faithful wife, mother, friend. Pretzel-breathing advocate to the very end.”

So, I asked myself, is anything close to pretzel breathing in the Bible?

I have no idea.

I think taking Sabbath is along the same lines. [For more on this, kindly refer to: “And on the Seventh Day He Rested….” The kid in the picture is pretty cute!]

What I do know is that prayer, Bible reading, and worship are like that. When we participate, they beautifully interrupt our trudge through the sludge of life and ground us. Praying empties me of my burdens. Yes, sometimes I need to pray the same thing over and over again until I am ready to fully let it go to God and trust Him, but the discipline of running to Him first is what frees me.

When I read the Bible, it always speaks directly into something I am going through. That’s because it is not just a history book. It is the living Word of God. It comes alive in us because it is always relevant and because He sends the Holy Spirit to those Who trust in Him, to help us gain understanding. God’s words are meant to be read back and prayed to Him. That’s what engages them in our lives: believing them, speaking them, talking to our Creator. It’s not something we chant to get our minds or hearts in a better place (although that is a definite result). It’s living dialogue with God, Our Father. Unlike pretzel breathing, it does more than calm the body. It calms the soul. It says: “At rest, my soul. You’ve spoken with and trusted in God.”

And worship is praising Him, singing to Him, acknowledging Him, dancing to Him, honoring Him. We worship even when we tell others about something great He has taught us or has done in our lives. It’s acknowledging His awesomeness, and no matter how rough your day, wouldn’t that turn your perspective around a bit? If we were each focused on His awesomeness?

Pretzel breathing is a fantastic stress tool, that’s for sure, but its effects are simply in the moment. I have to keep performing that task when different scenarios come up that stress me out.

Prayer, Bible reading, and worship are also beneficial, if done repeatedly, but the difference is: They last. They build into our peace like a storage chest of truth, rest, hope, and promise. Practicing them, as well as practicing thankfulness,** eventually leads us to and sustains us at a state of joy, no matter our circumstances.

There’s no harm in wrapping my arms inward and exhaling now and again. I honestly don’t think I even know how to stop, at this point. But, by far, the best way to interrupt the day’s stress is to spend time with God. Eventually, we get to the point where His Word is in our heads and hearts, and He speaks it to us right when we need it.

Psalm 119:10-18, unnamed author

I seek you with all my heart;
do not let me stray from your commands.
I have hidden your word in my heart
that I might not sin against you.
Praise be to you, Lord;
teach me your decrees.
With my lips I recount
all the laws that come from your mouth.
I rejoice in following your statutes
as one rejoices in great riches.
I meditate on your precepts
and consider your ways.
I delight in your decrees;
I will not neglect your word.

Be good to your servant while I live,
that I may obey your word.
Open my eyes that I may see
wonderful things in your law [emphasis mine].

*This does not mean I am in any way anti-medication. Our personal journey to making medication decisions can be found in Not Just on Sundays.

**This is a great book for practicing thankfulness:

Voskamp, Ann. One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are. Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2010.

1 Comment

Posted by Bonnie Lyn Smith on September 18, 2014 in Anxiety/OCD/Depression, Dance/Karate/Robotics/Band/Basketball/XC Mom

Tags: ann voskamp, anxiety, hidden your word in my heart, not just on sundays, OCD, one thousand gifts, pretzel breathing, psalm 119, sabbath

Warrior Princesses and Marching Bands

16 Sep

There is absolutely nothing quite like the sound of a marching band. Nothing like it. I love me some jazz band, for sure, and I’ve enjoyed watching my high school son perform an improv solo on the trombone at concerts, but a marching band coming at me is so ceremonious. I always choke up when I hear and see it. I had about five seconds of fame in my high school marching band. I played a xylophone, which proved a bit much for this 5 foot 2 girl to carry, at least at the time, but I loved being part of the march, the formation, the celebration.

So, I sit here in my van outside the high school band entrance delighting in the fading sounds of practicing percussionists with a few trumpets and trombones hanging in there—and a tuba. The rest of them have already gone inside to pack up. And even though this blog is way behind schedule, and I truly have no idea what I’m going to write about (God usually gives me an image or story, and I pray and go from there), I’m transported back to school days, pep rallies, peer pressure, and pimples. My own high school stories are not phenomenal. They didn’t leave lasting impressions on my life (people did, but not necessarily experiences), nor did they scar me. I still have some great friends from that time, although I’ve never made a high school reunion yet. But the truest friends from my high school years have remained in my middle decades, and that is awesome.

———————————————–

After a few interruptions (ages 8, 11, 14, and 43), I finally returned to finish this blog, and it’s amazing because I asked God: “Okay, I’m a little late here on the inspiration…what are we going to write about today?” He already wrote an entire book that continues to be a best seller, so there’s really nothing to add to that. I just try to talk about what I discover in His Great Big Book of Truth (the Bible, of course!).

And then I quickly caught up on a private message on social media with a few people (four) to whom I sometimes call out for prayer. We call ourselves the “Warrior Princesses” because we war against the rough stuff of life in prayer for each other. And there was something heartfelt and deeply personal that I shared earlier in the day, which was followed by several amazingly poignant observations about either my own wrong thinking or where I wasn’t seeing with clarity or fullness of the situation. But it was said with deep love, compassion, and care. It spoke directly into the inner turmoil I had. I didn’t have to share more than a few sentences. These prayer friends just knew my silent torment. And because God made them individuals, they each had different wisdom to bring to the table. One of them speaks with a sweetness, one with blunt and delightful wit, one with practical wisdom, and the other with maternal compassion. They each have something unique but true to say—and it blends in beautiful harmony.

I believe it sounds like a triumphant march of praying, warrior chicks who won’t give up helping each other to look up to God. As one of them put it when I asked permission to reveal our group name (Warrior Princesses) on public forum:

“Yes, you can say that, Bonnie. We are very Xena with our swords, and I want a horse, too, please.”

She’s absolutely right. When one of us hurts, doubts, can’t see Jesus through the clouds of our own chaos or confusion, the other four ride in on horses cutting out the untruths and reminding the limping one of God’s truth. Sometimes two or more of us have multiple “Oh, Jesus, please help us!” moments going on at the same time. Somehow, we all, in private message format, get it taken care of. And we’re not all on at the same time. But Bible verses are typed, e-prayers are written, and some fun emoji (topic for another blog, for sure!) are shared.

Another group of praying moms sits around my table every other week for a few hours. An hour of coffee, a half-hour or more of sharing, and 30-45 minutes of prayer for our children, schools, communities, teachers, bus drivers, you name it! And tears have been shed as well as peals of laughter heard—sometimes even in the middle of prayer—because life is messy, muddy, sticky, gooey, and if we aren’t real about that, why on earth do we gather in the first place?

And of course there are my precious one-on-one friends who read my three-sentence angst in a text and know exactly how to reply. They, too, know my history and where exactly my heart is in certain moments without me saying much.

There are some dear ones with whom I simply exchange a meaningful hug at church, or elsewhere, and the embrace says so much while we say almost nothing. It’s an exchange of pain and encouragement—an “I love you, and I understand.”

This blog isn’t about how awesome I am to have these friends. It’s to encourage us all to enjoy the variety God gives us. To not rule someone out just because they’re a bit blunt, and you are more sugary. (In my case, my oldest child tells me I am not “sweet,” but rather “spicy kind” in personality. Yeah, I probably have to agree with him there.)

I have felt badly lately because I haven’t been very good at holding anyone else up in this particular season of my life. My strength only went so far, and I hate that. I like it when I can extend it beyond our family. I certainly pray for people and send out an encouraging word here and there. I respond. But I haven’t been able to carry others. My arms and heart have been weak. I have felt my limitations, and they have been humbling. I want to do more, but in this season, God brought my focus back home for a while. He narrowed it, and I am learning to be okay with it, because I trust Him to broaden it again when it is time.

And this is where we need people to come alongside us and say: “It’s your turn. It’s okay that you need us right now without an immediate return on investment.” As one Warrior Princess put it:

“There is no tally being kept.”

What? There’s not? Most of the world out there doesn’t tell us that. People who don’t keep tally are rare gems.

But this cycles me back around to that resounding boom of the marching band. One instrument, or even five of the same instrument, cannot bring the same music to our ears as multiple instruments playing different parts. If I surround myself with only funny people, I miss the beautiful music of the more serious ones. We need all of the personalities in our lives to blend and teach us something.

I love what the Apostle Peter has to say about this in the 1 Peter passage about different gifts. What do you think? What does your band sound like? Does it have both speaker and servant personalities* in it?

1 Peter 4:10-11, Apostle Peter speaking

Each of you should use whatever gift you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God’s grace in its various forms. If anyone speaks, they should do so as one who speaks the very words of God. If anyone serves, they should do so with the strength God provides, so that in all things God may be praised through Jesus Christ. To him be the glory and the power for ever and ever. Amen.

*A more thorough discussion of personality differences represented by this Scripture can be found in Not Just on Sundays.

**This blog has been shared at Faith-Filled Fridays, Blessing Counters, Dance With Jesus, and Christian Mommy Blogger.

2 Comments

Posted by Bonnie Lyn Smith on September 16, 2014 in Dance/Karate/Robotics/Band/Basketball/XC Mom, Ministry Moments

Tags: 1 peter 4:10-11, as faithful stewards of God's grace, if anyone serves, marching band, not just on sundays, prayer warrior, praying moms, use whatever gift you have received, with the strength God provides

Planted Promise: Fresh Hope for Wearied Hearts

15 Sep

Sunflower

Beautiful sunflower
Up on the patio table,
Away from curious and hungry bunnies,
Repotted,
And climb-climb-climbing toward heaven,
Until it’s tall enough to open up
Into full, golden bloom.

Little Man’s planted promise.
A takeaway from a tough school year.
A living stalk trying to get up to God—
—To open for Him,
Reflecting part of His amazing, creative glory.

That sunflower climbs for all of us:
For Little Man,
For our family,
For my father,
For the book,
For hopes and dreams.

Bonnie Lyn Smith, 2014

——————————

My eight year old, Little Man, came home with a sunflower seed on the last day of school last year. I have as much luck growing things as I do dusting. (Let me know if you see my furniture because it’s been a while since I have.) I’ve never really been able to keep an indoor plant alive for very long. The previous owners of our home had beautiful landscaping done. I felt so conflicted every time I pulled into my driveway because I felt like the neighbors might actually expect me to keep up with that standard, when my intention was just to pull a weed out now and again.

And every time we have tried to plant sunflower seeds—rows of them—animals have come along and dug them up. So, it was almost a burden to have this seed come home. I knew it was like already breaking a hope of Little Man’s. It felt like a letdown already in motion. Really, teachers should have to ask if it’s okay if things like seeds come home, just like they ask about frogs and goldfish. My answer on the permission slip would have been a resounding: “No, thank you!”

That said, the seed did come home, and with it, an enthusiastic Little Man. Considering that joy had rarely visited his sweet face in the months leading up to this and that he was slowly emerging from a diagnosed depression,* I decided to get a pot and some soil and half-heartedly toss the seed in there. After all, growing and tending something could be therapeutic for Little Man.

Oh, God, please don’t let this thing be a dud. Please don’t let me be a dud, God. Little Man needs this to grow.

At first, three feet into it, I really was convinced I was naively growing a weed. It was five weeks in, and that green stalk produced nothing but leaves. And since I’m not known for distinguishing weeds from real plants, I thought maybe the joke was on me, that somehow a determined squirrel had found its way onto the table and that some old weed seed ended up in my plant instead. We saw the “stalk” climb and climb with absolutely no bloom. Four feet. Five feet. Really, how patient can one be? And I had no idea this was the six feet variety. This isn’t Kansas, after all!

But watching this sunflower all summer has been a gift only God can give. It means so many things to us, and we have stewarded its life with tender care, eagerly awaiting its announcement that it is time, time for a tiny sun-bloom to wow us with hope, growth, and the incredible and unending love of a Father Who let a little boy grow something beautiful out of a year of many struggles and a few triumphs.

It was also a summer of great change in some ways. My father battled his fifth tumor and lost his bladder. It was a time when my first book, Not Just on Sundays, was inching ever closer to publication, and so was the stress. And it was a season of watching Little Man tentatively approach the world again and occasionally crack a smile.

The sunflower meant so much to all of us that, unbeknownst to each other, my husband and I each took pictures of it, which I just now found on my camera.

Fast-forward to Day 1 of the new school year, and this was my journal entry:

Little Man’s sunflower is starting to bloom today, and I find that so ironic, because he planted it on his way out of a difficult first grade year, and on this day, his first day of second grade, after growing tall all summer, protected on our patio table from gnawing critters, it is about to burst forth.

I had one enter high school for the first time today, one new to middle school, and a Little Man not sure if this whole school thing was going to go well this year.

And I’ve battled my own anxiety and self-worth because there are always voices trying to tell us we’re not at all worthy. They are voices on rewind-and-repeat cycles. And I just have to remember to push “off.”

Because God loved me, my kids, and Little Man so much to send His Son Jesus, but also—to open that flower up when the time was right.

And it’s right now, Jesus, thank You.

I went out with the dogs, and I saw that bloom readying itself to announce created life. I can’t wait to show Little Man! This year will be different, Little Man.

As surely as God put the rainbow in the sky, He grew this sunflower:

For you, for me, for love, and for fresh hope to wearied hearts.

Where does your heart need some hope today? His “word sustains the weary.” We can start by talking to Him, and then it slowly becomes a process of learning how to listen and to open our eyes, allowing Him to show us His goodness, love, and encouragement each day. It is often deeply personal—the way He reaches us—because He is a deeply personal God.

Isaiah 50:4, Isaiah the Prophet speaking

The Sovereign LORD has given me a well-instructed tongue, to know the word that sustains the weary. He wakens me morning by morning, wakens my ear to listen like one being instructed.

*Yes, eight year olds can experience depression. For more on this story, kindly refer to the Anxiety/OCD/Depression section of this blog.

**This post been shared at Mom 2 Mom Monday Link-Up, Make a Difference Mondays, Pick Your Pin Tuesday, A Little R & R Wednesdays, Christian Mommy Blogger, Grace & Truth, Women With Intention Wednesdays, RaRa Link-Up, So Much at Home, and Coffee and Conversation.

More anecdotal stories about faith, family, and relationships can be found in Not Just on Sundays: Seeking God’s Purpose in Each New Day (includes Book Club Discussion Questions).

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Posted by Bonnie Lyn Smith on September 15, 2014 in Anxiety/OCD/Depression, Grace in Big Gulps, Tweens/Children

Tags: bloom, depression, God's promise, hope to wearied hearts, isaiah 50:4, not just on sundays, sunflower, sustains the weary

A New Stitch Nurse at Plush Toy Med Center

10 Sep

Lately, I feel like God is on a campaign to break me free from parts of the control freak, Type A, personality in me while simultaneously delighting me with new ways my children can shoulder some more responsibilities. Delegation and letting go of control can be hard at times. I’m grateful for what He is teaching me. First and foremost, He is teaching me I can’t possibly—and don’t have to—do everything that needs to be done. Can any of us?

Particularly in the past few months, as we grow ever closer to publication of Not Just on Sundays, I look around and cry out: “God, please help me! Who is going to do that part of it, because You and I both know that isn’t my skill set.” And then I looked over, and one of my kids was smiling at me. “That’s Your provision, God? Can we both laugh right now?” But the last laugh was really on me. He makes us strong where we are weak, but only when we give Him the reins. The decision part is all us, consequence and all.

So I was sitting next to a pile of stuffed animals that needed mending, but I really needed to make my writing deadline, and yet that pile (and my 8 year old waiting on repaired toys) was quietly causing me guilt. And my 11 year old daughter (affectionately named Chickie—but just in our house) came and sat next to me.

She then quietly asked: “Can I do it?”

“Do what?” was my response, as I wondered what on earth she was referring to? Write my blog for me? Answer emails? Sit next to me and guilt me that I wasn’t offering amazing quality parenting time right then? What? What? Whaaaattttt?!

And she replied: “Sew the toys.”

And my heart melted because she didn’t come to suck up more of my resources (don’t we parents feel that way some days—do they really have to eat three meals a day?). She came to be with me. To offer help.

Wow! Jesus does that. He sits with us and waits for us to notice Him and ask for help.

I was so humbled by my daughter that I quickly encouraged her: “Yes, yes, yes, yes! You want to take over stitch nurse duty? I have waited 14 parenting years for this! I don’t have to sew another plush toy? Yes, yes, yes!”

And I was so filled with gratitude not only for her but for God Who sent someone so obvious to help me. That He cared enough to send her to me when my face was still locked in a screen. She found every torn stuffed toy and clothing item she could find, and she sewed her heart out that night. I didn’t even know she could do that. She didn’t even know she could do that. I never taught her. She just sat down and did it. By my side. We were able to be together, and she felt like a grown-up sewing for me.

I hate sewing but deeply admire, and am in permanent awe of, those who love it, so in that one moment, every cub scout and martial arts badge I had to ever sew was winking at me.

Every ripped-open plush howler monkey,
mouth-stitch-drooping Pooh bear,
tail-hanging-by-literally-one-thread puppy,
hat-tearing Smurf in retirement, and
overdressed Build-a-Bear reopening its back contents all over the floor

—in that one instant—

changed primary care providers!

Turns out Ugly Smurf (my name for him) wasn’t alone! I was in retirement too!

There was a new stitch nurse at Plush Toy Med Center, and I wasn’t it!

And I still have a lot to learn about His provision, about my personal control issues, about my often wrong assumptions, and about a growing young lady’s heart to come alongside me and help. I’m fully convinced He sewed using her hands because He loves us both that much. And if we’re listening, He has a beautiful thing to teach us both.

Where can we each learn to let someone do something for us, delegate, let go? I bet there would be more room in our lives for sweet moments and that we’d learn a lot in the surrendering.

2 Corinthians 12:9-10, Apostle Paul speaking

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

Psalm 46:1, Sons of Korah speaking (singing)

God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.