Jagged Edges

The top of his head does not reach the kitchen sink, but he has a good arm and is determined to put his dirty dishes where they belong.  As I watched him heave his hard plastic bowl into the sink, I saw the impending disaster, but did not have enough time to stop it.

Crash!

The bowl  chiseled a crescent shaped chunk off of the glass during the instant of contact.

Clink.

The crescent of glass snapped backward hitting what remained of its broken form causing yet another break, which then resulted in several hairline cracks.  As I removed the shards of glass from my sink I thought about the sight I witnessed and what humans have in common with the broken object.

I remembered times in my life when an outside force took a piece of me clean off. I'm not writing about broken bones or torn flesh...emotional breaks is the pain to which I infer.

Hurled insults. Crash!

Failed attempts. Crash!

Unrequited love. Crash!

Promises pulverized. Crash!

Honesty hidden. Crash!

Trust snapped. Crash!

Security betrayed. Crash!

When a person suffers a break in her spirit or heart, the jagged edges left from the initial blow often become agents of additional damage.  It is human nature to want to either fight back or build a protective covering to decrease the chance of subsequent attacks. Sometimes both. And sometimes....most times, these instinctual human reactions cut deeper than what was first dealt.

Lies believed. Clink.

Revenge plotted. Clink.

Walls erected. Clink

Slanders spread. Clink

Self-hatred permeated. Clink.

How easily damage begets damage. Brokenness begets brokenness. Pain begets pains.

As I look back on my life experiences two feelings overflow from the container that was once broken: Compassion. Gratitude.

Compassion for broken. Compassion toward those whose wounds were self inflicted.  Compassion for those whose jagged edges are causing hurt to others. Not excuses. Not a free pass. Not an endorsement. Not inaction. But compassion.

Gratitude to the One who heals. To the One who seeks to restore the shattered. Gratitude to a loving and just God who is the only one with enough power to repair the damaged vessel. Gratitude to Jesus who allowed the outside world to break Him but did not allow those breaks to undermine His power, love, and authority.

Gratitude to He who smooths the ugly jagged edges into beauty.

“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.  He determines the number of the stars and calls them each by name. Great is our Lord and mighty in power; his understanding has no limit.” Psalm 147: 3-5 NIV

Broken Crayons and A Broken Heart

Photo by Tatyna Chernyak / Dreamstime.com

Not all adults treat children kindly. I learned this cheerless nugget of information before I mastered tying my shoes. The event took place during a play date at my neighbor’s home. The Dijon shag carpet scratched my knees as I leaned over and enthusiastically accepted Adam’s invitation to a coloring show down. With a carnation pink crayon clutched in my fist, I pressed the dyed wax against paper and vigorously shook my writs. Snap. The crayon didn’t bode well against my childish fervor. The green crayon snapped next, and then the orange. Adam’s father was incensed.

“Those are Adam’s new crayons,” he barked. “If you break one more I’m going to spank you.”

Before he finished his sentence the metallic crayon buckled under the pressure of my chubby four-year-old grip. The next sound I heard was the hollow thud of a strong hand connecting with the small of my back. Air escaped my lungs and failed to be replaced for what seemed like minutes, but was seconds in reality.

Funny thing, I remember so much about that day, but not a smudge of the physical pain. I’m sure it hurt. There was a large raspberry red palm imprinted on my back for at least an hour (He was a large man, I was a preschooler, I could have been seriously injured).

I remember the smell and color of the crayons, and the genuine laughter and enjoyment of playing with my friend. I also remember the breathlessness I felt after the strike, and the horror of being struck. Shame presented itself as well. Breaking the crayons was not an act of willful disobedience, rather a childish blunder, yet still, I felt like a bad, bad girl. I broke some crayons, that neighbor broke my tender heart.

Tears streamed my face as Mrs. P gently gathered my belongings, brushed strands of my butter blond hair away from my eyes, and instructed Adam to walk me home. An event created in five minutes will never be forgotten.

My sweet daughter is a year older than I was when what I now refer to as the awful crayon incident took place. She’s a social gal like her mama and her friends visit often. All of her friends are loved and welcomed in our home. Some children require a wee bit more patience than others. I can say that without guilt because I am sure that there are several parents who share that sentiment when it comes to my kids.

It’s my heartfelt prayer that our home be one of hospitality... not only to our adult friends, but to the friends of our children, even...especially, the ones who sometimes try my resolve. I pray that the words I speak to those precious ones be edifying; words that drip with kindness, love, and cheer. I pray that I will take the time necessary to get to know these little beings and be another encourager in their courts, because this world and its inhabitants sling some harsh blows. I pray that our home will be a safe haven amidst this blistering society, and that my children will know how to love because they see love in action every day.

"Then little children were brought to Jesus for him to place his hands on them and pray for them. But the disciples rebuked those who brought them. Jesus said, 'Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.' When he had placed his hands on them, he went on from there." Matthew 13-15

Book Review: The Secret HoloCaust Diaries: The Untold Story of Nonna Bannister

Everyone has a story to tell. Some stories spill out easily. Others lay buried under layers of fear, shame, and guilt deemed too ugly...too horrific to surface.

Everyone owns at least one hidden secret, whether it be a feeling, an act committed, or a tragedy suffered, there are parts in every soul known only to the bearer and to its Creator.

Nonna Lisowskaja Bannister hid scores of terrible secrets related of one of the most horrendous periods of unveiled history. Nonna Bannister survived the Holocaust and kept records of her sufferings locked in a trunk in her attic for half of a century. Not even her husband knew until a decade before her death in 2004.

The Secret Holocaust Diaries: The Untold Story of Nonna Bannister, is a poignant, yet tough read, about the experiences of a young Russian, Christian girl (she began her diary at the age of 9) and her family who were among millions of people imprisoned in Nazi concentration camps throughout Europe.

The book consists of a compilation of diary entries from Nonna, many of which were written on sheets of yellow legal pads. The entries are woven together with commentary, translations, and other facts by Denise George and Carolyn Tomlin. The book is published by Tyndale House Publishers.

Although this is a story nearly impossible to read without releasing tears and a range of emotions from anger to deep heartache, it is also a story of hope and redemption where beauty surfaced from the ash heap.

The Ledge

“As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you; and you will be comforted over Jerusalem." Isaiah 66:13 NIV

He measures 14 inches shorter and weighs 12 pounds less than his sister who drew her first breath more than three years before air brushed against his round face. Those facts hold little significance in Z-man's toddler-sized mind. He is not easily daunted by his limitations...he rarely recognizes their existence. Often, he stretches himself toward risks in order to grasp opportunity. He desires what his big sister possesses. He wants his legs to move as quickly as hers can. He does not want to sit on the sidelines and watch. For my boy, learning comes by the result of doing, not from listening.

This past Easter Sunday, my daughter stood on the wooden ledge that borders a small hill in front of our home. The ledge, which separates the sidewalk from the lawn, stands about a foot high. After obtaining her balance, she slowly walked across the eroding beam. Not wanting to miss out on a thrill, Z-man, hoisted his frame on top of the ledge. My hands held a camera, so I asked my son to wait. I knew he needed my assistance to secure his balance before he could follow his sister.

True to his nature, he embraced his impulses and ignored his mother's advice. Just seconds after the soles of his shoes touched the wooden ledge, Z-man's tender forehead collided with the cement sidewalk. My fingers pressed against his collarbone as he tumbled, which lessened the the damage caused by the blow, but did not stop his fall.

A sorrowful wail burst from the depth of his lungs and his hot tears seeped through my blouse as I held him close to my chest offering him every ounce of love I owned as comfort. I could not undo the fall, nor could I instantly relieve him of the system shocking pain that seared through his head. I certainly did not lecture or scold him about his actions either...natural consequence took care of that. In that moment of temporary agony, I simply covered my child with myself...my time, my tender words, my kisses, my love.

Sometimes, I act a lot like my son. I covet the possessions of others. Occasionally this includes items with material value, but mostly I yearn for the intangible...talents, admiration, abilities, milestones, and recognition. More than once have I hopped on top of a ledge looking at those ahead of me and wanting to catch up...wanting to be anywhere but in the place in which I stood. More than once, my Father asked me to wait...to allow Him to steady my balance and direct me. More than once, I shook my head and mumbled I know what I want. I know that I want it now, and I am going after it. And more than once, I took off running only to slip, crash, and cry out for solace.

After each fall caused by my own haughtiness, my Father scooped me up into His arms, held me tight, and covered me with His love.

(This is my entry to Scribbits April Write-Away contest--the subject this month is "mom.")

The Crux of Hope

Anniversary. It is a word that can invoke great joy or great sorrow, and sometimes, mixes a confusing cocktail of emotions. Anniversaries commemorate events. Some precious like marriage, birth, sobriety, and the remission of cancer. In my family, 2008 marks several joyous occasions. In April, my son turned one and a month later, my brother, who just three years ago lost his right leg and nearly his life in a motorcycle accident, celebrated 30 years of making this planet a better place. Another special family event will happen in November as my great-great-grandparents rejoice over 75 years of marriage.

Sadly, not all anniversaries are cause for merriment. The annual date marking a divorce, death, or other crushing loss, dump regret, despair, and longing on many bruised hearts. For me, tomorrow is a reminder of such a loss. It is the one-year anniversary of PapPap’s stroke. It was an event that stripped a vibrant man of many pleasures and dignities. An event that halted my near daily telephone conversations and e-mail correspondences with my beloved grandfather. My biggest fan. He is still alive and a blessing to this world, make no mistake about it. But, oh, do I miss the relationship we had. I miss our jokes, our banter about Philadelphia sport teams, and the pride in his voice when he responded to stories about me and my children.

My heart is concrete laden. Grief and guilt, which never left it, are stretching their legs and attempting to overhaul peace and hope. Toward the end of a telephone conversation PapPap and I had just about 12 hours before his stroke, I felt antsy. PapPap was rambling. I could tell he was having a lonely day and just wanted to talk. My one-month old baby was nursing, my three-year-old daughter was whining, my body ached with exhaustion, and my mind riddled with PPD induced intrusive thoughts. So, I cut our conversation short. I wasn’t rude or trite, but I did end the call before he was ready to say goodbye. I knew that. He didn’t let on, but I knew.

If only I had known it would be the last true two-way conversation we would have. I would have held that phone against my ear for hours. I would have asked his opinion on every issue I could name. I would have begged him to tell me stories from his youth, even the ones he told numerous times. I would have fervently clung to his every word, each intonation of his voice. If only, I would have…

The land of “If Only I Would Have” is a stark and fruitless land. It is no place to call home. I know I need to leave it without a single backward glance. You see, despite the agony, every part of me, from my stubby toes to my caramel hair and each atom of my soul is better suited in a hope-filled land where trust in the King quells the army of spiritual oppressors. While sadness and suffering do exist on this beautiful land, they have no power to enslave me. I can choose to kneel at their boots, but they cannot keep me against my will. I cannot escape encountering them, but I can turn my gaze upward grasp the arm of peace.

When focusing on the One in control, my heart’s throbbing steadies. I am reminded of the splendor amid the debris. I am reminded that while my conversations with PapPap have changed on this earth, the one I had with him 365 days ago will not be our last. One day, we stroll down golden streets, laughing, joking, and enjoying the company of one another. And that may not be a pain elixir, but it is, the crux of hope.

Behold, the eye of the LORD is on those who fear Him, On those who hope in His mercy, To deliver their soul from death. And to keep them alive in famine. – Psalm 33:18-19 ( NKJV)

And from the Message Watch this: God's eye is on those who respect him, the ones who are looking for his love. He's ready to come to their rescue in bad times; in lean times he keeps body and soul together. – Psalm 33:18-19

Update on PapPap – Thank you so much for praying for a beloved man whom you’ve never met. PapPap returned to the nursing home facility yesterday. The cause of his hospitalization was not a second stroke, but severe dehydration. Despite my family’s active influence in my PapPap’s care, the nursing home in which he resides, like so many others throughout the country is suffering from a staff deficit, which means the patients, in turn, suffer. The hospital doctors have ordered special care for PapPap and a specific amount of fluid to be consumed by him each day. Please pray that the care he and others receive improve drastically. Another concern is that due to an infection, he has been moved to a solitary room in bottom level of the facility. It is the area where patients with dementia reside. My mother visited it yesterday and said that the halls were filled with howls. PapPap may be physically impaired, but his mental faculties are in decent condition. Perhaps not as strong as they were a little more than a year ago, but he is fully aware of his surroundings. This adds stress and grief to his current situation. Please pray for his spirit. Lastly, please pray for PapPap’s children. My mother, especially, has had a very trying year. Again. Thank you for caring about PapPap enough to pray for him.

In other “PapPap” news, I have written a children’s book about him and I. It is told by a mother recalling memories to her daughter. An artist from my hometown is working on the illustrations. Please pray that this book in some form will make it to PapPap’s hands.

Crayons Cost a Dollar; Children are Priceless

Not all adults treat children kindly. I learned this cheerless nugget of information before I mastered tying my shoes. The event took place during a play date at my neighbor’s home. The Dijon shag carpet scratched my knees as I leaned over and enthusiastically accepted Adam’s invitation to a coloring contest show down. With a carnation pink crayon clutched in my fist, I pressed the dyed wax against paper and vigorously shook my writs. Snap. The crayon didn’t bode well against my childish fervor. The green crayon snapped next, and then the orange. Adam’s father was incensed.

“Those are Adam’s new crayons,” he barked. “If you break one more I’m going to spank you.”

Before he finished his sentence the metallic crayon buckled under the pressure of my chubby four-year-old grip. The next sound I heard was the hollow thud of a strong hand connecting with the small of my back. Air escaped my lungs and failed to be replaced for what seemed like minutes, but was seconds in reality.

Funny thing, I remember so much about that day, but not a smudge of the physical pain. I’m sure it hurt. There was a large raspberry red palm imprinted on my back for at least an hour. But that’s not what I remember. I remember the smell and color of the crayons, and the genuine laughter and enjoyment of playing with my friend. I also remember the breathlessness I felt after the strike, and the horror of being struck. Shame presented itself as well. Breaking the crayons was not an act of willful disobedience, rather a childish blunder, yet still, I felt like a bad, bad girl.

Tears streamed my face as Mrs. P gently gathered my belongings, brushed strands of my butter blond hair away from my eyes, and instructed Adam to walk me home. An event created in five minutes will never be forgotten.

My sweet Pumpkindoodle is not much younger than I was when what I now refer to as the awful crayon incident took place. She’s a social gal like her mama and her little friends visit often. All of her friends are loved and welcomed in our home, but being the honest blogger that I am I must write that some children require a wee bit more patience than others. I can say that without guilt because I’m sure that there are several parents who share that sentiment when it comes to my girl.

It’s my heartfelt prayer that our home be one of hospitality not only to our adult friends, but to the friends of our children, even...especially, the ones who sometimes try my resolve. I pray that the words I speak to those precious ones be edifying; words that drip with kindness, love, and cheer. I pray that I will take the time necessary to get to know these little beings and be another encourager in their courts, because this world and its inhabitants sling some harsh blows. I pray that our home will be a safe haven amidst this blistering society, and that my children will know how to love because they see love in action every day.

Then little children were brought to Jesus for him to place his hands on them and pray for them. But the disciples rebuked those who brought them. Jesus said, "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these." When he had placed his hands on them, he went on from there. Matthew 13-15