Like Sinew Torn from Bone

11 You clothed me with skin and flesh, and knit me together with bones and sinews. 12 You have granted me life and steadfast love, and your care has preserved my spirit. Job 10:11-12 (NRSV)

The look I saw on his face brought forth an image of sinew being torn from bone. Yet the ripping I felt was my heart.

I am not yet fully healed. I wonder when I will be, for I can still see Stross’ face, and I am still wrestling with the emotion exposed in that moment.

And so, I write.

Mark’s and my conversation – if we pretend to call it that – flirted with fears for our future. Our sons didn’t want to hear what we were talking about, nor should they have had to. Unfortunately for Stross and Skye, their parents are poor at hiding feelings. Clarification: Their mother is poor at it; their father is often a victim of her circumstance.

All four of us were in the same room when I felt challenged, and when challenged, I attack: “Stop implying I am not happy and that this is about me. Stross and I have developed a pattern to our days. We are falling into a routine, and I am figuring it out. My job is to accommodate his needs right now. I get that. Stross and I are getting it done. It is what it is. Stross is happy. I am happy. So back off.”

My forceful assertion was met with equally decisive opposition. Simultaneously, Mark and Skye, who in that moment chose to go from a bystander to a participant in his parents’ conflict, snapped their heads my direction and said in near unison, “You’re not happy.”

Stunned, I looked at Stross; he looked at me. My maternal instinct screamed in silent horror. I could not protect him from what he had heard and might now believe. I read his mind through his eyes. He was torn. His idea of who his mother was had been knocked askew by the suggestion of an alternative reality: Mom wasn’t happy? Mom’s happiness depended on him?

Flesh of my flesh. Sinew torn from bone.

I have only witnessed the expression Stross had on his face one other time. Several years ago during a medical consultation, a doctor had carelessly begun using the “s-word” (surgery) without regard to Stross’ impressionable presence. We had not asked about a surgical solution to Stross’ medical condition, but the doctor had felt the need to offer one. Immediately after the word was uttered, Stross, the survivor of more than a dozen surgeries, looked directly at me: betrayal. Had we tricked him? Had we not told him what this appointment was really about?

That day I had offered him an immediate, decisive response. My reassurance had been swift, even scolding the doctor for having been so careless. I had been Stross’ protector and comforter. He had no doubt he was safe. He could trust me, his mother.

But now … could he trust me now? I wanted to offer him immediate reassurance, but I was still reeling from the accusation. My soul’s mate and my other son did not believe I was happy. I could not begin to sort through the implications of that charge.

So I simply looked back at Stross while he looked at me. What was my man-boy thinking? Intellectually, he can converse as an 11- or 12-year-old might, but his problem-solving abilities are forever locked at a 7-year-old’s level. What must he think about his mother and her happiness and how she spends her days aligned with his? What are the implications for him?

“You’re not happy.”

The words had been sharp, cutting. The separation of sinew and bone had been severe enough I could not even limp to Stross’ rescue. I held off tears while his head lowered and his eyes looked over the top of his glasses, darting around the room and assessing each of us. He sat alone, looking alone. His hands kept each other company in his lap with one set of fingers nervously picking at the other.

Mark and Skye seemed oblivious to his anxiety. I wanted to say something, but I could only shake my head in an attempt to shake off what had just happened. Finally, the urge to strike back returned.

“How dare you. How dare you make Stross think I am not happy spending time with him.”

Then the episode ended as family conflicts often do. Silence filled the room and I took my negative energy into another area of our home so I would stop hurting the people I love most in this world, and they could not hurt me anymore.

Mark and Skye had drawn my attention to a topic I wanted to avoid – a topic only I had the power to change, but first I needed to find my way back to Stross, a powerful life force who serves as a mirror for my soul.

Hours later as he lay in bed watching a video on his iPod before turning his lights off for the night, I positioned my body next to his and we hugged. I told him I loved him and that I liked spending time with him. We reminded each other of fun times we’d shared, and he included the story of when he came to the Iowa State Capitol with me to have lunch with the then Lt. Governor. He was 2-years-old at the time, so it is a story he knows more as family narrative than memory.

We had been a family in transition then, moving from Des Moines to the life we now live. Mark had been our family’s primary care provider up to that point. Then, for three weeks, I lived in one city while Mark began a life for us in another. That is when we swapped roles and I became our family’s primary care provider, a responsibility I carry to this day – technically. Stross, now 20, is quite able to take care of most of his special needs unassisted but, unfortunately, not all. Mark and I share responsibility for the rest, while I continue to be the one on-call. The classroom aid. The job coach. The life skills teacher. The mom.

The anniversary of Stross’ birth is approaching. This personal holy day is only five weeks away, and this year I have homework to do before it arrives. I must attempt to answer this question: Am I happy? If I can’t get that answered, I won’t be able to conduct my annual motherhood performance review in the manner Stross (or Mark and Skye) deserves.

Am I happy?

I can feel the healing beginning simply because I have allowed myself to ask the question. Only I have the answer.
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Slow Motion Motherhood

There is a phenomena I recognize because of Stross that I have come to think of as Slow Motion Motherhood, or moments when life operates in real time for everyone else yet circumstances have slowed to a frame-by-frame pace for me. As I share in Involuntary Joy, they aren’t limited to hospital waiting rooms or other moments of stress.

With Stross, they have come on the most ordinary of days in the most ordinary of moments. His extraordinary life circumstances simply focus life in a way where contrasts to ordinary are keenly noticed – like when he, at 20 years of age, lumbers across our home on all fours to complete a simple errand because crawling remains his only form of independent mobility. In those moments, simple errands appear complex yet breathtakingly beautiful, courtesy of Slow Motion Motherhood.

While I am certain I have likely had such moments with Skye as well, I regret to admit that I am not as attuned to his slow motion moments. I wish I were.

Thankfully, I found some footage he took with one of our Flip cameras last weekend, and I was able to relive a breathtakingly beautiful moment that I missed. I am so thankful I have this moment, as belated as it is.

When I played the clip the first time, my heart clenched with breathlessness. So much had occurred in :29 seconds, and I had missed it all.

I have now watched this clip nearly a dozen times (and likely it will be many more by the time I post this). I have choked with regret each time: Why did I not stop in my tracks, grab Skye in a quick-but-tight-big-momma hug, then pull back to look up at him (for he is now taller than I) and say, “God, you are a fantastic young man. I am incredibly proud of you, and I love you so much it hurts.”

Why didn’t I do that?

The cliché answer: I take his life for granted.

The sociological answer: I would have embarrassed him.

The regret-filled answer: I didn’t really see what was happening in those precious seconds – 29 of which are captured here.

Before you watch the clip, I want you to know these things:

• I was in a hurry, trying to accurately locate the place on the Morningside College campus where I would line up for the processional that would lead me to my master’s degree.

• I was chewing gum – something I rarely do – to wish away possible coffee breath before meeting people for the first time. Skye despises the smell of chewing gum, so I try to hide it or keep my distance when I am chomping and he is around.

• I had only become aware of Skye’s presence behind me about 10-15 seconds prior to the beginning of this footage – after he had called out for me to slow up because his dad (waiting in our van with Stross) had sent him with our back-up Flip camera to take images of me crossing campus. I wasn’t sure how I felt about becoming the featured actor in a family epic, for I am usually the one capturing the footage. I love acting, but not in real life, so I when I heard Skye’s assignment, my instinct was to not slow my pace, as that wouldn’t be “real.”

• Because I am all about “real,” I managed to think of something I could share that I regarded as authentic. I chose something about having lost our primary Flip camera earlier that day.

• Finally, I was perplexed about why Skye would run across campus to take footage, because he doesn’t like being told what to do and doesn’t like it when I pull out the Flip camera. He is his own person. I remember a flash of wonderment: “Why is he doing this? Simply because his dad asked, or does he really want to?”

What I can see now, if not in slow motion but through constant playback, is that he did want to. He was proud of what I had accomplished, and he had responded to his father’s request to get footage as a gift to me. He believed I would like having parts of this special day captured for me. And I did … I do.

Skye: “Good thing you are graduating, and that’s what we're talking about.”

Ah, there it is: Slow Motion Motherhood in Skye-time.

Yes, Skye, that should have been what we talked about, as well as how insanely proud I am of you. I love your humor (the sound you made of footsteps “domn-domn, domn-domn”), your capacity for compassion, your creativity and your willingness to put others before yourself. I admire who you are becoming and how you are getting there. And when I mess up and miss some of your best moments, I love how you offer me generous portions of grace – often at your own psychological detriment.

Skye, these are things I would like you to know about this portion of a minute that we shared, but I missed:

• When I heard your voice, I felt excited. I love hearing your voice, especially when you say, “Hey, Mom!”

• When you chuckled, I hope it wasn’t a response to my inattention. I know that you – like me – chuckle sometimes when you are not comfortable and not sure how to react. I don’t ever want to make you that kind of uncomfortable.

• When I offered you a bemused look, I wish had conveyed more appreciation than bemusement. I also which I had not said something that probably only made sense to me; for even though we have lived in the same home for almost 16 years, I bet you weren’t able to interpret the nuance of my flippant remark. I intended it as a compliment, not sarcasm. Every graduate does need a son like you. They would be greatly blessed to have such a person to share life with.

• I also want you to know this: I should not have crossed the street without regard to what you might do next. You likely felt out of place even more than me; therefore, I should not have left you as the one to take the lead when saying “good bye.” Instead, I wish I’d have done exactly what I described above: grabbed you in a quick-but-tight-big-momma hug, looked up at you and said, “God, you are a fantastic young man. I am incredibly proud of you, and I love you so much it hurts.”

I am you know, and I do you know.

And one more thing: I cannot imagine being more proud of you than I already am. Still, I look forward to each day we get to share together, because I know I will be blessed with even more occasions to take pride in who you are.

Good thing someone found that other Flip camera for us, for I plan to continue using it for years and years to come.

“Hey, Skye, wait up! I want to get a really good look at you.”

I love you.

Mom
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Missing Me

Today – May 4 – has been rough. Meteorologically speaking, my emotional state has been cloudy with isolated showers. And my barometric pressure reading is unseasonably high, even for this typically predictable season of emotional upheaval.

It’s birthday season – the highly anticipated and energy charged time of year when my oldest son, Stross, counts down the days to the May 5 anniversary of his birth. His enthusiasm and joyful glee is contagious, yet not strong enough to fully dissipate my annual angst. And, as I said, this year my angst feels uncommonly uncomfortable.

Part of the reason might be that this year, May 5 marks the completion of my 20th year of a complicated odyssey known as motherhood. For someone who once declared she never wanted to become a mother, that’s a pretty big deal.

Be assured that I have no regrets about having become a mother. At 26 years of age, I entered its unique state of existence willingly, even if a bit wide-eyed. I was mature enough to understand the risks and to accept the possibility of consequences. However, that does not mean I understood the reality of potential consequences nor does it mean I was prepared for them. But that doesn’t really matter, does it? Motherhood happens.

Conception, gestation, labor, delivery, and then baby is born. Ready or not, here he comes, and it’s what he brings with him that sets the storms in motion.

Redefined relationships.

Refined finances.

Sidelined careers.

Clarified faith.

At least those are the circumstances that comprised the perfect storm that Stross’ life set in motion.

I am not complaining, justifying, or whining. It is simply the way it was and still is. It is how I do motherhood.

My rough emotional condition this year seems connected to a greater sense of loss than I normally experience around this date – the anniversary of the day my life inexplicably and undeniably changed forever.

Today, one three-word sentence has infused my thoughts: I miss me.

I shudder at how Dorian Gray it sounds. As if who I am today is some twisted outcome of a deal I made years ago.

I also shudder at how pathetic it sounds. As if I live a stunted version of life, trapped in a past I refuse to let go.

It is neither of those. It is something far simpler. I miss me. In fact, I really miss me today.

Ironically, I am missing a version of me I never had the chance to know. A happily married working mother with a beautiful baby boy whose future stretched effortlessly into unknown but exciting days, months and years.

I remember being a happily married woman. In fact, I still am one – going on 25 years now.

I remember being a working mother too. I am still one of those as well, even if in an unconventional way.

I also remember holding my beautiful baby boy with a future that stretched into unknown days. He’s 20 years old now.

It’s just the package deal wasn’t packaged as neatly as I had imagined it to be prior to May 5, 1991. It has not been effortless, and its exciting days have not been free of shadows about the future – specifically my oldest son’s future and how that impacts our family’s collective future.

On May 4, 1991, I still believed that I would retain a sense of freedom about my life’s choices after becoming a mother. I believed that self-sacrifice would be a choice rather than a daily life condition, and I believed that happily ever would be a reality that unfolded not a state of existence I had to strategize to assure.

Please understand.

I do not hate my life’s circumstances.

I do not resent my son. Dear God, no.

I also do not regret one day of my life that has occurred since May 5, 1991.

I simply miss me. The one that never got to be. I think I just want to know if I would have liked her. I hope so. Because I’m trying really hard to make her proud of the woman – make that the mother – that I have become.

Happy Birthday, Stross. You are beyond a blessing to me. The gift of your life is my personal threshold to all things divine. A sacred mystery.

And so I am left to wonder. About her. About me. About your future and our family’s future.

Yes, May 4 has been a rough day. But May 5 has now arrived; and you, my son, will soon arise and shine like no one else. I have a feeling my clouds will soon be lifting. I also have a feeling I will always miss me … well, her. And that’s o.k. Her elusive beauty keeps me company on nights like tonight, and she helps me be a better mother somehow.

So again, Happy 20th Birthday, my dear, Stross. I love you. Forever.
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Annual Personal Performance Review

It is creeping up on me this year, but earlier than typical. At first, I didn’t recognize what was occurring. Too many other life distractions seemed likelier culprits of my demise.

Yet I’m fairly certain I’ve accurately diagnosed my condition: Stross’ birthday is nearly here. Therefore, my annual personal performance review has begun, and I have no idea how I am doing.

The symptoms have basically remained the same for 20 years.

A fleeting thought triggers a moment of breathlessness – the kind that happens when I get caught off-guard but then regain a sense of presence with a deep cleansing breath.

Or a lingering thought leads me to a land far away, into an existence not yet known, and I languish between a grief that is familiar to me and a type of sorrow I’ve yet to identify.

And then there are the unannounced tears.

I awoke early this morning with a solitary, quiet tear falling from the outside corner of my right eye. It made a cool trek down my cheek before landing on my pillow. Instantly I traveled back in time to a hospital bed where I once laid in the same position with a river of tears quietly traveling from cheek to pillow.

Twenty years ago on the fifth day of May, my life changed inexplicably. Strangely, I have never been hung up on the “why” of it. However, I think I will always wrestle with the “how.”

26Then he said, “Let me go, for the day is breaking.” But Jacob said, “I will not let you go, unless you bless me.” Genesis 32:26

Like Jacob – stressed with the prospect of encountering Esau and thereby coming face-to-face with his past and his future – I wrestle, praying that the One with Whom I wrestle is God and not some shadow of a former me.

Bless me, I demand. Help me retain a sense of hope. Give me a future that matches my present reality. I will not give up until I am assured I am blessed. I will wrestle as long as I have to.

Yet I know I cannot escape such an encounter unscathed. I know it means I will forever walk wounded toward the future my family and I will share. But I believe the blessing will be worth it. At least it has been for 20 years.

I am in for a long bout of wrestling this year. I can feel it. But I won’t let go. I refuse to. Not until I am blessed.

Mother's Day Musing

My assessment of Mother's Day is fairly ambiguous. Therefore, don't anticipate anything particularly ... well ... you choose the word. I'm being ambiguous.

For example, we had planned to visit my parents this weekend for my father's birthday (May 8) and Mother's Day (May 9). Then we had to cancel. But, then, we figured out that we didn't need to cancel. When I called to give my mom the news, she (in concert with my father) politely asked us not to come. I understood. The best thing I could do for her on Mother's Day was to plan our visit another time. I get it. Hallmark won't dictate the dynamics of our relationship. I am the same way.

Mark asked me last night how I'd like to spend Mother's Day; I still have no idea. I really don't want to do anything "special." I just want the day to "be." I think my only desire is this: That our family be together just hanging out. And when we get tired of hanging out, to do separate things and then come back together again.

Oh, and no church today.

I have heard my fill of sermons about honoring mothers or how we are to honor mom as blessed. The possibility of sitting through another was too much for me this year. (Think what you will of me about that.)

I simply wasn't up for wrestling with the uncomfortable feeling I get for all those who did not have the benefit of a wonderful mother when growing up. In fact, I get uncomfortable with the idea that we "rate" mothers at all.

That is probably my biggest struggle with this day. It feels like a glorification of something that simply is. When you have a child - by birth or adoption (official or unofficial), you become a mother. You just do. So what is the day for? To remind us of that? To remind us that our children will reflect on the quality of our maternal instincts on at least one day a year?

It seems an unavoidable reality. We don't honor bad mothers, so to have the privilege of celebrating the day, it seems you have to measure up somehow to the standards of someone(s) who are pretty special: your child(ren).

I think of that nearly every day – that my children have a right to rate my maternal instincts each moment of their lives. Who am I to them? Am I the mother they need to become the men they hope to be? I sure hope so, because I'm what they got. God help me. I pray so.

It is Mother's Day.

I need nothing more than the knowledge that my sons are healthy, happy and whole. Rather, wholly working on becoming who they are meant to be. And Stross ... Skye ... please know that I am wholly behind you.

I love you. No matter what. Thanks for the gift of you.

A Wonderful Time was Had by All

As you likely already know, May 5th is a family holiday in our household; this year was no exception. Our resident honoree–Stross Newcom–planned the day (which even began a day early), and then we all focused on what it meant to spend the day honoring him simply by joining in life as he lives it.

This year Mark's parents, David and Carolyn, included a stop for Stross' birthday on their spring travel itinerary, making his 19th birthday even more special for him.

It's always fascinating to view life from Stross' perspective. Well, as much as it is possible to do so. This year I witnessed how he wrestled with variables out of his control. He had planned his birthday down to the last detail, but he couldn't have foreseen this:

• Dropped messages. The emcee at Chanhassen Dinner Theatres evidently didn't get the message it was Stross' birthday, so Stross didn't get to hear his name announced at the beginning of the show - just as he has witnessed it happening so many times for others. And, yes, I made the arrangements when we bought the tickets and called to double check from the hotel, hours before the show. Something happened, and he was bummed.

• Unseasonable weather. He chose the Minnesota Zoo over other things on his list - indoor things like MagicQuest or Underwater Adventures at the Mall of America. He enjoys zoo animals; and therefore, the zoo is a magical (and thankfully a very accessible) place. So off we went into uncommonly cold spring temperatures: 40-degree weather! Stross was undaunted. The rest of us were grateful that large portions of the zoo are indoors or on display – in a comfortable way – outdoors.

• Uncooperative animals. Unlike in his memories of an earlier birthday spent at the Minnesota Zoo (2007), Stross' 2010 birthday had to occur without a dolphin show (as the volunteer explained it "two geriatric and one pregnant dolphin"). After I explained what "geriatric" meant, Stross faced the reality of fashioning a new memory (one that also had to have no bird show, either). He rose to the occasion showing the same amount of annoyance his mother might have. For all the genetic deviations that occurred as he formed in the womb, my ability to complain while pivoting into the future seems to have infused his DNA - at least I recognized and identified with his personal angst.

• Dizzying heights. Finally, Stross traded staying at the zoo until it closed for the prospect of seeing not just one but two IMAX movies. Unfortnately, the ample accessible seating area (with companion seats conveniently beside) were too close and messed with his non-binocular vision during the first movie: Under the Sea. (Stross can only see out of one eye at a time, so 3D up close makes him "dizzy.") Stross, undaunted, took Mark up on his suggestion to be carried up the stairs to sit by his brother and grandparents (and we would move with him) to view the second show about the Hubble telescope: Hubble. So during the second movie, we all sat as a family, Stross didn't feel dizzy, and he independently muscled his way across the row of seats and down the stairs when the show ended. Then, after a full day of navigating the Minnesota Zoo, Stross proved that he has what it takes to keep on keeping on. (Yes, you'll see some of what I'm talking about in the vlog.) What an incredible annual reminder of life's fragile tenacity. What a gift of life.

And, now for his birthday hangover: Stross spent part of today watching the four little movies of his celebration I made for him - still living in birthday magic – and waiting for the mail to arrive in case it brought some straggler birthday cards. (It didn't.) He remains undaunted, however. He is still wearing the bear claw necklace he bought yesterday, and he still has birthday money to spend.

I hope you enjoy the nearly 10 minutes of his nearly two-day celebration that is shared here. Mostly, I hope a little of his birthday magic transfers to you, because it is a powerful elixir.

Here's to the 2010 version of Stross' Birthday.
Here's to another wonderful year.

Stross - Your Birthday is Nearly Here!

Stross is my oldest son, and each year his birthday calls me to a time of remembrance, reconciliation, and renewal.

In 2008 I wrote an article for The Lutheran magazine about Stross' birthday and how I regard May 5 as a personal holy day. Also, in the preface to Involuntary Joy, I describe something divinely dynamic that happened to me on Stross' 5th birthday (yes, his golden birthday). I wrote how, on that day, I caught an unvarnished look at the reality of Stross' life - through his eyes - and realized that I wanted to be like him when I grew up.

Both the article and the book's preface were attempts to explain how Stross' life has changed mine forever.

I continue to make such attempts – like this vlog, for instance.

I want to share how, as the fifth day of May approaches each year, Stross' excitement over birthday preparations becomes palpable. I want you to know that birthday planning is practically a full-bodied experience for him, with every pore of his body oozing energy whenever he announces how many days remain until the calendar shows May 5.

I am not sure you can understand how our family relies on his constancy as much as we do the changing of the seasons – walking with him through exciting days of anticipation much like an advent calendar with substantially more days. For instance, we know that Stross will begin to talk about his birthday soon after the new year. We might be able to collectively hold him off from full planning mode until after Valentines' Day - maybe St. Patrick's Day - but once there are no commercial holidays on his radar, Stross locks on a May 5 target.

The full month of April is dedicated to plotting (what gifts to ask for), planning (where to spend the day), and even preening (what to wear).

Stross insists on appropriate birthday attire, so "preen" is definitely the word of choice. When choosing what to wear for his birthday, he sometimes tries things on to be sure they are birthday appropriate. In the past two years, the primary criteria has been his ability to wear a shirt with a number that corresponds to his age. In 2009, I was grateful to Peyton Manning for wearing jersey #18. This year I am thankful to the Garner Boy Scouts for being Troop #19. Also, because Stross will soon be joining that troop, this year's choice of attire is especially fortunate.

On every May 5 since 1991, I have privately spent part of "Stross' special day" evaluating my life and how I have been changed by motherhood. Stross' fifth birthday made that process even more intentional.

Motherhood: I may spend the full measure of my life attempting to explain what that means for me; and, how I define motherhood will forever be connected to how I define my relationship with Stross. I do not negate the reality of my separate relationship with Skye, my other, equally remarkable son. But long ago I understood that my maternal sensitivities had been shaped by Stross in ways that lie outside my human comprehension. For Skye, that means he has a much different kind of mom than what he might have had should his older brother arrived without complications.

I recognize the futility of attempts to explain things I cannot know because they never came to pass. Still, I feel compelled to try; every May 5 I feel pulled to the possibility of it. If only you could feel what courses through me. If only you could comprehend the fullness of it. I watched the vlog of me reading from Stross' baby book and desperately want to try to describe what makes me cry as I read.

I am not sad.
I am not disappointed.
I am not overwhelmed.
I am not defeated.
I am grateful.
I am in awe.
I am remembering.
I am renewed.
I am ... ah, yes ... I Am.

Despite all the words I typed above, I remain at a loss for words. That's probably why I chose to read you the story as I recorded it in Stross' baby book – a bizarre mixture of words too big for him to understand and a childlike recounting of things I want him to understand. As you listen, feel what you might then let me know what you felt.

Maybe what you feel will come close to communicating what I want you to know.

Amen. May it indeed be so.

Miss Blaser's Contemporary Issues Class

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Not long after Involuntary Joy was published, a former student of mine named Tali Salberg Paulson read the book while pregnant with her first child. (Here is a vlog with Tali when pregnant with Baby #2.) She shared her reactions along with a hope: "I wish your book were required reading for young women before they get married and begin having children."

I had not anticipated her statement, for young women were not necessarily an audience I had in mind when writing Involuntary Joy. (Then again, I'm not exactly sure who I had in mind. I just knew was compelled to write it.)

As Tali continued to share her reaction and reasoning, her wish made a lot of sense. So much of the time we live re-actively, postponing any thoughts of how we would deal with less-than-ideal circumstances until our life circumstances prove less than ideal. I sensed that Tali, who as I stated was pregnant with her first child, was quickly processing some things she had not thought of before. In fact, she confessed goading her husband, Chad, into some what-if conversations. The poor guy probably thought: "Where the heck is all this coming from?"

Anyway, I immediately thought of Tali and her wish when I got a call from someone (thank you, Mr. Kofron) informing me that Miss Blaser was having a difficult time locating books to purchase for her class. Within an hour, I had passed books along to Miss Blaser via Mr. Kofron's bus route, and later that week, her Contemporary Issues students (hello, Gretchen Thomas and Jamie Hoff) were reading Involuntary Joy.

After the all-school assembly last week, I enjoyed hearing about their collective reading experience – primarily about the kind of topics they discussed because of what they read. And, Tali, I think your wish came true for the women in this class. I think they have vicariously lived some things that are getting them ready for whatever is to come in their own lives regarding marriage and motherhood.

Fortunately, odds are in their favor. Most likely they will not experience anything close to what life has presented us. But if they do, I think that they, somehow, feel better prepared – at least more aware, and that can be a wonderful proxy for preparation.

So, thank you again, Miss Blaser, Gretchen and Jamie. I am honored to have been even a small part of your learning experience. I promise to write more someday about the questions you asked during the vlog about coping abilities and the decision to describe situations with family members in the book. Wonderful questions. I think they deserve even more reflection ... someday.

"Hey, Can We Talk?" Thanks, WCLT, for Doing Just That

On Thursday, April 22, I was the featured speaker at an all-school assembly for WCLT High School (Woden-Crystal Lake-Titonka). The invitation came after several factors fell into alignment:

1) Students from W-CL-T heard me speak about writing Involuntary Joy during a presentation in an English class at Waldorf College.

2) The students were also taking Miss Sara Blaser's Contemporary Issues class at WCLT High School. When Miss Blaser allowed the class to choose a book to read for discussion, they asked for permission to read Involuntary Joy.

3) The class read the book and used its content for discussions about parenting, motherhood, birth defects, raising children with disabilities, working mothers, and more.

4) Meanwhile, Lisa Pleggenkuhle Grummer, who attended the same high school I did, was regularly substituting at WCLT. She read Involuntary Joy at about the same time as the class, and she invited me to lunch in her home for our own time of sharing. In fact, you may have met her in a previous blog.

5) Lisa suggested that Miss Blaser invite me to come speak to WCLT's Contemporary Issues class or even to students in the Biology and Anatomy classes. Lisa even wondered about the possibility of having an all-school assembly.

6) Principal Ken Kasper and Miss Blaser agreed that there were a lot of topics addressed in the book that could be enlightening for all the students, and so, I accepted their kind invitation to present an all-school assembly.

Today's vlog features outtakes from our time together. This high school (approximately 80 students) is a wonderful piece of living Iowa history, for school consolidations will soon end the days of graduating classes numbering less than 100. In fact, the school boards of Woden-Crystal Lake and Titonka recently voted to explore whole grade sharing with neighboring districts, and in coming years, students will no longer fill the halls of this current facility.

I felt honored to be standing in the WCLT gymnasium on Thursday (brightly decorated for prom) and talking to a group of young men and women who know full well that much of life is about adapting to change. Like our family, they have learned that you simply take what life hands you and keep moving forward.

To a student, each young man or young woman was courteous and attentive as I shared our family's story - my story. Clearly, each one–on either an academic or intensely personal level–understood that preparing for adulthood means anticipating unforeseen circumstances, whether fortunate or unfortunate, but not allowing them to make you afraid. Heck, many who stayed after to talk to me personally let me know that their lives have already been filled with challenges met or in the process of being met. And they are doing a great job of growing up to be exactly who they are meant to be.

I recognize it has become cliche' to say that children are our future. But, truly, I trust the young men and young women that I spoke to on Thursday to create a new way of living in our world. It is why I was comfortable sharing intensely personal stories. Perhaps hearing a bit of our family's experiences can better prepare them for whatever else life brings their way. Part of my hope is that they become more comfortable with a world where "normal" is defined broadly enough to include all the abnormal situations encountered by families living with and caring for persons whose lives fall outside of "the norm" - whatever that is.

And, yes, Gretchen, Jamie and Miss Blaser. I will still post the vlog we made about Contemporary Issues class. What a wonderful conversation! Thanks for making this all happen.

God Does Not Pinch

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Sometimes - more often than you would think - I encounter someone who shares a remark such as: "God sure knew what he was doing when he gave Stross to you and Mark." Or "I think God gave you Stross as a gift because he (Stross) can help you learn something about God."

I don't ascribe to the theology that shapes those statements - a belief that God causes babies to be born with birth defects, albeit, if only for a good reason.

I don't ascribe to the theology that shapes unspoken (but known to exist) thoughts either - a belief that God gave us Stross because of something we had done and that we needed to be taught a lesson. Stross, they assert, was to be our tutor.

Now here's what is most fascinating to me: Stross has been a wonderful life tutor - a definite gift from God. But I have never believed - nor can I imagine ever believing - that God knitted Stross together in my womb defectively. Not on purpose and certainly not accidentally. It simply happened, because that's the way things go sometimes in this imperfect world we live in.

Usually those who make the comments noted above are uncomfortable with my refusal to believe in a God who makes malformed babies. Even if for a reason. But I simply cannot believe in a God who "pinches." (That sentence won't make sense until you watch the video.)

In today's vlog I share a guilty story about something I did when I was probably 9 or 10 years old. What happened on the day I describe is likely the reason I never - not even for one second, honestly - have been mad at God about Stross. Oh, I get mad at the world and other people sometimes concerning circumstances related to Stross - but never mad at God about Stross' life condition or how it has shaped our future.

I wonder what you will think after you listen to the story.

I also wonder if the people who make the comments I shared above ever stop to think this: If they are right about God giving me Stross to teach me a lesson, he or she should really pay attention to what I have learned because of Stross, despite my protestations.

God has given me a lot to say.

Thanks for listening.




P.S. - I was sick last week: a monster cold. Feeling better now, thankfully!
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