It was a cold, rainy, Wednesday evening in February in New Jersey. I had a sitter for my two boys, one my newborn son who was my unexpected pregnancy at age 38. The team who had come to speak at our Presbyterian church had set out about fifteen chairs and there were three or four guest speakers, to hopefully enlighten and drum up enthusiasm for our church to be a part of the launch of a new center opening in a nearby town.

As the time neared for the meeting to begin, there were still about fourteen empty chairs. I had taken my seat, center of the front row, as I was very interested in learning more about something that might have made my own recent experience quite a bit easier. I could sense their sadness, as it began to be clear that no one else was coming. After an uncomfortable foot shuffling time for the speakers, I took a moment to speak to them from my audience of one. I basically said I know this seems like a disappointing turnout to you, but if you knew how deeply this matters to me, and how I will be able to encourage others to join me because of that, you would realize that the audience you want to be here is really here. Please continue as if the room is full, because you do not have to get other people on board. I’m here and I am supposed to be. I didn’t come to listen, I came to be a vital part of this ministry.

And that was the beginning of my 30 year journey with pregnancy centers all over this country. I helped to start that one and became a counselor. I later moved to upstate New York and helped launch one from our church there. I became a part of one in southern California. And later in St Petersburg, Florida, I helped draw our church members into a struggling one in the heart of their city, although not in their neighborhood. The most needed and busy ones were often located in the parts of town many members were not as familiar with, I found. Those centers were also the very grateful recipients of those donors more available disposable income, volunteer time and the briefly worn infants’ clothing that was passed their way. I later attended conferences in Dallas, Texas and other places as the centers formed alliances to keep them all open and on track with federal and local laws, as efforts to shut them down and protests against them continued over the decades, until Roe vs. Wade was overturned as a federal law and that decision returned to the states. I was there as the centers raised money for ultrasound machines and hired nurses or had volunteer nurses and doctors to perform those amazing signs of early life that would change so many hearts and minds. And of course, I was there in a counseling room, coming alongside many a young woman who was struggling to make a decision that would forever change her life and those of everyone around her, one way or another.

I was always impressed with the volunteers who had been on both sides, actually all three sides, as many had also been adopted as babies and not raised by the one who gave birth to them; but who were so grateful for the chance they received to experience a wonderful childhood and family. They were among the most humble and effective counselors, as they had a heart for each woman that surpassed any desire to save the baby at all costs. It hurt me to hear the phrase I saved a baby today, as I just wanted to ask how is that woman doing? The opposite was often true across the street from one center I was part of where there was a Planned Parenthood. I was the only one who ever thought we had something in common, because my heart was always for the mom making that final decision. I experienced many church women who felt they were definitely doing God’s work by saving a baby from abortion, as indeed they were, but they sometimes failed to realize it went so much deeper than that. They were so disappointed if that woman still chose abortion after counseling about all the options available, and they seemed to feel it a personal failure; whereas the women like me, who had experienced the agony of the decision-making personally, were much more likely to form a bond of loving acceptance with that woman that often drew her back to the center even after her abortion choice, to participate in a totally anonymous, loving, post-abortion counseling series done only with peers and women leading it who had chosen a similar path.

The last thing anyone needs in that situation is harsh judgement from anyone representing God’s love. God loves that tiny life just then forming, of course, but He has also loved that precious woman for a very long time and His heart for her is breaking as well. He will not abandon her, no matter what path she chooses. And just like my response to the leaders who gave the pep talk at my church that cold evening years before, she did find her way to the center to listen and learn. God’s timing is a part of her journey, whether she knows it at the time or not. The center and counseling are but another part of her path. We don’t know where that decision will lead in her life, but we do know Jesus told the parable about the lost sheep. He said the good shepherd always went after the one who strayed and left the 99 ‘good’ obedient ones behind to do just that. This ministry was never only about the babies, as much as so many of us want to protect and save them. In my experience, if the mother can actually feel God’s love and acceptance and if she can truly envision a path for herself and that baby, she is way more likely to choose to carry it to term, and that is where choice really comes into it. Condemnation, in my experience, and particularly a carefully veiled Christian judgement, rarely saves either of them.

I think that’s a good thing. I think it means when I’m done I’ll go fast. Maybe I’ll die the way that I lived, constantly on the move, hopefully not in a car crash or anything painful for a long time. My mantra of my last act has been ‘God, please use me up then take me home fast, if possible’. I do think that may happen. So I’m always a little prepared to be on my best behavior with everyone just in case. I’d rather leave them laughing, or at least not mad at me. It’s pretty easy, actually, as I’m moving a lot more slowly than I did in the past. I don’t have as much to say and these days I’m very grateful to have this little note thing on my phone so I can wake up in the middle of the night and talk to it, just so I don’t lose track of any story I wanted to remember.

I’ve had one heart attack, but I didn’t even know I was having one exactly. Maybe the hospital didn’t either. I didn’t find out until years later when they did a test where they ran dye through my veins and somehow saw my heart like the center of a tree; it had rings in it that somehow showed them that I’ve had a fairly sizable past heart attack. Well, there was that time I drove myself to the emergency room at two in the morning, afraid that my dog wouldn’t know what to do if I keeled over. Then he might die of hunger because nobody checked on me every day and I lived on a very quiet road and didn’t know my neighbors very well; I could easily have gone unnoticed for maybe even a week and I didn’t want to do that to my dog, who had been nothing but faithful. He didn’t deserve that.

I got up and googled it and found I had at least four signs of a possible heart attack. My Dad, his mom, both had several heart attacks before their deaths at ages I was now reaching. I drove myself to the nearest emergency room. They of course put me on treadmills and did all kinds of stupid stuff, keeping me in the ER all night, then sending me home in the morning with an acid reflux pill; only for me to find out five years later that probably was the heart attack now showing up in the rings. Oh well, at least I was home to feed the dog by noon the next day.

A three year old’s response to my saying No to his “I want……” request for goldfish crackers at 9 am. I try to explain once again that his want is not a need, nor is it a request that I will always honor. His reply to that is a quick “Please I may have goldfish” as though throwing in all the ‘good’ words I love to hear, all at the same time, will magically change this scene in his favor and I will grant his request. As any other parent or grandparent knows, that sudden scrambled vocabulary cuteness often does change our hearts to give in, at least the first two or three times we hear it.

It’s the equivalent of pretty please with sugar on top, but turned upside down or backwards in a way we want more of because it tickles us so. Soon all their words will be tidily said in perfect sequence, but how we love the mix ups while they happen! I think it saves many a cross reply, as we often have to turn our faces to hide a smile even when we are being stern. He is so good with words and manipulation of the kill her with kindness variety vs meltdowns, that he is totally confident the right words will get him exactly what he wants. He isn’t in the least bit pleading when he rephrases his request, which I call a soft demand. The insecure child in me is so “impwessed” as my granddaughter used to say, that it often works. And even when I say no, he just smiles and turns back to his play of the moment, knowing full well it will probably still work the next time he tries it. I often think of how we sometimes try the same thing with God, sweetening the prayer requests just a little if they are just a bit self centered, hoping he may be swayed by our momentary cuteness, maybe just one more time.

Said little Raleigh to me when we were going out for a ride on his balance bike, circling around the little Mr. Roger’s neighborhood I live in. Staying on the sidewalk. Wearing a helmet. Watching out for cars when we crossed the street together. Strange dogs on leashes. Wandering ducks from the pond looking for food.

A strange request? Perhaps. Probably just a thing he said in passing, with no deeper meaning involved. I could and did answer “Yes, honey”; of course, I meant only while he was in my care, but of course we didn’t talk about that. The simplest answer is the easiest with a three year old. As most all grandparents who have had both the blessing and the curse of remembering too much from their own child-rearing years, I know keeping a child safe is a huge duty and an overwhelming responsibility. There are so many possible ways for a child to be hurt; physically certainly, but emotionally often even worse. Because you never saw it coming.

Years later we will learn from our children, their therapists or their spouses, where we had in fact not kept our children safe. Where they had been harmed, usually unintentionally and often unknown for years, in ways we never realized were even possible, in part because we had yet to sort out our own emotions concerning our upbringing and our binding family ties. There isn’t enough time to do it all and keep on track with everything that is happening at lightning daily speeds while raising kids. As parents we do the best we can with what we know at the time. Unfortunately at first we only seem to know either how to instinctively repeat what we learned from our parents or to attempt the completely opposite approach, having learned as adults that what we absorbed as a child was not always beneficial, so perhaps the opposite of it would be better? Unfortunately the opposite usually was not better, just swinging the emotional pendulum to the other wrong side, rushing past the centered balance we wanted but had no way of recognizing. From unnoticed to hovered over. From neglected to spoiled. From discounted emotions to always being allowed very big feelings, both seeming unacceptable to us, but the unknown norm also somehow unattainable. Balance seemed very distance when viewed now from the other side. Where do we turn for guidance, and how will we recognize the center if we have never experienced it?

The things we most need to learn to embrace our best life are never really taught to the young, except perhaps in the school of hard knocks. We enter parenting with highest hopes, but it is the most complicated mess of responsibilities and job titles we will ever encounter, especially if we are picking up the slack for another parent, one either emotionally absent, physically or sometimes both. I used to think I was reparenting myself as fast as I could, while trying to navigate the potholes that may well show up in my children’s lives if I am not successful. It seemed like a wild race against time, and I often failed to be one step ahead of where they needed me to be.

We can only improve the gene pool little by little if we really pay attention and try harder and harder in the fog in which we often find ourselves. From dysfunctional to mis functional to what…normal? At the ripe age of 80, I can say I have yet to meet anyone coming from a ‘normal’ family, as everyone has ways they have had to make adjustments. Yet seeing those small positive gains made by my children as they parent are huge in our family legacy. I am always noticing those ever so slight increases and crediting them to the balance column in our generational inheritance. It isn’t easy. Yay team!!

My youngest son had just been relocated to the fifth new home of his six years on earth. He adjusted very well every time, but in this one he also started school. He was quite self assured and already dressed in a style that showed his flair for being comfortable in his own clothing choices, even if he stood out from his peers. I was raised to be very conscious of both fitting in and being properly appropriate in my choices of attire. In self esteem I drew a short stick; it was extremely important to me that I not somehow hand that on to my children, even though I had no idea how to project its opposite.

I used to buzz cut my boys hair, at least until they began to notice girls around age 12. Soon after he started school, it was time for a buzz cut for my youngest. We put a kitchen stool in their bathroom and he sat down facing the big mirror. The stool put him at just the right height for me to work around his whole head and stay even. I did something different this particular time. I buzzed the right side front to back but stopped an inch onto the top. Then I did the same for the left side, stopping at the same place. I wasn’t finished but I stopped to look in the mirror at his reflection. He had one solid strip of hair up the middle, perfectly done and because it was growing out a previous buzz, all the hair was neatly the same length. I saw his eyes looked amazingly large all of a sudden, too and I asked him, “You know that mohawk you been asking me for years, do you still want one?”

Those big eyes got even larger and he said “Yes Mom!” He had no reservations, but I of course had to follow up with “What if people laugh at you?” He spun around and looked me straight in my eyes and said “Mom, if they laugh at me, that’s their problem.” I guess I didn’t hand it on after all, in spite of myself.

This is my story of forgiveness when it is really, really hard. Many years ago, when our son was just one year old, I found out purely by accident that my husband, his father, was having an affair with my best friend. This was alarming news and was soon thereafter followed by our separation. Later on she also left her husband and in a year or so after that they married and I had no choice but to interact frequently, as the care of my now two year old involved every other weekend with his dad. This kind of stilted relationship continued for a couple years, until my I moved my family to upstate New York. His dad didn’t object to this as he was fighting his own inner battles with alcohol at that time. Our subsequent moves to Berlin, Germany and later to Florida also did not negatively affect the infrequent contact my son had with his father, nor did he object to them. So our contacts became less frequent as years went by.

It was only later, when that son was in college, that I began to notice how deeply affected he was by the triangular relationship his parents had formed, unintentionally. My son had become very close to his stepmother, as she was often his primary caregiver on visits over holidays or summer. They had established a connection that I could understand, as I was never present when he visited and he often came and went by himself on airplanes, so we never overlapped or had occasion to speak. What I realized during his college years was that way we communicated, usually with and transmitted and interpreted by my ex, had been severely triangulated and misinterpreted on many occasions; as the third party interpreter in the middle, my ex often played one side against the other without our knowledge of what had actually been said. This had the effect of him controlling the conversations and our reactions to it. This became confusing and hurtful to both moms and since there was already distrust involved, clarity on issues involving my son were complicated and left him the harmed party in the middle of the mess.

Finally becoming aware of that pain he was silently enduring, I approached God with my dilemma. They had never apologized for the betrayals they had subjected me to, especially when their affair was secret and I was totally in the dark and being lied to regularly. That left a very deep wound in my heart, as it appeared I had meant nothing to either of them. Yet the only one really hurting besides me was my now almost adult son. Holding on to my resentment was not helping him or me. I wrestled with the idea of forgiving them, regardless of the fact they never seemed to think they had wronged me. That was a stretch hard to embrace as wasn’t I the injured party? But what became clear at that moment was my son was really the most injured party; he loved his mom, but he also loved his dad and step mom, and he was always torn when expected to choose a side. I decided I would make a deal with the Lord, though not usually a great idea in my limited experience. I told him I wasn’t willing to outright forgive them, but I was willing to be willing to forgive them, should God change my heart. Those words had hardly escaped my heart when I felt a sudden unexpected change. I went to bed and woke up the next day with absolutely nothing in my heart but compassion and love for my estranged friend and ex husband. Soon thereafter we began to share holidays and family occasions, like our son’s graduation, all together without the hurt I had repressed for years. Even when she later went through an agonizing, early end of life battle with cancer, we were able to fully support one another and I was able to reassure her of both my ex-husband’s and my son’s love for her in the last days of her life. She already knew she had mine.

This story is one I have referred to often in Christian circles as proof of how much God want’s us to forgive even those whom we may have a very good reason to refuse. The lightning speed with which He changed my heart proved I only needed to be willing to be willing to let Him, not to actually come to that place of willingness on my own. The unexpected results were the joy of both my own and my son’s ability to enjoy the fruits of a wonderful relationship with her and make some more good memories together before we lost her. I will never regret that decision and of course only wish I could have come to that heart place sooner, for all our sakes. But better late than never is also true, and once done, it was done for good. Thanks be to God.

Again the wisdom and intrigue in my 3 yr old grandson’s responses to my queries. It is why I thoroughly believe young children are often best paired with an older person, hopefully a grandparent whenever possible if available. And their time can be best spent alone together for the most part, because their interactions can be so genuine and familiar to both of their fragile ages, when left to their natural state unobserved.

I was calling his name toward the back of his head and although he was only a few feet in front of me, he was totally engrossed with the truck he was running through a pile of dirt at that moment. I repeated his name, this time with more volume and adding somewhat softly “Can you hear me, or are you deaf?”

“I’m deaf” was his calm retort, not moving his head even an inch toward me, although I had clearly been asking for his full attention. Obviously he had heard me, though I am not sure he even knew what the word ‘deaf’ meant at that moment. He may well have been merely playing my words back to me, stalling for time. I had to laugh and almost admire his creativity in the moment. How often do we do the same thing, especially if we think God is trying to get our attention and we are otherwise happily occupied with our own great ideas? It’s another version of the fingers in the ears, ‘lalalala, I can’t hear you’ mantra, but this seemed somehow a bit more respectful. Neither diversions actually work, but nice try little guy.

When my youngest was almost four we were members of a charismatic church with a large music ministry, which met in an old barn in upstate New York. There were many things that happened in my life during that time that I may refer to later, but one thing I will always remember was my young son in the bathtub, asking me if I would baptize him right then. I asked him if he wouldn’t rather wait until the following Sunday, where he could be water baptized (properly?) in the church. I will never forget his swift and confident answer, looking me straight in the eyes. “Mom, if I get baptized at church I’d be praising to people, but if I get baptized here I’ll be praising to God!” And neither he nor I have ever felt the need to do it again any differently.

P.S. I am writing this forty years after it happened, as I had just remembered it recently. Then three days later, as I am continuing reading my bible Cover to Cover in 100 days with my church, I came upon this passage where Jesus is dealing with the unbelief of the Jews before his death: John 12:42-43 NIV

“Yet at the same time many even among the leaders believed in him. But because of the Pharisees they would not openly acknowledge their faith for fear they would be put out of the synagogue; for they loved human praise more than praise from God.”

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It seems to me, as I creep toward the farther side of my brief time on earth, that most of my time with others my age is spent discussing our ‘adult children’, especially where we are trying to improve our current relationship with them. Much has been added to our prayer lists and our hearts, trying to come to grips with something I am not certain can be resolved. At what point do we realize that they are absolutely no longer children, but fully grown adults? At what specific place in our lives will they also know that we finally recognize that?

I am perhaps noticing right now, as I care for my toddler grandchild, that his parents are caught in a similar dilemma. Their cherished “baby” is now walking, having conversations with them and testing their boundaries. They flucuate between picking him up and covering him with kisses to expecting him to mind when they tell him it is time for bed. It is a fluid time for the grownups and often they are not in the exact same emotional place at the same time to define the solution clearly to him. Yet as I observe this I am also thinking of the issue of my own emotions, now seeing the child I once nurtured and held as the adult in charge of leading his own family through the many obstacles of life.

At what point did I, or have I ever actually, stopped thinking of him as my “child?” And yet I am expecting him to make confident, adult decisions every moment of his life, as he has been doing successfully for over twenty some years. When I find myself inwardly cringing a tiny bit as he calls my newly blossoming grandchild “baby”, trying to hold onto that precious part of him for just a few moments or months longer, am I not also doing the same confusing thing to my son? That push/pull of parenting, does it ever leave us? When do we truly release our hold on them? Should there be some kind of ceremony where we let go and commit to fully trusting them, if not to themselves, at least to the God we have assured them we believe in?

I do think we need to re-examine ourselves, and especially the part where we refer to them as our ‘adult children’. This branding does not let us off the hook but may in fact be keeping us and them on it, and not very comfortably so. I see us all struggling, trying to find the new relationship we are trying to achieve with these grown up people we once held and comforted. We were their source of everything in the beginning, yet had to relinquish more and more territory to others and to them as the years went by; driver’s licenses, anyone? For some parents this has looked like a complete void where their children once were; they cannot, no matter how they try, pull them back into shoes that have long been outgrown. As I look at how difficult it is to say goodbye to our “baby” in order for them to achieve the full potential on their new toddler horizons, I am struck by the incredibly difficult commitment it takes to truly let go of our “children”. I guess the real point is, what will it cost them to have us holding onto their arm as they try so hard to run ahead? Also as important, what will it cost us?

I have just spent three days in a large empty room with eleven chairs. I was holding a six week old baby girl who was still nursing. We were in a hospital waiting room, and her 38 yr old dad, my godson, was in ICU. He was rushed to Emergency with severe headaches and trouble speaking and walking. The results of the MRI and CT scans showed a large brain tumor that had crossed from his left to right hemispheres in the front of his head and although it did not look malignant to the neurosurgeon, it looked inoperable because of the right side being so close to speech and motor centers.

That said, this father and his wife are steadfast Christians, homeschooling their five children, always steeping them in the love of the Lord. I saw God use believers in so many amazing ways that could only be attributed to their faith in the midst of trials. He had prepared and was preparing us all for whatever His will is to be with this special young family.

I was called for a special duty, to hold the new baby while Mom was with her husband, only returning to us every few hours to nurse, as children are not allowed in the ICU. If I say this was one of the most sacred times I have known with the Lord, it would be an understatement, as the calm and the peace in that room was palpable, in a serene and surprisingly comforting way. I never turned on the available TV, even during the fifteen hours of the first day. Being with a new baby was certainly not in my comfort zone, having only barely made it through the infancy of my own, desperately awaiting the moments when they would talk and walk, but it was absolutely my calling that morning at 2:30 when my sister texted me about my nephew. Anyone who knows me will verify I am not the woman who goo-goos other’s babies or seeks to hold them. However I try never to question God’s plan (I have found over the years that it never works out well) and I could feel Him equip me for duty with His constant presence, as faithful prayer warriors seemed to fill those empty chairs to be with me on a continuing basis over the next five days. Not in person, mind you, but definitely in the spirit. I could certainly sense them, and sometimes the baby even seemed to stare right at them, as though her newly opened eyes could recognize the angels in our midst.

I could not keep track of, nor will I remember, all the ways I saw God reveal himself during this time before the biopsy was performed to assist in detecting the source and future radiation/treatment to hopefully shrink this large tumor. There were so many more moments than I could count. I seemed to be there to offer spiritual support to the Mom during the time we spent together while she was nursing, and God kept giving me visuals and His wisdom to build her up, though I have no memory of what was said.

There is and will be more to this story, as there is to every story in Christ, because we have yet to see how all of this will be used in the lives of others. Regardless of the way it turns, it will continue to have an effect on family and friends, but also on complete strangers, even on those asked to pray who have never met this family. I have come to believe that oftentimes it is more how our circumstances are used then what they actually are, having observed the past four decades through a more spiritually adjusted lens. What changes in our own approach to both trials and just everyday life might come as a result of our sharing this journey? There are infinite possibilities in the stories to be told. The miracles might not be the obvious one we are seeking right now, but the many ways in which people change their own behaviors toward others in their own lives going forward. Might that actually be the miracle we sought?