Archive for the ‘life stuff’ Category
magnificent
Only love, only love can leave such a mark…
Magnificent, U2
“Yeah, I’m going back to work next month. And I’m also going back to school to get my degree. I’m starting a business, too. Making kids’ toys.”
I sat across from the bright-eyed mom rocking her three-month-old baby in his car seat. I nodded and smiled as Jude wiggled (all 21 pounds of him) in my arms. As I listened to the young mom go on, something fractured a little inside. She went on about all her plans (“Oh, and we’re thinking about getting pregnant again. I’d have another one tomorrow if I could…”), and I began thinking back on my plans. I began thinking back on our six months with Jude, too.
3 Commentsthe gifts
Relax, everything’s going to be all right; rest, everything’s coming together; open your hearts, love is on the way!
- Jude 2
On this eve of 2010, as I sit with Jason and tend to Jude (who happens to be aching with new teeth and a scratchy throat), I can’t help thinking about the gifts given to me in 2009.
No Commentsat the end of all waiting
I’ve been having trouble finishing my final advent reflection these past few days. In fact, I’ve been having trouble reflecting on Advent (or anything) these past few weeks. I’ve longed to remember what it means to wait and hope in these darkening days, but my mind is blocked, muddled, and filled almost solely with thoughts of how best to comfort Jude’s nearly round-the-clock teething pain.
Jude’s angst this past month has been sadly reminiscent of his colic days. We thought those days and nights would never end as they lingered long and dark and lonely. In the weeks where crying and white noise were our symphony, we tended to Jude’s wounds, licked our own, and waited.
And we waited.
We never wanted to wish time away. We knew somehow those hours singing “Sweet Baby James” and “Stardust” to Jude were precious in their own messy way. We knew that taking him for long walks, putting him in the bathtub with me, or wearing him in the wrap at 3 a.m. were the stuff memories were made of. We knew the tears and the ache would be redeemed as they bound our little family together in a way it wouldn’t have been had Jude been an “easy” baby.
So we didn’t wish time away. We waited. As painful and devastating as it was, we waited. We cried Jude’s tears with him and then cried our own. We asked questions and doubted and researched and made doctor visits and talked to moms and dads who knew about colic first-hand.
And we waited.
And then, one day, an ordinary Tuesday to be exact, the waiting was over. With a ten-minute chiropractic adjustment, Jude was suddenly and gloriously free. Free from pain. Free from his undying ache. Free to be who he was born to be.
We saw his personality shine through in those post-colic days like never before. I always knew he’d be a spitfire – he was from the moment I first felt him backflipping in my womb. But he proved to have more spunk and fire, humor and tenderness than I’d ever imagined.
He smiled.
He slept.
He urgled and gurgled.
He laughed.
He drank life in with intensity, curiosity and passion.
I think that must be what happens at the end of all waiting. The truest version of a thing finally appears: uncovered, raised up, born. All the broken parts become a whole – and life begins. And, on some ordinary day, Love comes on the scene and brings Grace and Truth in His wings.
No Commentssomething of God
I smiled at the smile on his face as I laid him back down in his crib. It was 10:30 and Jude had been asleep for 3-1/2 solid hours, but he needed a snack to tide him over into the wee morning hours. (He’s a grazer like his momma.)
As I pulled my hands out from under his neck and back and let the sleep positioner cradle him, he stirred and shuffled his swaddled feet. So I put my hand back on his head and laid my other hand over his chest. Then I timed my own breath with his, letting my exhalations lull him toward deeper slumber. A minute later, he yawned, sighed contentedly and smiled again. He was asleep now.
I pulled my hands off his head and chest, but let them hover over him. And it was as I inhaled his sweet baby’s breath that I realized something. Jude will never remember this moment. How he was hungry. How I fed him. How I swayed him back to sleep. How I stayed with him till he reached the REM stage. How I saw him sigh and smile.
He’ll never remember it.
But I’ll never forget.
Maybe there’s something of God in that moment. In fact, I’m certain there is.
1 Commenta rarity (upon retirement)
Today my dad is retiring, so normally this would be a day to congratulate him on a job well done. A day to make much of his many years with one earth-moving company. And I could. I could write at length about his excellence, integrity and reliability in the company where he worked for nearly 32 years. I could say all sorts of glowing and true things about the way he worked his way up from chipwheeler-sweeper on the factory floor, through an engineering degree, and ultimately to several overseas assignments. And I have no doubt that I could call on countless coworkers from over the years who would have nothing but good to say about Scott Hendryx.
I could say all those things. But I’ve thought of something else to say.
What I appreciate most about all the years and energy my dad devoted to his job is that he devoted exponentially more to his family. For as necessary as his presence was at his job, later on requiring a good bit of travel and three years living overseas, he was incredibly present for us. At the park flying kites and pushing me on the swing. At Ticketmaster waiting in overnight lines for New Kids on the Block tickets. At my cheerleading basketball games. At show choir events. At home for dinner. At my brother’s hockey games. At plays and recitals and concerts. Even at numberless writers’ nights playing percussion and singing back-up for me in Nashville.
I don’t know how he managed to be such an honorable employee, so celebrated by his coworkers and superiors, and at the same time remain so consistently dedicated to his wife and kids. When I say things like this to him, he just sort of shrugs and says something like, “I just made it work. You guys were always more important.”
So Dad, today I celebrate you. You are a rarity. Your accomplishments as a hard-working man of integrity who loved his family more than anything are to be honored. Thank you for providing more for our family than just a paycheck…but for giving us your self.
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