The King Is Coming

The King Is Coming

Busy. Frantic. Rushing. Crazy. Those adjectives describe my morning.  I made a list last night of all the things I had to accomplish today.  I'm going to Women of Faith tomorrow morning right after I slow down at the curb and kick the kids out of the mini van for school, and there are a lot of things I needed to cram into this day.

Twenty minutes before my alarm clock went off, I woke up.  I turned a lazy, crusted eye to the clock and winced at the constant ache in my head and neck.  My mind was torn between my dreams and reality.  Reality won.  I immediately thought of three more things to add to my list.  I grabbed my iPhone and added to my growing list.

As I rushed from school to school, to the doctor, to church, the store, post office, home, back to the store again, then back to get the kids; my mind kept going to my Dad.

My Mother called me yesterday and told me the nurse had asked him if he was afraid.  He nodded and contorted his face as if to cry.  I so wanted to go out and see him yesterday, but I couldn't.  The kids' schedules were so crazy.  And here I am again today.  My day was shot.  Then tonight Micayla had driver's ed and there were still things I wanted to get done around the house and I still had to pack for this weekend.  But what if tonight was the last night for Dad?

So after school the girls and I fell into the van with cold fries and hot sandwiches from Arby's.

No matter how much or little time has passed, it is always a shock to see Dad again.  To see the robust, strong man, that carried me when I was small, lifted the handicapped children with ease and held my mother's hand so tenderly, reduced to a frail, tiny man that weighs a mere 103 pounds is sad.  Alzheimer's is cruel.

I knelt beside him and rubbed his chest telling him hello. His hollow cheeks sucked in and out, a soft snore filling the room.   I leaned over and kissed his wrinkled forehead.  I brushed back his grey, thin hair.  I remembered when his hair was black and full(er) and he coiffed it with Dippity Do.   It was then I started to just talk to him.

I told him how much I loved him.  How whenever I mention his name to someone, they get a grin on their face and tell a story of how he has impacted their life.  I told him that he can go see Jesus now.  He can see Dave, Sue, Deanne, Joey, his mom and dad, his sister, Bev... all his loved ones that have died.   He doesn't have to be afraid.  Everything will be alright.  Mom will be taken care of.  Everyone will be taken care of.  I listed all of us kids.  Josiah, Jed, Jon, Sally, Jessie, Darla, Debbie, Anne'... we will all be okay.

I said, "Imagine Dad, seeing Jesus.  You get to walk the streets of gold.  See the pearly gates, the Jordan river.  All the questions that we talked about when I was growing up, you can ask Jesus.  You'll be able to remember again."

Again, I told him how much I loved him.  That it was okay for him to die, that Jesus would take care of him and that he would give him peace.  A peace that passes all understanding.  I told him he was the best dad that I could have ever asked for. Every good childhood memory I have has him in it.

I started to rub his temples. "Remember when I was a little girl and you use to rub my temples when I had a seizure?  You said if you could, you would take all the pain away.  Dad, if I could, I would take all your pain away."

Of course I was crying and snotting by this time.  I started to pray. I prayed that God would take him home.  That he would release Dad from this shell.  "Dad has loved You with all of his heart, now let him love You with all of his mind."  I wiped my tears off of Dad's neck.  I put my lips close to his ear and just groaned and cried.  The Bible says in Romans 8:26 that "God's Spirt is right alongside helping us along.  If we don't know how or what to pray, it doesn't matter.  He does our praying in and for us, making prayer out of our wordless sighs, our aching groans."  I love that verse because that's what I was doing...groaning.  God knows.

I laid my head down on Dad's chest and felt it rise and fall.  I heard the irregular beating just below the surface.  My thoughts drifted back thirty years ago when I was a little girl sitting on his lap in church.  I had laid my head against his chest then too.  I tried to match him breath for breath, but my lungs needed much more air than he did.  I heard the thumping of his heart against my cheek, strong and steady.  Just like him.   His arms had enveloped me; I breathed in his fragrance. Old Spice. It smelled like safety.  I felt protected in this man's arms.  I didn't know any difference.  It's where I had fit.  It was home.

Now, I laid against a very different chest.  The strong, steady beat, is replaced by an irregular, weak patter.  The strong arms that had surrounded me, were no longer tan from the hard work in the sun, but now were rather very pale and laid limp on his inverted belly.  The fragrance that was so familiar as a child is now replaced with laundry detergent and stale breath.  Yet, I still felt like I fit on his chest; it was still home.  I'll always be his baby.

I sat up, brushed his hair back and kissed him on the cheek.

When I was a baby Mom and Dad use to sing "The King is Coming" to me as a lullaby.  They'd pat my butt like a basketball and I'd fall asleep.  On through toddler years and even as a child, they'd sing it to me.  I remember asking them "just one more time."  Before I left, I sang this to him:

"The marketplace is empty, no more traffic in the street
All the builder's tools are silent, no more time to harvest wheat
Busy housewives cease their labor, in the courtroom no debate
Work on earth has been suspended as the King comes through the gate

Oh the King is coming, the King is coming
I just heard the trumpet sounding and now His face I see
Oh the King is coming, the King is coming
Praise God, He is coming for Dad."

Now, originally the song ends "coming for me." But Dad changed it to "coming for Becka." And then would list all the kids in the family as well.  I loved that song.

I found it fitting to sing this to Dad for a couple of reasons.

One, Dad sang this over me, and now I get to sing it over him.  The roles have truly reversed.  He has become completely dependent on other people for his needs. I had cleaned out his eyes tonight. It was an honor.  I sang to him my lullaby.  It was an honor.  He is my dad.  It is an honor.

Two,  The King IS coming for Dad.  I don't think the King is coming by the way of The Rapture, but the Lord is bringing him home nonetheless.

Never in a million years would I have thought I would pray for my Dad to die.  I love him so much.  Yet, I believe he's ready to see Jesus.  As I left tonight, I took his hand and whispered in his ear, "the next time I see you, it will be in heaven."  He squeezed it. It broke my heart.

I came home, looked at my messy home and thought, from now on, take a deep breath, embrace the mess, the dirt, the kids, the hubby and the chaos.  The King is coming.  That's what's important.

6th Grade Math

6th Grade Math

There is nothing like 6th Grade math that makes you feel stupid.  I have spent a few hours tonight flipping through the pages of a well-worn book, smudged with pencil markings, sweat, tears and last year's boogers.  I have the brain retention of a gnat.  I actually saw one on the window tonight and envied it because it was knocking it's head against the window.

I remember Miss Bethard telling me in 6th grade that this was a tool that we would use for the rest of our lives.  Umm, sorry, I don't remember common multiples.  Had to look it up and relearn it tonight.  I actually had to relearn it for the third time.  Remember Micayla and Dale?  Had them first.  I'm a gnat.

Seriously, is it really going to matter if my child is sitting outside a restaurant that has two neon signs, one blinks every 9 seconds, the other sign blinks every 15 seconds; in how many seconds will they blink together again.  Is this a skill in life that they need to develop?  Are restaurant owners around the country hiring positions for neon time keepers?   

I don't recall one instance where I have needed a common multiple.  I have needed common things to multiply, but that's another story.  See, now if they could have taught THAT in school....   

There were always things in school that I thought we didn't need.  I saw absolutely no use for spelling tests in grade school.  I hve no idae wyh.  Its so stoopid.  

Or timed math tests.  I got so nervous.  All I could see was the clock ticking by.  Kristen Lien always got done first.  I wanted to kick her.  Or break the clock.  

Reading comprehension was the same thing.  I saw white.  I'd read the same paragraph three times.  I'd read it once, then think, "I don't remember what it said."  So I'd read it again. But while I was reading it the second time I was thinking, "I can't believe I have to read it again, I better pay attention." But by then I was done.  So then I'd have to read it a third time.  By that time, it was a literally floating, opaque, etherial page in front of me. My toothpick underarms were raining sweat, the clock was hammering seconds away in the corner and I was nearly undone.  All over a paragraph. 

Gym showers.  I could have done without that little joy in my life.  I could have done without gym.  I had four years of cramps to get out of that class.   

History timelines.  Somehow the dates of the Revolutionary War has never come up in my day to day conversation.  Maybe it has for you, but not so much for me.  Remember, I'm a gnat, so dates were a KILLER for me.  I could remember people, events, eras, etc.  But to put the actual date and "timeline" together? Ugh!  Forget about it.  

But looking back on school, there was a purpose in it all.  I obviously needed those spelling tsets.  Ttses.  I mean, tests.  =)  You all wouldn't be able to make it through this blog without reading comprehension, so that's good, right?  I think history and math and science and social studies...while we may not use it every day it does give us a well roundness.  Even gym prepares us for a healthy lifestyle.  Altho' those gym showers... (shudder).

The best part of school was the teachers.  I'm 37, yet to this day I think I can recite all of my teachers beginning with kindergarten.  Nope.  I take that back.  Preschool.  (Barbara and Nancy.  Nancy had the most beautiful long, strawberry blonde hair I had ever seen.  Barbara died from breast cancer years later) Some of those teachers have shaped me into who I am today.

My high school English teacher, Mr. Kraemer believed in my writing.  He was the first teacher that made me believe that I had any talent. He encouraged me, corrected me, believed in me.

My choir teacher, Miss Behm, was the first person outside of my family that said I could sing.  She heard me sing and cried.  That made me feel special.  She encouraged me to press on...to take voice lessons.  I'm better because of her.

My 5th grade teacher, Miss DiMartino was mean.  At first.  I thought she didn't like me.  But she was the first one that treated me, well, normal.  I was the baby in the family and was use to having the sun rise and set in me.  She taught me to be normal. And to not pop my gum in class.  I loved her.

There are many, many teachers that I could highlight.  So, even though I hate math to this day, even though Nikki's homework makes me feel incredibly stupid, I'm glad that she, as well as the other kids, have teachers that are impacting their lives forever.  At their age it's hard to see the big picture.  Someday they'll know that sometimes it's not about the books, it's about the relationship.

Thank you, teachers, for your sacrifice, love and commitment to your students.  You'll never know the lives that you are changing.  

Welcome... maybe later

Welcome...Maybe Later

I have been wanting to start a blog for the last few years, yet I have put it off. Procrastination seems to be one of my more glaring traits. Kids, basketball games, church activities, TV shows that I've dvr'd...you know the important things =)  they all seem to catch up with me.

I was always the one in school who did the project the night before it was due.  I scrambled to find a bottle of glue, found the cap glued on, had to cut the orange tip off, and then discovered it was dried up anyway.  So then I had to tape all the dried bugs to the poster board...where I had collected the nasty things from the bug zapper on the porch earlier because I neglected to collect them two weeks ago.  I was the one that crammed in study hall the hour before the big test in US History.  Sorry Mr. Hess.  

Yet 20 years later, procrastination hasn't left this body.  However it seems like the horror of putting things off has been passed on to my offspring.  

Take for example, the other day, my child (who shall remain nameless) was given two weeks to tell me that he/she needed two scrapbook papers for class.  Two weeks.  However, this child told me the night before.  Did I look empathetically, take their hand, remember all the times when I was a kid where I did the same thing and say, "Oh honey, lets frolic to the store together hand in hand and get these precious papers together.  How I know exactly what you're going through.  Don't fret, my pet.  All will be right with the world."  No.  Instead what dripped from my lips was, "Dang it!  You knew this for two weeks!  Why do you always wait until the last moment?  You need to be a little more organized."  

Geez.  Why do I become so impatient?  I have the perfect Parent as an example.  Yet, I constantly make the same mistakes over and over.  I'm thankful that He gives me grace to start again.  I pray that my kids are as forgiving as my heavenly Father is to me.  Lord, knows I love them more than basketball games, church activities and the tv shows I've dvr'd.  More than life itself.  

Psalm 78:8 says, "Heaven forbid they be like their parents, bullheaded and bad, a fickle and faithless bunch who never stayed true to God." Now I know that I have stayed true to God; I love the Lord with all my heart.  My prayer is that Micayla, Dale, Abrieanna and Nikki will be God-like in all their actions, in spite of my imperfections and foibles. Ok, my MAJOR imperfections and foibles.