Deep Thoughts With Jessica

So, now that the master has had a major career change, I'm back doing the mail run every day. That is four hours in 24, BY MYSELF! Alone. Sola Mia. What do I do with my time? Well, I've picked up some fascinating Spanish language CD's and I've taken up the banner (again) of becoming fluent. But 45 minutes of subjugated verbs in the past, present, and future tense, is about all my brain can handle. I pray. I bust out with some awesome renditions of the songs coming out of my radio (you may very well be reading the blog of the next American Idol star), and I smirk at Big D and Bubba. Those guys crack me up. After a while, though, they get on my nerves. But mostly, I think. One of the few opportunities I've had in three years. Not sure how much grey matter is left after five kids, but I mull over life with the few brain cells still firing up there. Usually, my contemplations lead to another round of prayer.
Today, I was thinking about Esther's post on complaining (bitching, moaning, etc.). I read it just before bed, and though I wanted to find out who she was writing about, it was late and I was tired. I wondered as I went to sleep if she was talking about me, even though I'm not on her blog roll. Do I mope? Do I bitch and moan? Do I complain? Undoubtedly. Do I praise God for His lovingkindeness? Do I revel in the joy of life? Yes, to those, too.
I started to think about perspective. I thought about Esther's sad, sad, struggle to adopt a little girl. That adoption never took place. Their agency took their money, lied to them, and the little girl was "claimed" by a Russian family member (though she still remains in an institution). When I think of it, I am reminded again how blessed we are to have brought Marina home. Indeed, since I came to blogland, there have been many stories that have brought me to the edge of her bed, my tears falling over her as she sleeps. All I can whisper at then is, "Thank you, thank you, thank you..." But that does not nullify the fact that at other times, I kneel beside that same bed, and groan out to God, "Please help me. Please, help me help this child. I don't know what to do..." Now, to Esther, I'm sure my posts describing struggles with Marina, are difficult to swallow, because she would give anything to have her daughter to struggle with. But, Kim may empathize and sympathize, because she too, is parenting post-institutionalized children. Day in, day out.
I thought about my friend, Cari. As long as I've known her, she has grieved for her dad. I did not know him. But the master did and many, many people of my acquaintance loved him and held him in high esteem. He was, by every account, a man worthy of respect who loved his Savior and his family. I have heard the sorrow in her voice whenever she speaks of him--and that is often. I've never thought of remembrances as moaning or complaining. I listen, and I'm sad for her. And I think of my Dad, and how thankful I am that he is still around for me. I think about how much I'll miss him when he is gone. I think about my legacy, and wonder if my children will have as many wonderful memories of me to cherish. But for the first time today, I thought how her words might be viewed by another audience. Let's say someone who had a dirtbag for a father? Someone who never knew their dad? Or say, someone who had a much beloved parent, but who they know they will never see again in eternity?
I thought about a conversation I had with my mom a while back. Her and Dad were having dinner with some very close, life-long friends, I'll call them Pete and Cathy. Both couples got to talking about their children (see, it is the same at 60 as it is at 30). Pete and Cathy gave both of their children a devout Catholic upbringing. Pete was very troubled that his son and daughter-in-law were attending a non-denominational church. Mother joined in quickly. My older sister left her Baptist roots upon marriage and now practices the Episcopal faith. They both wondered why their kids would leave the denominations that were so important to them. Mom said in the midst of this serious conversation, it hit her: How many couples their age have children who are addicts? How many are raising their grandchildren? How many don't even know if their kids are alive or dead? And here we are, griping about what type of church ours worship in.
I thought about highschool. When all of my girlfriends would sit around and make fun of the lame gifts their grandparents gave them for Christmas. They were amazed at how "out of touch" they were and dreaded the few hours a month they had to put up with their company. I always sat in silence, grinding my teeth. By the 11th grade, I was a grandparent orphan. I wanted to yell at them, "You idiots! Don't you know what you have?"
See, it is all in the perspective.
But aren't we supposed to be transparent? Aren't we supposed to be honest and open with our hearts? Aren't we supposed to listen and help? How can we, if we don't even know what's going on? I thought about my neighbor across the street. I've so wanted my life to be a witness to her. But in two years, do you know when she has been the most open to spiritual matters? It has been when I've shared some personal struggle in my own life. That has been something she could IDENTIFY with. She could RELATE to trouble, pain, and confusion. And it was at those times, that I could share the Hope that I have in Christ. Should I have, instead, perpetuated the myth of the super-human Christian with Leave-It-To-Beaver family life? So, by this time, I've thought myself in to a head ache, and I'm back to praying. And I think I've come to this word: balance.

Do everything without complaining or arguing, so that you may become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which you shine like stars in the universe. Philippians 2:14-15

Carry each other's burdens, and in this way you will full fill the law of Christ. Galatians 6:2