Worthless

Growing up, my sisters and I were given many fun, silly nicknames by our dad. We rarely heard from his lips our formal names, but answered instead to, "Jessy-Poosey," "Jenny-Gwen-Gwen," and "KK." Over the years, one specific title emerged which referenced all three: "toot." Different adjectives generally proceeded this appellation--"lazy," "good-for-nothin'," and most frequently, "worthless." Not exactly what most would consider a term of endearment, but for us it was. Always spoken with love. Usually accompanied by a hug, or pat, or a stroke of my head. Delivered by the man who provided for all of my needs and most of my wants. In blatant disregard for the definition of terms, I felt cherished, prized, priceless.
And, strictly speaking, Daddy's choice of nomenclature was dead on. We were a pretty worthless lot. Living alone with four women is not for the faint of heart. He had no partner for jobs that involved plumping, or auto-mechanics, or lawn maintenance. Actually, no help with any chore that might possibly lead to sweat, odor, or residue. A high school athlete himself, he tried repeatedly to interest us in competitive sports, but we liked twirling batons and playing horns. He loved to deer hunt and would have happily included his daughters in his passion. And while he was successful in teaching both me and Jen how to handle a pistol, revolver, and a 22, he ran out of luck when it came to buck rifles. Ouch. Besides, hunting meant sitting in either a sweltering or frigid deer stand dressed in unappealing camo and bathed in Deep Woods Off and fox pee. Count us out.
But no man was more adored. If we declined to traipse out to the berry patch on a hot summer afternoon, we dropped whatever we were doing to bake his favorite cobbler from the dewberries he brought in. Straining the berries and using the juice, just the way he liked it. If Daddy had to brave an early Sunday morning trip to the Dollar Store for panty hose, hairspray, or sanitary napkins, he got to chuckle over the jostling and scrapping over who would sit next to him in the pew. And though he never cheered his own daughter on to victory, he and I didn't miss a single girl's basketball game that spring they went to state. There I was at sixteen--an age when most of my friends loathed, disdained, and/or barely tolerated their fathers--proud as punch to walk in on his arm.
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These past few months have been very difficult for me. In addition to what you have read here, there have been other struggles, both inward and outward that I haven't felt I could post about. Rarely in my life have I experienced such self-doubt, worry, and stress. For the first time in my life, I feel worthless. Of no use to anyone. Not to my friends, my family, my husband, my children, my daycare kids, and most of all to God. I know the thoughts I've been having are not from the Lord, but from the Evil One. I know all the scriptures (but feel free to leave me some in comments as encouragement), and have been saying them over and over to myself when these thoughts come over me; but as I said, this has been an extremely trying time, and I'm still struggling. This feeling of worthlessness settles in my heart like a heavy stone.
I'm so thankful for my silly nickname, "Worthless Toot." I'm thankful for an earthly father who daily reminded me that I was loved immeasurably and independently of anything I could do for him. When the deceiver and condemner hurls his darts at me, and I am absolutely convinced that it is true. I have no value. I am good-for-nothing. I am worthless. I seem to hear the Holy Spirit whisper, "Yes, but you are MY worthless toot," with the familiar tone of love and acceptance. Satan cannot call me anything more than what I've heard my whole life from a loving earthly father. And he cannot dissuade me from the faith that my Father's love must be even greater, stronger, deeper, and more steadfast than my daddy's. His love is not based on what I do. He has chosen to love me:

You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you that you should go and bear fruit. John 15:16

See how great a love the father has bestowed on us that we should be called children of God, and such we are. I John 3:1

For all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God, being justified as a gift by His grace, through the redemption which is in Christ Jesus. Romans 3:23-24

How can I not respond with adoration? Isn't my love what He desires the most?

Very Merry, Indeed

Ah yes, Christmas morning at our house. Most of the pictures are of the kids getting their "Santa" presents. We must have missed the big moment with Abby. She got a Nintendo DS. This was one of her three under the tree gifts--three presents because the Christ child only received three gifts and they sure do not need/deserve more than He got. Anyway I digress...Abby is holding a dress pattern and fabric for her to use with her new sewing machine (birthday present). All I've heard since her birthday is, "When can you teach me to sew, Mom?" So a good learner pattern was a must have for Christmas. Randy got a Fisher Price Barn. An absolute necessity for toddler hood, in my opinion. We had one, but I believe it was on the recall list. It lasted through the first four kids just fine, but one of the daycare kids (read hooligans) managed to find the flaw and completely destroyed it, so Santa had to bring us the new, improved model. For Marina we went with a mini-trampoline. Several of my parenting books on sensory integration/RAD/and prenatal drug exposure recommend small trampolines with handles. I didn't get why the handle was stressed until I watched her play on it. She can really put a lot of force behind her jumps with a handle for leverage. It should prove to be a great way for her to relieve anxiety, anger, aggression, etc. I thought at first that is was going to be a dud present. You can see that she doesn't look particularly thrilled in the picture. But after the others climbed on and showed her how to use it, she loved it. She is so put out with me today, because I've moved it to its storage spot in the shed. I suppose she thought it was going to stay in our kitchen? The two older boys followed a blood trail (cut up red styrofoam plate) from their stockings, out of the house and into the garage to find two beginner bows. Yes, I know, we're sick. But what can I say? This is Texas.

I have a few kids in care today, but I just got them down for a nap. Everyone had said they would probably just stay home with their kids, but then it started to rain. And I'm guessing they started to get a little stir crazy, because along about 10:00 a.m. three mommy's showed up at my door toting toddlers. Part of me (the professional) is fine with it because this is what I do, and I am being paid for it. But part of me (the fellow mommy side) wants to tell these women, "Look, you don't have to go to work today. You need to parent your children. Sunny days and rainy days. It can be done! Get a sheet, a chair, and a clothespin....sit down and play one of the dozens of new Christmas games with them....mix up some shaving cream and food coloring....The possibilities are endless. Buck up. YOU CAN DO THIS!" But I guess that would put me out of a job, right?

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