One Baby. Two Days. Three Lessons.
Last night, like the similarly introverted body man in my favorite show The West Wing, I got a purposeful invitation to "speak as men do". Like Charlie, I was invited to hang out with a couple of guys. Though the territory was unfamiliar and my question to my new acquaintance was bookish, his reply sparked quick connection. I asked Richard, whom I had known all of 90 minutes, how his outlook was different as he and his wife expected their second child. He said he wanted to write down more of the experience this time. THAT I can certainly relate to.
In fact, the resolve of another practitioner of writing as reflection was timely. Five years ago today, my wife and I got a call that would change our lives. We became foster parents. I'm with Richard in that I've spilled more ink over lesser things, so the opportunity to come up for air and commemorate the experience with lessons from Little One, not named here in keeping with social services policy, seems appropriate.
The first lesson came in the timing of such a long-awaited call. It came on a Sunday night at the end of a weekend that was exhausting in the best way. My wife had poured herself out in directing a wedding. Even I had torn myself away from my books and my other reflective routines to join my church's evangelistic efforts the day before. We then spent the remaining Saturday in our Saturday driving a round-trip of an hour and a half to attend a performance that would mean a lot to a family teen. Sunday was likewise spent with little pensiveness toward what was missing, or what was to come. We probably taught first-graders in Sunday school that morning, investing where we could while we waited for another more intimate opportunity. Heaven remembers what else we did as a part of our church that afternoon, but we were both in our pajamas by 7:30 on a Sunday evening. Then the call came announcing Little One's arrival. With a body rendered uncooperative by cerebral palsy, I've never been noted for quick or cheerful wardrobe changes. Retail curmudgeon, I've never been noted for cheerful shopping trips. I made ready exceptions to both habits as we ventured out to get a car seat for the new arrival.
The first lesson from Little One, then, is not to camp out in stubborn, motionless, even bitter, anticipation of what we want most. I have no illusions that we reached a certain point on the Good Works Meter that weekend. The persisting idea that in response to our works some reluctant Heavenly bureaucrat approached Heaven's begrudging King after blowing the dust off a contract He reluctantly agrees to meet the desire of our hearts is absurd enough to spell out, and dismiss. God's grace allowed us to serve as we were, even while, with John Milton, we served while standing and waiting for the blessings we could not bring to ourselves. Continuing to see His work in His more grown children, and desiring to join Him in that work, made the time pass faster, and more gratefully. As we serve where we can, we recognize what we have already been given rather than focusing on what we lack.
Although she had already granted enlightenment before she arrived, Little One, at just over four months,wasn't particularly Zen about her part in the process. Something was changing, and her passions were astir like ours were, but in the opposite direction. My first social media status as an actual parent was the confession, "Only sound worse than a baby crying inconsolably? YOUR baby crying inconsolably." The experience of parenthood, common to billions, written about philosophically and endlessly, less than an hour old, was far more intense than I imagined. A friend responded tartly to my admission, "Welcome to parenthood."
The second lesson from Little One, then, was how ready we are to underestimate the intensity of someone else's moment. I would like to think I've been sympathetic in my thinking toward parents with crying infants. Infants are cute, and hard to blame for the world's problems. We have all, as the cliché goes, been there. Somebody found the source of our tears. Surrounding somebodys, at least, granted enough grace, to stand by and not complain too loudly. Something happens, though, with the disappearance of cherubic cheeks and with the refinement of formless wailing into actual speech. I find myself ready to complain about people's complaining, and then to count myself mature and detached for having done so. The complainer, the more hurt for the depth of passion they are expressing, is not SO far removed from the crying infant or perplexed parent for whom most of us can come up with a modicum of sympathy. We are all vulnerable. We are all experiencing reminders that this world is a strange and at times painful place. We are all expressing that realization as best we know how, or responding to someone who is. Just because we have heard particular complaints before, or have heard baby's crying before, does not divide the intensity of the actual experience, or relieve us from summoning genuine sympathy – again. As Ben Carson said when asked how he deals with his harshest critics, perhaps envisioning those who grate on us most as infants in need would help us find our humanity and its compassion toward others.
November 12, 2012 was a different day. It seemed like a different era. I went to the same job. I helped many of the same students with many of the same problems. But the Little One in the car seat on the way to and from assuming this work role changed my perspective entirely. Even at midday, while Little One was presumably sleeping offer night of adjustment to our household, she was changing my thoughts as many of the same words about majors, and drop forms, and financial aid applications came out of my mouth. These tools and transactions had a purpose beyond me and the moment in which I was serving the customer. I was, by God's grace, providing for someone who could not provide for herself. A work dispute may have been grating, a work routine may have been just as boring as it was the Friday before, but now these threads were woven into the tapestry of Parental Purpose. They were part of satisfying Little One just as much as the formula they bought which filled her belly.
The third lesson is… wait for it… Actually, the third lesson IS wait for it. Much as I knew from moments of transcendent revelation over the weekend that I would understand my work's purpose more clearly when the day was over, so it is with many of the routines and irritations in which we attempt to be faithful under midday sun, or midday fluorescence. The results of what we do may not be immediately apparent, or immediately gratifying. The reward may not even be in the same currency we are called to count out during the day's dealings. Our dollars may still be redeemable for gold. That is, the countable, measurable denominations of daily transactions to which we become so accustomed as to lose sight of their true value, will come together for some greater purpose. They may find a greater purpose in the changes, in the patience, they render in us. Our daily banality may feed a baby and be paid off with interest in an incandescent smile. They may honor the Lord Who says He will be the Guarantor of anything we give to those who cannot give back. If this can be the education, edification, connectedness made more apparent over a weekend five years ago, I can't wait to see what the Great Metallurgist is refining in the more recent heat He is applying.
In fact, the resolve of another practitioner of writing as reflection was timely. Five years ago today, my wife and I got a call that would change our lives. We became foster parents. I'm with Richard in that I've spilled more ink over lesser things, so the opportunity to come up for air and commemorate the experience with lessons from Little One, not named here in keeping with social services policy, seems appropriate.
The first lesson came in the timing of such a long-awaited call. It came on a Sunday night at the end of a weekend that was exhausting in the best way. My wife had poured herself out in directing a wedding. Even I had torn myself away from my books and my other reflective routines to join my church's evangelistic efforts the day before. We then spent the remaining Saturday in our Saturday driving a round-trip of an hour and a half to attend a performance that would mean a lot to a family teen. Sunday was likewise spent with little pensiveness toward what was missing, or what was to come. We probably taught first-graders in Sunday school that morning, investing where we could while we waited for another more intimate opportunity. Heaven remembers what else we did as a part of our church that afternoon, but we were both in our pajamas by 7:30 on a Sunday evening. Then the call came announcing Little One's arrival. With a body rendered uncooperative by cerebral palsy, I've never been noted for quick or cheerful wardrobe changes. Retail curmudgeon, I've never been noted for cheerful shopping trips. I made ready exceptions to both habits as we ventured out to get a car seat for the new arrival.
The first lesson from Little One, then, is not to camp out in stubborn, motionless, even bitter, anticipation of what we want most. I have no illusions that we reached a certain point on the Good Works Meter that weekend. The persisting idea that in response to our works some reluctant Heavenly bureaucrat approached Heaven's begrudging King after blowing the dust off a contract He reluctantly agrees to meet the desire of our hearts is absurd enough to spell out, and dismiss. God's grace allowed us to serve as we were, even while, with John Milton, we served while standing and waiting for the blessings we could not bring to ourselves. Continuing to see His work in His more grown children, and desiring to join Him in that work, made the time pass faster, and more gratefully. As we serve where we can, we recognize what we have already been given rather than focusing on what we lack.
Although she had already granted enlightenment before she arrived, Little One, at just over four months,wasn't particularly Zen about her part in the process. Something was changing, and her passions were astir like ours were, but in the opposite direction. My first social media status as an actual parent was the confession, "Only sound worse than a baby crying inconsolably? YOUR baby crying inconsolably." The experience of parenthood, common to billions, written about philosophically and endlessly, less than an hour old, was far more intense than I imagined. A friend responded tartly to my admission, "Welcome to parenthood."
The second lesson from Little One, then, was how ready we are to underestimate the intensity of someone else's moment. I would like to think I've been sympathetic in my thinking toward parents with crying infants. Infants are cute, and hard to blame for the world's problems. We have all, as the cliché goes, been there. Somebody found the source of our tears. Surrounding somebodys, at least, granted enough grace, to stand by and not complain too loudly. Something happens, though, with the disappearance of cherubic cheeks and with the refinement of formless wailing into actual speech. I find myself ready to complain about people's complaining, and then to count myself mature and detached for having done so. The complainer, the more hurt for the depth of passion they are expressing, is not SO far removed from the crying infant or perplexed parent for whom most of us can come up with a modicum of sympathy. We are all vulnerable. We are all experiencing reminders that this world is a strange and at times painful place. We are all expressing that realization as best we know how, or responding to someone who is. Just because we have heard particular complaints before, or have heard baby's crying before, does not divide the intensity of the actual experience, or relieve us from summoning genuine sympathy – again. As Ben Carson said when asked how he deals with his harshest critics, perhaps envisioning those who grate on us most as infants in need would help us find our humanity and its compassion toward others.
November 12, 2012 was a different day. It seemed like a different era. I went to the same job. I helped many of the same students with many of the same problems. But the Little One in the car seat on the way to and from assuming this work role changed my perspective entirely. Even at midday, while Little One was presumably sleeping offer night of adjustment to our household, she was changing my thoughts as many of the same words about majors, and drop forms, and financial aid applications came out of my mouth. These tools and transactions had a purpose beyond me and the moment in which I was serving the customer. I was, by God's grace, providing for someone who could not provide for herself. A work dispute may have been grating, a work routine may have been just as boring as it was the Friday before, but now these threads were woven into the tapestry of Parental Purpose. They were part of satisfying Little One just as much as the formula they bought which filled her belly.
The third lesson is… wait for it… Actually, the third lesson IS wait for it. Much as I knew from moments of transcendent revelation over the weekend that I would understand my work's purpose more clearly when the day was over, so it is with many of the routines and irritations in which we attempt to be faithful under midday sun, or midday fluorescence. The results of what we do may not be immediately apparent, or immediately gratifying. The reward may not even be in the same currency we are called to count out during the day's dealings. Our dollars may still be redeemable for gold. That is, the countable, measurable denominations of daily transactions to which we become so accustomed as to lose sight of their true value, will come together for some greater purpose. They may find a greater purpose in the changes, in the patience, they render in us. Our daily banality may feed a baby and be paid off with interest in an incandescent smile. They may honor the Lord Who says He will be the Guarantor of anything we give to those who cannot give back. If this can be the education, edification, connectedness made more apparent over a weekend five years ago, I can't wait to see what the Great Metallurgist is refining in the more recent heat He is applying.
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