Not Done With Her "Ermotions"

No one told me when I signed up for motherhood that it would eventually turn into grandmotherhood that looks like this: wild and worrisome and wonderful all at once.

Take the past eleven days, for instance. Within them, we welcomed five new grandbabies - a set of triplets and a set of twins - born eight days apart.

On January 10, Rolin and Joy’s two sons and one daughter arrived. The girl’s name is Piper Sage and she weighed 4 lbs, 12 oz. at birth. Jude Malachi was 4 lbs. even, and Quinn Keegan weighed 4 lbs, 11 oz.

On January 18, Kayleen and Carlin’s identical twin girls entered the world, eleven weeks early. Eleanor Jane weighed 2 lbs, 4 oz, and Eva Noel weighed 2 lbs, 13 oz.

These unique multiple events kicked my grandmothering into high gear. Although I haven’t been able to do all that much yet, I certainly have been able to feel much!

Something I have been able to do is providing childcare for Seth, our first and only grandchild up until eleven days ago. Seth stayed at our house for a little while over the time of his siblings’ birth. I thought he really did quite well with the initial changes to his routine.

One morning soon after the triplets were born, I was sitting on the couch with my devotional book and journal at hand (and probably with my phone in hand). Seth was capering around the living room and frequently landing close to me. I soon realized that I had forgotten what it’s like trying to have quiet time with a preschooler at my elbow.

He kept up what seemed like a steady stream of questions while intermittently I assured him that I did want to play bat and ball with him in the back yard (yes, it’s been a mild January) as soon as I was done having my devotions, but he should play quietly with the dinkies for a little while longer. Finally, at his suggestion, I set the timer for ten minutes.

But next thing I knew, he was at my side, imploring, “When can we play outside, Grandma? Are you done with your ‘ermotions’ yet?”

I tried to keep my chuckle from becoming too audible while I answered him in my mind. “No, Honey, I won’t be done with my ermotions for a long, long time!”

I’m pretty sure he meant devotions, since he had just heard me use that term, but it sounded like emotions and I thought it was quite fitting for how intertwined my devotion and emotions have become lately. In fact, if I were to follow King David’s lead and write a psalm concerning the past week or two, it might sound something like this:

My heart is full of awe and gratitude, O Lord, the Bringer of new life. Three grandbabies at once! I praise you for their safe arrival, their healthy weights, their tiny soft-skinned bodies so perfectly designed. And then twin grandbabies, tinier still, so soon after! I praise you for their safe arrival, their brave struggle to adapt to life outside the womb, their fragile and dependent little selves so beautiful and precious.

You are the Planner and Orchestrator of such miraculous happenings, and I marvel at your so-beyond-me ways. Your goodness and generosity make me want to dance about the kitchen as I fry eggs and wipe the counters. How can I truly thank and praise you according to what you deserve? You cause my heart to overflow in adoration. Will you accept my grateful tears as worship?            

You also hold me when my heart is bowed down with anxiety, O Lord; when the enemies of fear and disappointment rise up against me. My daughter’s unborn twin babies were threatening to come before they really should and now they have come at a better stage but they are needing to deal with the many challenges of preemie life.

My worries about their health and well-being cause my tears to overflow. I want to wander aimlessly about the kitchen, slump over the counter and weep in my distress. How paltry a salty offering can I bring and you still count it as worship?

But lo, O Lord, how manifold are your provisions for your daughter at such a time as this. You show me your love through people. You send friends who offer muffins, a listening ear, gentle hugs, shrieks of wild delight, encouraging little messages on my phone, a drop-in visit, and a gift bag solely for the big brother of the triplets.

You surprise me with the sight of my husband down on his hands and knees – while tamping down his own gag reflex – to scrub the living room carpet after the grandson was sick on it.

You gather me with your people at church on a Sunday morning and shore up my spirit as we sing your truth together.

You design teams of skilled, compassionate NICU nurses and doctors to care for our grandchildren in ways that these wee babies’ own parents and we grandparents cannot.

Yes, your lovingkindness shown to me through other people is noteworthy and praiseworthy.

You know everything about me, Lord. You know the early uprising of my thoughts before the alarm signals morning has come. You know my downsitting on the couch with my phone in hand to receive and send messages from many curious, encouraging friends & relations.

You understand my angst afar off, and are acquainted with all my unsurrendered ways when I consider taking off (literally) on a trip to Thailand for a long-planned IGo Retreat while there are almost as many Kenites in the hospital as those who aren’t hospitalized.

My desire to accompany/support my husband in his role on the IGo board, as well as my longing to stay back home to assist my children in the care of their children – you know it altogether. Your thorough understanding of me and my situation comforts my soul.

When the onlookers of our planning whisper behind their hands, What ARE Ken & Danette thinking?, you will be my shield and buckler. God, only one zing of your arrows will cause my pride and people-pleasing to stumble and fall. Trust and full confidence in you will pick me up.

You encompass me round about with your presence. You enfold me in your tender embrace. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; I am astounded.

I will praise you, Lord, with my whole being. When my emotions are high and when they are low, I will give you thanks. You only will I worship as long as I have breath (and tears).

Selah.

 

Grace Be Multiplied

It was a Sunday of lasts. For the last time, we carefully backed our van into its space in the row of vehicles parked against the farmer's field, got out and crunched over the icy parking lot, walked in under the car port and went through the front door into the familiar brick building we call "our church".

For the last time, we entered the spacious foyer, plunked our Bibles and purses on the brown folding table by the servery while we hung up our parkas at the coat rack, and said good morning to the friends we encountered as we made our way into the sanctuary.

We sat on the dark, curving, carved-on-the-end benches in the high-ceilinged room surrounded by tall windows of multi-colored stained glass panes and waited for the Sunday morning worship service to begin, for the last time.

After the three opening songs and the devotional by the Sunday School superintendent, we filed out of the main sanctuary past the church mailboxes (stuffed with CLP Sunday School papers and ministry newsletters) on our left and the beyond-the-arch rows of peopled chairs on our right. Or the other way around, depending on which aisle we used to exit the auditorium. We went down the steps to rooms in the basement and gathered on circles of black plastic chairs to have Sunday School together for the last time.

Following Sunday School, we regathered for the last time in the sanctuary for the closing remarks of the superintendent and the opening remarks of the devotional minister. We lifted the purple hymnals from the songbook racks and sang some more songs led by the song leader standing in his place between the wooden lectern and the table that holds the big Bible open to Psalm 23. We put our offering envelopes in the flat wicker baskets that the ushers passed among the pews, row by row.

Then we listened to the minister preach, followed the outline of his message on the overhead screen and took down notes on the back of the bulletin, the side of the paper unprinted with announcements and birthdays or anniversaries of church people. After the benediction, some closing remarks, and a closing song, we stood and turned around to talk with the people in the row behind us, for the last time.

Out in the lobby, we got through our somewhat tearful goodbyes and walked out the front door past the children peering out with their faces pressed against the window or chasing each other outside under the carport, got in the van, and drove home from church for the last time.

For the last time, that is, as Grace-ites. Tomorrow, on the first Sunday in March, we will be Oasis-ans. Or whatever you call people who belong to a church called Oasis. This Sunday will be a Sunday of firsts, please the Lord. It will be the first time to have a service in a different building with the new group of Grace people who have chosen to "start a second congregation" in downtown Kitchener.

One can't be a part of Grace Church for 16 years (exactly 16 - our family started going there on the first Sunday in March of 2003), and not stack up the positive experiences. One can't attend a last service in said church without having the stack of memories come tumbling forefront, bringing a heap of gratitude along with it. One can't look around at all the Grace-full brothers and sisters, and not shed tears at the pain of parting, of leaving behind this particular blend of people in this particular place.

At least, I couldn't.

Unobtrusively, I took a few pictures as I sat there. For memories' sake. A host of pictures flooded my mind besides. The snapshot of our first Sunday at Grace - arriving late because we thought the service started at 10:00 instead of 9:45, walking our shy and teary little girls to Sunday School and sitting with them in class for a bit, feeling rather lost myself among the small crowd (50 people, maybe?) after church but being so impressed with the welcoming friendliness of the Grace-ites.

I also saw a second snapshot - of a year later, when Ken and I officially became members of the Grace Family. I remember standing in front of the church that morning to give my personal testimony, struggling to find the right words to adequately convey my gratitude to God and to these people for the place of safety and healing they had become for me. I shared Psalm 107:29 & 30 to help clarify: "He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. ...so He bringeth them into their desired haven."

Other images clicked through my mind. They were mostly scenes of gathering - potlucks fantastic with a vast array of colors and tastes and traditions (anything from dorta pie to pad thai to egg cheese with maple syrup), lively Bible Study discussions in a circle of Wed. night go to meetin' people around the edges of the church foyer, "small groups" campfire times in someone's back yard, ladies clustered around someone in need and covering them with hand and heart in prayer, cheering teammates on in a relay at church camping, singing to (or with) elderly residents at places like Nithview or Forest Heights, oohing and aahing over the newest black-haired baby after church, playing Sardines Hide-n-Seek at ladies retreats, and showing up at church cleaning armed with rakes or buckets and rags.

We've done so much together in the years of Grace Family living. But now, it has come to this. We are dividing into two congregations. Last Sunday we had the last service together; tomorrow we plan to have the first Sunday with the two congregations having their own separate services. Someone said we should not think of it as a dividing, but as a multiplying.

I like that thought. Over the years that we attended this church, Grace kept multiplying. People from various types of churches, for various reasons, began trickling into the congregation. Eventually the trickle became a stream and then, in more recent years, a Mississippi. Hence the need for a second congregation to begin.

When it comes to the people of Grace, I choose to think of multiplication rather than division. Over the years, I've worshiped with these dear people. I've visited with them and shared meals with them in their homes, or in ours. I've laughed with these people, cried with these people, taken advice from them, learned from their example, pondered with them, gotten frustrated with them, disagreed with them, been amazed at them, and probably have taken them for granted far too often. I hope I have offered them grace; they have certainly given it to me. I pray for Grace to be with me always.

No matter where I attend church, may Grace be multiplied.

This Post's Quotable:

A staff member from a ministry team in northern Ontario, in describing some areas of financial need to supporters at a meeting, explained that one of their main furnaces to supply heat for the buildings on the grounds was in need of major repairs. "We have this funny little habit of naming the vehicles and large appliances around there," said the staff member. "So we had named this furnace 'Greta'. Now we call it 'Regret-a'."

This Post's Childhood Memory:

Speaking of church memories in this post reminded me of some impressions I have of Northwoods Mennonite Church, the church of my childhood. One thing I remember doing when I got bored during long sermons was to gaze at the strange pattern in the front panels of the wide wooden pulpit that the long-winded preacher stood behind. The darker wood shapes showed up in the lighter wood as the carcass of a butchered animal - perhaps a sheep. Ghastly, I know, but that's what was there in the pulpit. And once I saw it there, it seemed I couldn't see something else. Or I might place a paper over a hymnal and rub pencil lead over the place where the musical emblem was stamped into the front cover of the songbook. That made a more pleasing picture. Or I might lean my head up against Mom's arm and try to take a nap. I say "try to", because after I was a certain age she'd more than likely shrug me off because I was too old to be sleeping in church!