Thursday, March 28, 2013

When God is Silent

These words were discovered on a wall in the German concentration camp, “I believe in the sun even when it’s not shining.  I believe in love even when I can’t feel it.  I believe in God even when God is silent.”
We have journeyed through six weeks of Lent.  Six weeks of remembering what it must have been like for Jesus, God’s son, to know he would die for the sins of all mankind.  At our church, we have been preaching Jesus’ seven last words (really phrases.)  In these phrases, we have looked for what lessons Jesus’ words teach.  He teaches we are to forgive, accept the grace that God offers, take care of our family – neighbors – church family, pray even when we feel forsaken, reach for Jesus and his love so we will thirst no more, know that through Jesus’ death he saved us and commit our souls to God each day – put our lives in his hands.
This is the crux of our faith.  This is where the rubber meets the road.  Jesus was born, lived and died for us – so that our sins would be forgiven and we would live eternally with God.  It’s a little overwhelming to think about.  How God loved us so much that he sacrificed his son in order to save us.  It’s also overwhelming to think about all the lessons Jesus taught us while he was walking on this earth.  He taught of love, forgiveness, sharing and caring.  It’s nice to think about that Jesus and the “teeny, tiny, baby, Jesus”, but what about the cross?  What about all that Jesus taught then?  What does that mean for us now?
As parents or those wanting to be, Jesus’ death is excruciating.  #1 – how does a parent sacrifice his child for others?  I suppose military parents deal with this question more than we would like to admit.  #2 – how does Jesus cry out to his parent while he’s dying and hear nothing?  Many times we cry out to God in the midst of fertility issues, heartbreaking miscarriages or stillborn births, sicknesses of our infants, struggles with our children, struggles with finances, marital relationships, work, etc, etc, etc.  We cry out or maybe we don’t cry out, because we think no one’s listening or no one cares.
Jesus cried out and prayed the Psalms.  He prayed Psalm 22 and Psalm 31.           Psalm 22 says, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?  Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning?  O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer; and by night, but find no rest. YET you are holy, enthroned on the praises of Israel.  In you our ancestors trusted; they trusted and you delivered them.  To you they cried, and were saved; in you they trusted and were not put to shame.” 
Psalm 31 says, “In you, O Lord, I seek refuge; do not let me ever be put to shame; in our righteousness deliver me.  Incline your ear to me; rescue me speedily. Be a rock of refuge for me, a strong fortress to save me.  You are indeed my rock and my fortress; for your name’s sake lead me and guide me, take me out of the net that is hidden for me, for you are my refuge.  Into your hand I commit my spirit; you have redeemed me, O Lord, faithful God.”
We can cry out too.  We can pray even when God is silent!  We can seek God’s refuge in the time of terrible storm.  Through Jesus’ unspeakable pain and death, he calls out and so can we through our grief. 

Remember, there is resurrection.  After Good Friday – the pain and the death, there is indeed resurrection.  The resurrection and new life may not be exactly what you prayed for, BUT there will be a resurrection and new life in yours. 

Lauren Boyd
Director of Programming and Membership at PHUMC
Partner to Candi and Mother to Miller who is 5

Thursday, March 14, 2013

How I learned to stop worrying and love storytime

(Eleanor’s here today, Eleanor’s here today! We’re all so glad that Eleanor’s here, let’s all shout Hooray!)

The first time I went to a library storytime, Eleanor was three months old.

It was terrifying.

We sang six songs and read three books in 20 minutes. We sat in a circle in the children’s library in the downtown Central Branch of the Denver Public Library. We sang a song to welcome each child to the group. We waved scarves while playing with egg shakers and bouncing our children and clapping their hands and stomping their feet. And after it was all over, the man leading the group unlocked a cabinet where several tubs of plastic toys were stored and proceeded to dump the toys onto the floor. The older babies eagerly creeped, crawled and walked over to the toys. Eleanor stared at everyone and occasionally smiled. I held my breath and considered my exit.

I didn’t know we were going to have to sing songs, and I certainly didn’t know anyone would be focusing on me or my daughter. I enjoy attention, but on my terms. And my terms never include singing in public.

That first storytime may have been the most intimidating, overwhelming experience of my life. I’m not joking. I felt like my life was on fast forward and I had no control over the remote. Or, you could say, I felt like I was a step behind everyone else -- I was trying to learn the songs and sing them at the same time as trying to master the motions and manage Eleanor, too.

(All around the cobbler's bench, the monkey chased the weasel...)

And through it all, I had a sinking feeling: if this was what I was supposed to be doing at home in terms of baby stimulation, I was failing badly. (This sinking feeling recurs repeatedly, no matter how many months pass in my life as a dad).

Eleanor was the youngest baby there by a few months. After the chaos was over I understood why. Not for Eleanor’s sake -- she seemed to enjoy it -- but for mine. I was exhausted (and, truthfully, so was Eleanor -- she fell asleep before we even left the children’s section of the library).

I clearly wasn’t ready for parental socialization. Because that’s what it is when you have really young babies. In a way, much of what you do as a parent in public, at first, is try to connect with other parents, because they know what you’re feeling and they’re just as scared as you are. That’s a comforting feeling when you have no idea what you’re doing.

I felt awkward bringing such a young baby, but I was determined to make this stay-at-home dad thing work, and to do so I needed activities, structures that gave me something to do and look forward to.

(The noble Duke of York, he had 10,000 men, he marched them up to the top of the hill and he marched them down again!)

Back then (six months equals two-thirds of Eleanor’s life, so I reserve the right to use such a qualifier), I had a calendar and everything: Mondays we went to the Denver Museum of Nature and Science, Tuesdays it was storytime, Wednesdays were for walks, Thursdays were for the Zoo, and Fridays meant that it was time for the Meetup playgroup.

That schedule lasted for about two weeks, because, well, I had a baby who has her own mind and wanted to do things at her own pace and in her own time. I couldn’t go to storytime if Eleanor was napping. I couldn’t make the playgroup if I was meeting my wife at work for Eleanor’s lunchtime feeding. I couldn’t go to the zoo if it was 15 degrees outside.

But this isn’t really a story about how scary library storytime is. It’s really about how much I love storytime and the Denver Public Library system.

(Zoom, Zoom, Zoom! We’re going to the moon! Zoom, Zoom, Zoom, we’ll get there very soon!)

It took a couple more months of adjustment (Eleanor's and mine), particularly in the nap department, but now storytime is an essential part of my life and my daughter’s life. We both look forward to it. So much so, that I am pretty sure that my daughter’s first word (aside from her indiscriminate use of “mama” and “dada”) is “library.” She usually says this word -- or something approximating it -- on Mondays. It’s like she’s anticipating the Tuesday adventure we go on every week.

Nine times out of ten, I’m the only man there, aside from Mr. Chufo, the kindhearted, bilingual, guitar-playing leader of storytime. Oddly enough, it’s also one of the only places where I am in the stay-at-home dad role but no-one seems to find it “odd,” or “different,” or “great” that I am taking care of my daughter while my wife works. At storytime, we’re all just parents, trying to do the best for our children and to reach out in solidarity.

Now, I feel like an old pro at storytime. I see new parents in the circle every once in awhile, and I understand how they feel. Eleanor’s practically a veteran, too, and she loves it. She has a smile on her face the whole time, whether she has napped well that morning or not. She likes interacting with the other 6- to 9-month-olds -- she even steals their toys...I remember when she was younger and the tables were turned.

The library is a glorious place, and it feels like a second home to me as a stay-at-home parent. There are no words for how much I appreciate having a (free) place to take Eleanor where she can be safe, stimulated and happy interacting with other babies. And before storytime starts, I love trawling through the stacks, looking for cool books I can read to her at home and for books that will satisfy my own intellectual curiosity.

Every week, I look forward to Tuesday. I’m ready, now. Singing six songs and reading three books in half an hour? No problem.

(I’m a book baby, book baby, I love to read! Read at the library!)

Thursday, March 7, 2013

Does it really get better?

Does it really get better?

(No, I’m not talking about the LGBT anti-bullying initiative, which is a wonderful program that I fully support.)

With every struggle I’ve experienced as a parent, I’ve received encouragement from a variety of sources. People are incredibly gracious, and parents, as a group, seem to be extraordinarily empathetic. Every parent I know seems to have a soft spot for the struggles of other parents, particularly those parents who have kids younger than their own.

My daughter is 8-1/2 months old, but I already find myself in the position of veteran among some friends and acquaintances. My heart goes out to every parent (or would be parent) who has a younger baby than I do. I’ve gotten to the point where some of the parents at the library storytime have babies who are younger than my daughter. I hear their struggles, and I feel for them, especially if I have experienced the particular struggle they describe. I know what it’s like to have a baby who rolls over pretty early, only to have the skill disappear for more than two months. I know what it’s like to be anticipating and fearing the transition to solid foods.

In my own struggles, I’ve noticed a recurring refrain among parents with babies/kids older than mine:

“I promise it gets better.”

Does it?

Honestly, that’s one piece of advice that I don’t like to give. I think it’s more accurate to say:

“Parenting is hard. The thing that’s hard to deal with right now may be a phase, or it may just be a part of parenting that you get used to.”

To put it another way:

“It gets different.”

In a way, however, I suppose it really does get better. You become more attuned to your child’s needs, and your child gets better at communicating what her needs are as she gets older.

Every day is new, and my experience of a parenthood struggle has as much to do with me and my ability to be patient, weather change and accept uncertainty as it does with my daughter’s actual behavior. I’d also say that in my experience, every week seems to bring a new phase, or a regression, or a new skill, or a new wrinkle.

All I know for certain is that I love my daughter and that parenting is hard and that each kid is different and that none of us really know what we’re doing and everything about parenting is always changing.

More and more, I think that the key to being a parent is learning to accept change and to not get too freaked out about it.

To be honest, the only thing that’s really getting better is my willingness to accept that fact.

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

What Christy Turlington and I Have in Common


I got pregnant on our second try.  After three months of nausea, I had a pretty fabulous pregnancy.  Toward the end of it, my blood pressure rose and I had unexplained headaches so they delivered our son three weeks early.  We had asked our families to come visit a few weeks later (when he was supposed to be due) so it was just my partner and I in the room with the doctor.  The nurse came in to set up our son’s “station”, but other than her infrequent visits it was just the three of us.  Soft music was on, the lights were dim and we were calm.  After my sister’s delivery I had witnessed the year before with the Staying Alive soundtrack on and six of us in the room with her, my situation seemed unusual.  It was quiet.  It was sweet and very purposeful.  Our son was born and he was pretty perfect.  I was famished!  I had my first Diet Coke in months and a turkey sandwich while being wheeled to the Mother/Baby Unit.   We couldn’t have been happier.
Once in the other room, I was told to go to the bathroom frequently to help my uterus contract.  Unfortunately, I kept passing out and bleeding profusely.  I woke up to several nurses yelling my name and some yucky smelly stuff under my nose.  I remember saying with an exacerbated tone, “WHAT?”  What happened next was a blur.  I was given more pitocin to cause contractions and some sort of pain medicine – then I tried to make myself disappear.  We think they performed a D&C in the room although my records are spotty.  Then I slept and slept.  I had lost a great deal of blood and was pretty sick.  I’ve asked my partner to write about this from her perspective, but even after five years – it’s still too close, too scary.
It took weeks to feel better and my milk really didn’t “come in.”  I was a snack for our son for six weeks, but that was about it.  He was fine and eventually so was I.
After a few years of wondering what really happened to me, I came across a foundation that the amazing Supermodel, Christy Turlington Burns, began.  It’s called Every Mother Counts.  In 2003, she also experienced Post Partum Hemorrhage (PPH) after the birth of her first daughter.  Ah, so it did have a name and Christy Turlington and I have something in common!  I love it.  Like Christy, because of the wonderful care I received, I survived.  It can, and often does, mean death for thousands of girls and women around the world. In fact, PPH is the leading cause of pregnancy-related death in the world, including in the US.
Christy wrote, “Once I learned that hundreds of thousands of women around the world were dying each year I needed to know why. And when I learned that almost 90% of these deaths are preventable I committed myself to doing all that I could to stop these senseless deaths.”  Her foundation makes people aware of the condition and helps them do something positive with the awareness they now have. 
As I grow with The Parenthood Journey, I learn new ways that we can support each other and support parents around the world.  I hope you will join me in this journey.
Lauren Boyd
Director of Programming and Membership at PHUMC
Partner to Candi and Mother to Miller who is 5