Plane Rides and Parenthood

There is something about a plane ride that never ceases to launch me into a world of reflection. Perhaps it is the transitory state a plane ride offers. There you are, midair, essentially hung between two worlds, existing between them, but within neither. Because of this, you allow yourself to evaluate both, independently, yet together as you wouldn’t be able to were you living on the ground “trapped” within only one world. You are removed. Apart. Above.

As I think back on the many plane rides I have taken before this one, a startling truth comes to mind. I am not the girl I once was. Interesting revelation, huh? Of course Claire! You may think. Your life has changed so why should you remain the same? But yet there is something in the core of me that has shifted. Something that defined me once that no longer does. Can I tell you what it is? I am not sure. It escapes me. It is but a breadth out of my reach and I cannot grab hold of it. But there has been a shift. A change. An erosion of sorts in which some things were washed clean and others were merely washed away.

The plane is gliding through the night sky and outside my window all that is visible is an expanse of darkness and black night. I wonder what earth lies beneath us and who lives there. I wonder if as they enjoy their evening, they have looked up to see a light gliding above them. I wonder if they’ve thought of me and where I’m headed.

I wonder, in a sense, the same thing that they might. I wonder where I am heading. I know the physical location of course, but where exactly is it for me? I am leaving my parents house and headed back to my house. But which of those is home? The one I know so familiarly, the same one I’m leaving behind? Or the one which holds my future, a place of some mystery and shallow memory?

There are two roads in these two “homes”. One was the path of my childhood, and now one has become the path of my parenthood. Worlds apart, yet connected by a little girl who may or may not have quite realized that she is now a woman.

As I carry this life inside of me tonight, as I journey through the sky, I wonder what my child’s life will be like. As I watched my parents this week slowly adjust to the strange and foreign territory of having adult children, I thought of how one day this little life inside of me will grow up and leave and form a life of his or her own. Will I grieve my loss? Or will I rejoice in my child’s independence? Perhaps a little of both?

It’s an interesting thing to observe my parents through the eyes of a soon to be parent myself. I suddenly see past their actions and words and into their hearts. A place of deep emotion.

I spoke with my brother today about the idea of adult children. We both had noticed a couple of comments that my mother or father had made in which it was implied that we are still very much children, unaware or unlearned, when in fact, we knew much about the subject at hand. As my brother observed the situation he remarked that it must be interesting to see your children “catch up with you” in a sense. I saw it in a similar yet slightly different light. I realized that although my mother knows that that I am indeed a capable adult, she has not only known me as such. We, as children, have always known our parents as adults, whereas our parents see us as the grown up version of the 3, 5, 10, 16, and 18 year old they once knew. My mother looks at me now and sees a woman, but there must be times when she catches glimpes of that 4 year old little girl with the mussy blond hair and pouting chin. She must look at me sometimes with longing, remembering when I was a helpless infant in her arms, content to rest against her bosom and giggle at her smiles. She must look at the secure and matured woman that I now am, while remembering the broken hearted early teen who sobbed dramatically on her bed, longing for approval; the one whose hair she stroked as she empathized with my "end of the world" scenario, which she knew all along was nothing out of the ordinary. She must hear me state my now intelligently formed opinions and remember a time when all I knew she had to teach me because I was a young girl, a student, with her as my only teacher. My father must grieve the loss of the little daddy’s girl who once looked to only him as her hero, when he sees his adult daughter look lovingly at the eyes of another man--her now husband,. He must hear my “adult” sarcasm and think back to a very different sarcasm--that of a 12 year old girl who once thought she knew best. He must watch me calmly walking down the stairs on Christmas morning and remember the cute little girl who would come running hastily down the stairs in footed pajamas, teddy bear in arm, eyes twinkling with Christmas joy. He must remember standing there not as a father who must keep some distance as his role has now changed, but as a father who would scoop that little girl in to his arms, hold her, and excitedly show her the beautiful gifts he had waiting for her under the tree.

Suddenly as I carry this little one in my womb, I think of how difficult it must be to be a parent. You love so much, and invest so much, and then when your work is complete and you finally are able to observe your successes, they fly aloft, and you are left with the distant memory of what was. What must you feel as a parent? Perhaps unrewarded. Perhaps unappreciated. Perhaps disrespected. Perhaps mournfully sad. But perhaps also, you are proud. As I watch my parents grapple with the drastic change of an empty nest, I am reminded that I, one day, will experience the same. And I realize with such urgency, that I must enjoy every moment of my child’s life. No matter how stressful, how trying or how taxing. I must remember that in the blink of an eye, in the subtle turning of a day, it all changes. Such is life, I suppose. And perhaps it is only in a plane ride that we can sit long enough in transition, pausing our lives where they are, and realize what has been, and what will be without fearing either.

As I close one chapter, and open the next, I realize that I can never stop the wheels of time. I can never turn back the clock or race it forward. But I can simply live in the moment I am given, at peace, in joy and with treasure. I know now, as I carry this child in my womb and experience my first small drink of parental love, that I am deeply loved by my own parents in a way I am only just now beginning to slightly comprehend. And it wraps me in an unspeakable joy that I cannot express, because I know this love is secure, untainted, and complete.

Justice & Dignity

As human beings, we speak of justice. Whether to be served for a charge of domestic violence, the determination of punishment for a murderer, or in fair hearing of a local court case--we claim to value justice.

But, where was justice for Rwanda in 1994? 800,000 Rwandans were slaughtered over the span of 100 days while the UN quarreled over the definition of "genocide" and whether or not the situation in Rwanda demanded intervention. Did we think that by avoiding the label, we could in turn avoid the tragedy?

UN soldiers stood by while mass killings took place, because their orders didn't "allow" them to fire unless fired upon. The UN sent in trucks to rescue the white Europeans trapped in Rwanda, but quickly abandoned 2,500 Rwandans left at the same location to their death. All under the guise of peace.

Where is our dignity? Where is the sanctity of human life? I can't portray in words the heaviness of my heart as I remember Rwanda. No, I wasn't there. But I feel the service of injustice not only against Rwanda but against humanity.

I am by no means a political person. I don't follow the news as much as I should, and I understand it even less. But I do know that if humans are being served injustice and are being subjected to suffering by those who should be protecting them, then other humans are obligated to step in. Those who say that the US should pull out of Iraq simply because it's not our country, and not our battle, should ask themselves if they are members of the human race.

Human suffering does not allow time for diplomacy. A part of all of humanity died at Rwanda--not only the Hutu's and Tutsi's... but anyone who considers themself a member of the human race. Injustice was served to all of us. Injustice is being served to all of us at Darfur. To all of us in Iraq. To all of us in the death beds of AIDs victims. To all of us in the fight against cancer. To all of us victims of human trafficking. To all of us who are human.

Pain is not a feeling only for the less fortunate. Some of us may manage to keep it at bay, but we cannot deny the fresh stab in our hearts at the sight of another human's suffering.

Suffering cannot be an issue we avoid. We must yell it from the rooftops. We must wear it's evidence across our foreheads. We must preach it from our pulpits. We must carry it's truth in our hearts.

The reality of suffering will lead us to the greater reality of hope. And there, we will find rest for our souls.

Beyond Predictability

What is about the changing of a season that suddenly makes a person so frightfully aware of the changes occurring in their own life? What is it about looking outside your window, and at the glimpse of a blazing red autumn leaf, suddenly finding yourself lost in a whirlwind of memory, laughter and even regret? What is it about the days between the season's change that leave us in negligence of the frightening realities of our evolving lives? As I surveyed the first tell-tale signs of a New England autumn today, I realized how my life--in many ways--is reflected in those changing colors. Day to day my life changes and my dreams turn, but day to day my passions remain the same; constant like dull bark of a tree that remains the same--existing almost unnoticed beneath the flaming colors of the changing leaves it bears.

My soul is aching. I long to do something; to stand up and to fight. But I remain dull, unnoticed and yet strikingly unmoved. When will my release come? When will my sun crest the horizon? Must I keep waiting constantly for my liberty? I see in movies the popular storyline where changing the world happens unexpectedly; and commonplace circumstances come together by chance to create earth-shaking events that shift our lives forever. I read about men and women in the Bible who live until the age of 90 or so before their aspirations for greatness come to fruition. Is this to be my tale? A willing heart that waits for seemingly ever until at the last moment, opportunity knocks? Or is my lament a cop-out and am I simply looking the other way?

Man can spend a lifetime studying God and never really understand the ways in which He moves. Unexpected and unpredicted despite the prophecy of man. Subtle yet monumental despite the theology of His character. Abraham was told to look to the skies. Abraham was told that his descendants would be as many as the stars. Abraham was promised the future of mankind and the legacy that would shake history. Abraham was handed his dreams by an Almighty God. Then God was silent. All Abraham was left with was a barren, scoffing wife; a shocked expression and an inky black sky filled with millions of stars representing an impossible promise.

And in His own timing, in His own way, God moved.

There are passions in my heart which have shifted me. There are things in this world that tempt me to wonder at times if God is heartless. But there are things in this world that have shown me the face of God. And I have seen God move. I have known His heart of compassion. I know God, yet I do not know Him through and through.

All we can do is live this life passionately for Him and continue to yearn for the day when we will see our Savior face to face and everything else will fade in light of His glory.

how to save a life

I cannot speak of my heart burning and not speak of the passion within it for South Africa. As I am faced with the problem of AIDS in that nation, my heart aches for her.

What can I do for Africa? How can I love her when my heart is so broken for her? How can I dream for her future, when all I can see ahead is her death? In her despair, I must be strong for Africa. I must know that in the midst of all this tragedy and despair--there is hope.

What can I, as a stranger, really do for South Africa? Her blood runs in my veins; the same blood that has become infected with a disease that threatens the lives of so many in that beloved country. I cannot heal her medically. I cannot ease her pain. I cannot erase the problem of AIDS from her continent. I cannot tell the suffering child that he can have tomorrow. I cannot promise the dying mother that her children will not follow her to her grave. I cannot assure the diseased working man that his strength will return. I cannot tell Africa that her people will again live without the presence of death. But what I can do for Africa, is restore her dignity. I can revive her pride. Together, we can return her humanity to her. As millions of Africans daily face death, we can give them back their life.

It's easy to feel as though we cannot help Africa because we have no basis with which to comprehend her pain; but we must remind ourselves that what we can understand is her humanity. Alec Brooks, professor at Bethany College of Missions spoke these words: "I know that when people are joyful, they laugh because I have laughed. I know that when people are sorrowful, they cry because I have cried. I know that when you are sick, you want to be cared for because I want to be cared for. I know these things because I am human. When you cut them, they bleed; when you beat them, they hurt; when you slight them, they feel the sting of that. I recognize these feelings because they are common to me--I am human, as they are, and I have been created by God just as they have been. These people share my longings, my yearnings and my dreams. I will treat them as such."

There is hope for Africa. By loving her and by caring for her people, we can restore Africa's dignity, her honor and her life. You have a voice. Give her hope.

the end of apathy.

There is a burning in my heart. There is an ache in my soul that groans. There is a weeping in my spirit that longs to be quenched.

What worries me most about my own generation is the rampant disease of complacency infecting our hearts. Post-modernism and relativism have crept in and taught my generation that there is no truth, no absolutes, no right or wrong. This ideology has left us surrendered, passive and defeated.

The more I talk to other millennials, the more concerned I become about the direction of our world. Are these the men and women to whom this earth's dominion will be entrusted? These defeated, pathetic warriors too afraid and confused to stand up and fight?

I am sick of attempting to place the blame. I am frustrated with pushing the weight of this issue from foot to foot. It is time for my generation to stand up and fight. Step up and change the world because you can.

What worries me more is what I see in Christian youth. Apathy like crazy! I see so many Christian teenagers resigned to live the common life; stuck in the norm without any desire to step out and live a called out life.

We lose touch with reality. Especially when it comes to Christ. We say the name of Jesus and speak of a man we've been passively taught about through a flannel graph board or a defeated youth pastor. Imagine what revolution would take place if we knew Jesus for who He is?! Imagine the fire that could sweep our churches if we prayed to the real God instead of the psuedo-Christ we set up in His place?! How often do we sing, "I could sing of your love forever" and impatiently wait for the last chord? How often do we hear the pastor say, "Jesus died for us" and neglect to be overwhelmed with passionate emotion?

If only we knew Christ. If only we attempted to grasp the depth of His love. "God gave His life to put motion inside my soul." And yet we remain stagnant. Woe to us.




...there is a burning in my heart.

here we go.

Hey blogging world! I've officially arrived.