Easter to Advent

During Lent we were mourning the loss of several loved ones and my husband gave me this Scripture passage to comfort me:  

"And as for the resurrection of the dead, have you not read what was said to you by God, 'I am the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob'?  He is God not of the dead, but of the living."

- Matthew 22:31-32

Now here we are, all the way in Advent and the same verse still hits me hard. My secret dark feelings that something will inevitably go wrong with this pregnancy and I will have to say good-bye to yet another loved one this year, are tested by this verse.  God is God not of the dead, but of the living.  Even as we say good-bye to our loved ones, God claims them as His, and promises us all new Life!  There is hope.  It seems dark even now, but light trickles in ... through Jesus.

This little life that I have nurtured for nearly nine months can be a source of secret fears for me, or I can acknowledge God's power in this baby's life and God's power in this baby's death, and this baby can be a reminder that ours is the God of the living...perhaps the joy of new life can relieve some of the pain of loss our family has experienced this year. 

My fear of death is selfish, after all.  I hate saying good-bye.  The hope I feel God pressing on me is the hope that these farewells we say here are temporary.  I must not take them as seriously as those who have no hope of seeing their loved ones again.  And...there are always more people to love.  We have to stay hopeful so we can keep on loving.  When we keep on loving, despite loss, we keep on hoping.

"'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." -Tennyson

Why I Dread

I started dreadlocks eight months ago when Steven died, and then Plain Ol' Grammy died.  The world turned upside down.  Grief besieged me.  Two lives ended, and nothing was good, or right, or beautiful.

My hair became an outward symbol of the tangled mess living ... and dieing ... are.  My hair became a sloppy-looking hope, that someday this mess will be manageable, live-able, maybe even sort of lovely.  It is a daily reminder for me that there's not always a "cure" for the mess.  Sometimes you just have to ride the fuzzy mess with your eyes closed and try to keep your feet under you.  And sometimes the mess will surprise you, and you will feel loved and beautiful despite the mess, and really know that this sort of love is best:  the love that loves despite, or even because of the tangles.

My dread locks are not what I expected.  Some days I wonder, "What have I done?!" but most days I think, "This is the best decision I've ever made".  They are a challenge to clean (yes I clean my dreads regularly!).  They do not allow my husband to give me a scalp massage (oh I miss head rubs!).  They get stuck in tree branches and in zippers and my children like to pull on them.  They are moody, they are frizzy, and they sometimes bring strange looks down people's noses in my direction.

I'm told dread locks take a while to mature.  When they're mature they require much less maintenance.  I imagine that's the way of most things.  My grief included.  Perhaps it too, will mature, and become more manageable.  Some days I can't believe that I go on living - without Steven in the world.  Without Grammy.  I'm always amazed that another day has gone by without the influence of that soul on this time.  I love that every time I catch my reflection in the mirror, my hair reminds me of my loved ones.  And happy coincidence: the conception of these dreads coincides with the conception of a third little Thiessen baby.

But most of all, these dread locks of mine are accurate.  This is a hair style that screams, "LAURA".  My life is a mess, my hair is a mess, but I have hope because God loves beautiful things, and can make beautiful things out of this crazy life, out of this crazy grief, out of this most crazy time.  I keep looking for beauty in the tangles.  I keep hoping.  And I accept the mess, the grief, the tangles, for now.  They are where I am.  They are okay - more than okay!  They are right.

For the Record

My kids are not all bad.  In fact, they are sometimes, truly, little angels.  Last week I had to go get some blood drawn (just the standard stuff during pregnancy).  The doctor told me to go over the lunch hour because (his exact words!), "It's usually dead over the lunch hour.  You can just walk in and out."  As a result of this advice, and since I had recruited babysitters two other times last week, I decided to take the kids with me. 

We had our normal morning lessons, piano practice, and then everyone got dressed and we jumped in the car.  We stopped by the clinic in howling winds and darted into the building clutching our jackets around our throats.  There was standing room only in the waiting room.  Perhaps it wasn't yet the lunch hour?  It was only 11:15.  I gave my doctor the benefit of the doubt and took the kids back out to the car, through the gale, over to WBS where we killed a little time visiting Derek and eating candy from the receptionist.

11:45, back to the clinic!  There were now exactly three empty seats, in the most boring waiting room in the world.  Not a single magazine or side table, and the only two microscopic windows covered by people sitting and waiting.  I sighed and decided I was not coming back another day.  Despite the fact that I had not prepared for a long wait, I had gone to all the trouble of getting everyone out of the house in inclement weather, and I absolutely positively HATE needles.  If I made it to the lab, the last thing I should do was leave again...chances are I could come up with at least ten more excuses not to have blood drawn by tomorrow.  So we took a number (76), and sat.

And sat.

And sat.

And the kids ate their pocketed candy from the receptionist.

And we sat.

And the kids wrote on the crumpled church bulletin I dug out of the bottom of my purse.

And we sat.

And the kids counted all the light bulbs in the ceiling.

And we sat.

And intermittently the children asked, "Is it our turn yet?" (we had come when the sign said they were treating number 62 - so we had a little lesson in counting).

And we sat.

And we sat.

For an hour and forty-five minutes!! With no books, no toys, no crayons, no snacks - straight through the lunch hour!  And my two boys did not bicker.  They did not whine.  They were as patient as Job.  When our number was finally called they quietly walked back to the cubicle with me and sat on the wall to watch the nurse draw my blood.  They were pretty fascinated and sat like statues, with great big eyes.  The nurse commented, "I didn't even know their were children in the waiting room!  They are so good!"

And they are!  But the reason they get three times the credit for being good, is because they were good when it really counted.  They were polite, patient, quiet and sweet at a time when it was a serious challenge for even an adult to remain remotely civil.

I took them out for happy meals after to celebrate.