Life's roadways

Author: (excerpt from "Within My Power" by Forest Witcraft)
One hundred years from now
It won't matter
What kind of car I drove
What kind of house I lived in
How much money I had in the bank
Nor what my cloths looked like
BUT
The world may be a little better
Because, I was important
In the life of a child.

Long before I had children, I was an advocate for them. Working with families who were broken or torn was a passion of mine. Getting to see families heal and repair was a joy. Working with children in foster care was especially a soft spot in my heart. Standing up for children who could not stand up for themselves was done early in my career, and later at various pregnancy crisis centers as I aged and had my own children. Once, I believed that a woman had a choice. Then I became pregnant with my first child and knew, I could never agree with that way of life again, for me.

Our family is embarking on a new journey. One that will be based soley on the will of God. It's HIS time for us. I can't wait to see what happens.

Rememberance

Several times a year I get into a reflective mood. On my boy's birthdays, my anniversary, birthday, ect....one day stands out as well for the past ten years. That of 9/11/01. The day the world seemed to stand still. Only it didn't. Yes, planes didn't fly and many people received the most horrible of news; that a loved one was gone. But on that day, life continued, yet it was changed. Ten years later, I have an almost 12 year old, and a 9 year old who are asking some serious questions. Why? Who? How? Where were you? Where was I? Will it happen again? Why didn't God protect us? How do we live knowing that any day, any moment may be our last?
I think as I am in the midst of this 21 days of praying for my sons that it is appropriate that these questions come. And that I try to answer them as honestly as I can. The "where were you" "where was I" questions are easy. The ones my 9 year old asks are different: "How did something so horrible make you want to have another baby, to bring another life into the world? And then 4 years later, do it again?" Those questions and the "Are the people who did this bad people who will automatically go to hell?" questions get to me. How do I explain that we all have choices to make, that those who did these horrible acts upon the US are to be prayed for, not hated. That everything we have done in the past 10 years for our troops, dear friends of ours, children of friends, new friends, or complete strangers, have been done to support those who put their lives on the line for us back home.
I admit, my kids see me cry. They know the pain I went through on Sept 11, 2001. They know the heart wrenching fear, emptiness, and heartbreak I felt. I do not hide it. They know my experience was different than those who were safe at home, loved ones in their arms. They also know that those who lived close by, those who sent their loved ones to help, have a different story as well. As a picture is painted of people jumping, lives on planes lost, security measures, changes, death, hopelessness; so arise the stories of strength, selflessness, courage, compassion, love, and strength.
So to my 11 year old, I say how much I love him. How being away from him causes this ache in my body that only having him within reach fulfills. How seeing his small body through the window of my parents house a week later than expected will be forever etched in my memory. How I never want to feel that empty arm syndrome again.
To my 9 year old, I tell a story of love and hope. How the next month after these horrible attacks, his Daddy and I wanted his brother to have a sibling. Someone to call in the dark of the night. Someone to exist with that has the same history, the same story. Someone to look out for each other. How having him in our lives, reminded us that good things can come out of the bad. Life continues. Love will prevail. And the goodness of God comes in the smallest of packages. In the form of a child, fearfully made within a womb. A child with a purpose. A child who would know no different.
To my 4 year old who doesn't grasp what his brothers do. Who flits and dances to songs that make his Momma cry, and his brothers hug her close. Who is untouched by the badness of life. Who cries out: "I love my family!" at whim and knows, no matter what, he is adored.

So, I am continuing to pray for my sons. As well as the sons and daughters of my heart who serve overseas. May you all come home to us safely. To the arms of those who love you. We remember. We know what you are fighting for. And I, for one, am eternally thankful.

Obedience

Ah, the crux of it all. Teaching my children to obey me for daily things is difficult, let alone obey the word of God. I struggle with discipline on a daily, heck, hourly basis. How can I teach them to do things when I sometimes lose control myself? How can I live each moment, within that moment, and not take to heart my own feelings of irritation, subjegation, and testing to know when are teachable moments, and when they should just do what I say when I say it? My husband, as a former marine, tells the boys often that discipline is instant obedience to direction. And they do instantly obey him. But not me. I ask. I ask again. I ask louder. I ask even louder. Then I take something away and the whole time, I am frustrated and they have no idea I have asked 4 times before. What am I doing different? I guess it boils down to the fact that I need to learn to obey God more, before I can teach my sons to obey God more. I better get to work!

Praying for my boys...day one

Day one: Heart Change
“The good person out of the good treasure of his heart produces good, and the evil person out of his evil treasure produces evil, for out of the abundance of the heart his mouth speaks.” ~Luke 6:45

Today I am praying for my boys to have hearts for God. I will pray for them in the morning as I usually do when I wake up. Only my prayers will be more concentrated towards their hearts being open and remaining open to our Lord instead of my usual.."Please God, help me to yell less and listen more to my sons today." I will pray for them through the day, which I do often with thanksgiving. And pray with them at night, which we do every night. The only thing I do not do with my boys are daily devotionals. I'm wondering if I need to get some of those daily bread books and begin this tradition as well.

The battle for our sons to be Godly men is best fought on our knees, Brooke says, and I think I agree.
We'll see what tomorrow brings!

21 Days of Prayers for Sons

Today I am embarking upon my first round of 21 days of prayers for sons. Brooke McGlothin has written a book that I have not had the chance to read: Warrior Prayers: Praying the Word for Boys in the Areas They Need it Most that takes you as a parent on a journey to praying the Word for our sons. As the mother to all boys, I am intriqued by how this will all go. Some women find it challenging to parent their boys. I, myself, find it a challenge to parent at all. Sometimes I feel this is another way to divide our sons from our daughters instead of just combining them as our "children" and praying for them this way. But I am willing to remain open to see if there truly are issues that only boys deal with. In my heart, I know there are (jock straps, peeing standing up, girls....) but are there REALLY issues that divide our children when it comes to raising them to be godly children and then adults. All I know is that I want what every parent wants for their children. For them to grow healthy, happy, strong, self sufficient, unmarred by my parenting skills, but overwhelmed with the love I have for each of them. So, here I go. Jumping in with both feet as I pray for my boys, for the boys of my wonderful group of Raising All Boys boys, and for my friends dear to my heart who are also in this amazing boat of raising boys in today's world. Each of you are in my thoughts, and your boys are in my prayers. If you have special prayers for your sons, please let me know so I can include them. :)

My Crazy Life

Seriously, I think there is medication out there that people would take if they had to live my life. It's not that I am raising all boys that makes things seem like they are always on edge, I think it's me. I can't stop being type A. Litterally, it's gonna kill me. And not the heart attack type of kill me, but the running naked down the middle of the road, screaming at the top of my lungs while waving my hands like a mad woman type of kill me. Ok, so that will never really happen. Those who know me know that I must at least have pants on to cover my ample hind end, not to mention shoes, because OUCH! who wants to run barefoot down the street. There are glass and rocks there!

I think my craziness comes from raising three children on my own, sleep deprivation from the last child never sleeping through the night, adding a new kitten to my bed in the wee hours, and the after effects of Cullen's birthday party sleep over which ended with me screaming like a banshee..."I have to work in FOUR HOURS..Go. To. Sleep!" I'm sorry to any parents who's children were the victims of my forcefullness but a woman has to do what she has to do when her husband deserts her for the bowels of the hospital to deliver a baby instead of staying home for prearranged family time consisting of six kids in the basement, also sleep deprived. ;)

But I am told by slightly older friends that things get better. Soon, this chaos will slow down, I will have a life of my own (although not the sanity to enjoy it), and be able to speak in sentences that don't consist of: Stop! No! Don't! Wait until your Father gets home! or Lord, Help me through this day for I truly love my children.

I have a running group of friends. We run miles and miles for "fun." We yell for each other, support each other, and laugh together. I wonder how many of them would run naked down the street with me screaming.........any takers???

In the still of the early morning hours, I am able to completely reflect upon the birth of my second son. As I sit quietly, I can conjure up the sounds and feelings of that early morning water breakage, the fear of leaving our home the mother to one child and returning as the mother to two young boys. I can remember the craziness of standing in the elevator with my husband at the hospital, conversing with an old man who got on with us about the beautiful Sunday weather as water leaked out of me and contractions squeezed my body. A child moving softly within my body for the last few precious moments together. I can remember how there was nothing to watch but televangelists on the TV. How Dave and my doctor went to lunch at the local chinese restaurant while I sat alone, contemplating the day as it progressed. I had my yoga instructor come and help me with labor. Her visualizations and soft music lulling my mind into a calm place, even as my body struggled to move my child down the birth canal. Her softly holding my foot as the doctor tried to give me an epidural which would not take. A sweet, smiling doctor who two short weeks later would be dead from lung cancer. Who lingered outside the door as I labored, wishing he could do something for my pain of natural childbirth, but could not. I can remember the tunnel vision feeling of telling the nurses I felt great pressure. How they suddenly became very busy, turning the chest of drawers where I put my clothes into a place where their tools of the trade were placed to help my doctor bring my child into this crazy world. How the camera stuck and my frazzled husband opened the back of the camera and exposed the film of my last days of pregnancy and our oldest son's first blackberry picking with my Mom. There was to be no pictures of this birth. I can remember focusing on Gloria through each contraction, realizing that pushing Cullen out was not the same as pushing out Kadin. I can vividly remember the look of fear on my OB's face as my child crowned. Sternly he made me focus on him telling me he had to get the baby out, now, and I was to listen to him. I can remember the look that passed between him and my husband when Cullen's head came out, but his little body would not. In the confusion of nano-second, I can see in slow motion my husband thrusting his body across my belly, pushing the nurse out of the way, as he and Dr. Thornberry silently communicated. One pushing, one pulling, to release our child into the world. I can remember the unbearable pain passing into euphoria as he was expelled and placed upon my chest only to have the nurse freaking out at his grey color and thrusting oxygen into his face and vigorously rubbing his back as my sweet Cullen stared wide eyed. I can hear my husband telling the nurse to stop, that his body was pink, and he was ok. Only to look down into my child's face and see a new soul. A baby who was smash faced, grey in color, and all my own. The love that comes when you stare into your child's eyes. 15 minutes later I was on the phone with the cord blood place to schedule pick up, the pain of childbirth a short path behind me. Poor Cullen looked like he had been beat up, and I was not any better off. Pushing him so fiercely broke the blood vessels in my eyes and I looked like the victim in a cheap horror show. Painful for all to look at.

As I watch my son sleeping now, nine years later, I am amazed at this child who came so dramatically into the world. My 7lb 3oz baby who litterally got stuck, has not been stuck ever again. A child who gave his older brother the courage to face fears. A little boy who had excema on his face and a ready smile to all he met. A baby who did not toddle, but ran. A child who still bursts forth head first into things in life. A sensitive guy who many people misinterpret. A little boy who is more like me than I sometimes want to acknowledge. I sit here, nine years later, and thank God for the lessons Cullen has taught me. From learning to love another child, to watching brothers grow with one arm slung around the other's shoulders. From early morning feedings where it is just baby and Mommy, to double stroller walks with Daddy. Somewhere along the way he potty trained in one day, learned to read, tie his shoes, and will be entering the 4th grade. His peaceful sleeping face reflects not only the child he was, but the man he will become, with God's grace.

Nine years ago, so much was unknown. And still, today, the future cannot be seen. But I do know I have been blessed beyond measure. By a small, energetic little boy who has captured my heart, filled my life, and given me more than I could ever give him back. Happy Birthday, Cullen McKee! I love you to the moon and back!