Sunday, February 7, 2010
Looks like we're getting down to it. You know, when you start sharing about your family, you can only tell camp stories for just so long. So, here's what I want to say. I always hated it when people told me how blessed I was to have Taylor. I hate it when people say, "Oh, God always gives those babies to such special people." Something inside of me just wants to scream, "Horse S***!"
Let me clarify.
When Taylor was born, I guess I was pretty spoiled. I wanted perfect children just like you. I expected perfect children--you know 10 fingers/toes, high IQ, good reflexes on the Apgar Scale. I could tell by the doctor's face that we hadn't done so well on that very first test. (Precursor of things to come?) I felt like I had been hit by an emotional Mack Truck. I can tell you now that I am not proud of the way I felt. But, I was who I was.
Everybody who came to the hospital--and for years to come--told us how "blessed" we were. Blessings all around. Blessings this. Blessings that. I just wasn't buying it. If I was so blessed, why was everybody crying? Finally we put a big sign on the door that read, "Please do not use the word blessings with us today." What I really wanted to tell them was that I wanted God to have their phone number. I mean, how did he get mine? Why did I pick up? I wanted God to call you--and not me.
It has taken me a long while, but now I am finally understanding that gold is mined in the dark. In our deepest wounds, there is always wisdom waiting to be un-covered. And! There are gifts from our wounds waiting to be claimed if we're brave enough to look.
So, bring on the blessings. Let 'em flow! I'm wearing my mining hat. But, let me just warn you; I am still giving God your phone number. I wonder what he'll want you for. Hmmmm. Call me. Let me know.