Breaking the Jesus Mold

Photo: Versify Life

The problem in Western culture isn't that no one has heard of Jesus. Everybody gets the day off for His birthday. There are more churches per square mile than gas stations, for crying out loud. His name's used as a swear word, too, so that covers the delinquent youth bracket. In fact, a lot of us would argue that there's too much Jesus.

Our culture likes to mold Jesus into what we want Him to be: A revolutionary. An "I'm okay, you're okay" sort of guy. A conservative. A liberal. A patriot. A hippie. A pastor. A warrior. A madman. A figment of imagination. An amalgamation of all kinds of mythology. The more I read about Jesus in the Gospels, the more I discover someone who didn't fit in any of those molds.

In the course of all four Gospels, I've noticed something: Jesus makes people uncomfortable. He made the ones in religious power uncomfortable with the way he drew crowds and spoke of the Kingdom of God. They were uncomfortable to the point of feeling threatened, to the point of turning Jesus over to undesirable Roman authorities just to be rid of him. 

Jesus made his own followers uncomfortable. Take a look at the Gospel of Matthew, chapter 5. Yes, there are the Beatitudes (also known as the "Blessed are the"s), and it makes you warm and fluffy inside. It should. It's comforting.

And then there's stuff like this:

"You have heard that it was said to the people long ago, 'You shall not murder, and anyone who murders will be subject to judgment.' But I tell you that anyone who is angry with a brother or sister will be subject to judgment… And anyone who says 'You fool!' will be in danger of the fire of hell." (Matthew 5:21-22)

"But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart." (Matthew 5:28)

"If your right eye causes you to stumble, gouge it out and throw it away. It is better for you to lose one part of your body than for your whole body to be thrown into hell." (Matthew 5:29)

"Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect." (Matthew 5:48)

I measure up to exactly none of those standards. If Jesus is so comfortable, so accepting, why would he have these words attributed to him? If these standards really are set this high, I can't reach them on my own. 

Jesus answered, "I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. If you really know me, you will know my Father as well." 

John 14:6-7, NIV

If you're the sort that takes the Bible as truth, then the above is an absolute truth. I understand that not everyone looking at these words is in that same boat. Some folks don't see the Bible that way. To some, it's a collection of stories. It's mythology to some. It's downright fraudulent in the eyes of others. No matter how you see the Bible, look just at the context for what it is: The Jesus that's written about in the Bible is one that sets an impossible standard, one that's only achieved through Him.

Credit: Etsy

About a month ago, we were observing communion at church. An older lady was giving out the wafers to represent the body of Christ. The usual protocol is for the volunteer to recite some sort of "This is the body of Christ, broken for you" as a reminder while you take that part of communion. Instead of a scripted sentiment, this woman clasped her hand over mine, handed me the wafer, and looked at me sincerely. "Take this and eat. Jesus's body was broken for you to show you that you are precious. You are beautiful to Him. You are forgiven." The light in her eyes, the sincerity, the warmth, the almost pleading way she told me all of this… Guys, I couldn't have heard it any other way if Jesus himself were saying it to me.

 
And here's the best part: it's not a message just for me. It's for you. Jesus's body was broken for you. If you were the only soul on earth, He still would have chosen to go through all of it. You are beautiful to Him. You are worth it to Him. You are precious. The question remains: what do you do with all of this?

A Jumble of Confessions

Tomorrow is the big day. Tomorrow, at last, Lawson will have his first operation. Tomorrow, all too early (and probably with a very fussy 4-month old in tow), we'll be headed to the hospital for a very long few days of recovery, rough stuff, and change.

Tomorrow, his bilateral cleft lip and gums will be patched up. Tomorrow will be the first of multiple surgeries he'll have to endure to correct this birth defect over the course of his life. Tomorrow took its time getting here, and yet, tomorrow seems too soon for my liking.

I'm ready. And, at the same time, I'm everything but ready.

Judging from that face, perhaps HE isn't ready, either.

Over the past few weeks, I've been compiling a confessional of sorts (so no, I haven't had time to sit down in one go and scrawl this out, promise). I've felt guilty, defensive, and afraid of so many things since becoming a parent. Ordinarily, I'd confine these sorts of thoughts to a physical journal (or, at the very least, an offline Word document), but I'm choosing to cast them out into the blogosphere in the hopes I can communicate how I've been feeling to all of you. That, and it serves as a fabulous way to be passive-aggressive about things that are troubling me.

1. I was originally in denial about his cleft.

This actually goes all the way back to when I was in first grade. We had a school-wide assembly in the cafeteria. As we filed in, I noticed a slide projector was set up in the center of the room. Yay, I thought, in traditional six-year old fashion. Pictures! This won't be so boring.

The presentation was from Operation Smile. The guest speakers began their runthrough of the slideshow: various before and after shots of Operation Smile patients. Every time a child's "before" picture was projected onto the big white screen, a chorus of "Ewwww!" from the kids filled the room. While I wasn't so mean to have joined in the jeering, I did the next worst thing: I looked away. I focused on my lap, my shoes, anything that wasn't the picture of the innocent child with a cleft lip. I kept looking away for the duration of the assembly. The pictures didn't scare me, necessarily, but they made me so uncomfortable that I didn't want to look at them, acknowledge them, understand that these kids were just like me but born a little differently.

Our school eventually began what I imagine was a pretty successful fundraiser for Operation Smile, but every year, when we filed into the auditorium for a presentation, I feared that I'd see the slide projector. I didn't mind helping kids, but I didn't want to look at them. I guess I understood why, but that doesn't erase the feeling of guilt deep in the pit of my stomach.

Twenty one years later, I sat in the ultrasound room of the Maternal Fetal Medicine office. We'd been informed at my 20-week pregnancy checkup that our newly-detected little boy was going to be born with a cleft lip and possible cleft palate, and so we had to go see a man whom I've since dubbed Dr. Worst Case Scenario. As he scanned the contents of my belly, he informed me that our little boy would have a bilateral cleft lip and palate. He used some 3-D imaging to scan Lawson's face.

And, just like in first grade, I didn't want to look.

In first grade, I didn't want to look because I didn't understand the whole idea behind facial defects. Last year, I didn't want to look because I didn't want to believe it was true. Some parents try to be proactive about what to expect with a cleft before their child arrives. I didn't want to. Perhaps if I looked away, it wouldn't really be there when he was born. But then, March 23rd came, and with it came Lawson, and so did his cleft.

And, once that little boy was in my arms, I couldn't look away. Not ever.

Before Lawson was born, I was scared of the future. I was scared of what his face would look like. Would I even love him? Would I truly feel a maternal instinct toward him? Part of me didn't want to look at the 3-D ultrasound because, if I saw that face, I would know that I couldn't properly comfort him, hold him, kiss him to make it better, for another 4 months.

Now, I know that I adore my son. What's more, I adore his face. Which brings me to my next (not as lengthy confession):

 

2. I've grown accustomed to his face.

(Here's where I'd put a .gif file of Rex Harrison storming down the street and muttering "Damn! Damn! Damn! Damn!" if one such file existed on the Internet.)

While we were waiting at the doctor's office for Lawson's pre-op, I met another family whose 6-month old daughter was also born with a bilateral cleft lip and palate. She's almost a month post-op, and she looks beautiful. Still, that knowledge was of minimal comfort to this little girl's mother a few weeks ago. Like so many parents of cleft-affected children, she mourned her daughter's natural smile. That might sound weird to someone whose child wasn't born with a cleft, but the mom I met put it this way: "Imagine your child was born with blue eyes and blond hair. You've gotten to know a blond-haired, blue-eyed baby for the first six months of her life. Then, one day, she has brown eyes and brown hair." I couldn't have said it better myself. You know it's your baby, but he doesn't look anything like what you've come to know and love.

I love Lawson's face. Some days, I still notice the cleft. Most days, I don't even think about it at all. It's just his face. And I love it, just like any mom would love her baby's face.

Much of that adoration is due to the freaking precious way he smiles. Just look:

Cheeeeeese.

I'm paid in those smiles. I love the way his little pinchers (an all-too-appropriate term coined by my dear sister) flare out on the sides of his lip when he grins. I love the hearty chuckle that often comes with those grins.

I might have been nervous to look at my son's face before he was born, but now that he's here, I can't get enough. I never want to lose it. Which brings me to my next confession:

3. I'm scared of his surgery. More than I should be.

I know it will help him. I know it will make things so much better for him, but it doesn't put my mind at ease. It doesn't make me worry any less.

I'm worried about the procedure. Will he be given too much pain medicine? Too little? Will his surgical team take extra care to put the pieces of his lip and gums together? Am I going to be strong enough to show him it's going to be okay?

I'm worried about the recovery. I've heard tales galore of swelling, of bleeding sutures, of inadequate pain meds dosage. I've heard horror stories about recovery: weeks upon weeks of inconsolable wailing, of sleep deprivation, of babies not really feeling like themselves for a long time.

Most of all, I'm worried about what his face will look like. I know I'll learn to love it even though it won't look like his old face; that doesn't worry me. What does worry me is the surgical team potentially taking every handsome thing about my boy and patching and pulling it until he doesn't look like himself at all. I want him to have more than just an acceptable appearance. I want him to look like himself.

4. I don't want his cleft to be his "thing."

When people get to know my son over the course of his life, I want them to see Lawson. I don't want them to see Lawson, That Kid With The Lip Thing.

There are so many things that can define him over the course of his life: His faith. His family. His interests. The things he likes to learn about. His sense of humor. His intelligence. Whether he likes dinosaurs. His favorite sport. Whether he even likes sports. He is already an amazing kid with so many facets to his personality, and that helps those that know him to stop seeing his cleft, and start seeing him.

Being born with this cleft was not Lawson's fault. I refuse to let it define him. (Some parents call their cleft-affected kids "clefties," and while I see the merit in being affectionate and unified over a common challenge, I refuse to use that word to describe my son.) We'll take the challenges together, and we'll conquer them. We'll encourage others that are going through similar trials. But I can't see myself centering his whole identity around the fact that he was born with a cleft lip.

5. Sometimes, I get sad when looking at other people's babies.

I have a hard time explaining this one. My sadness is rooted in a sort of mourning, because I know Lawson had every right to be born as "normal" as these picture-perfect babies I see my friends having. I get angry that he wasn't given that same opportunity.

This is probably a natural reaction on my part. I love my son; I want to protect him. He's going to have the rest of his life to have problems: potty training mishaps, scraped knees, flunked tests, voice cracking, getting dumped, flip-flopping between majors, living off of Ramen for a month because he blew all his money on a new computer. His cleft lip and palate was a problem that wasn't earned, provoked, or deserved. He didn't do anything except be born.

I guess it all boils down to a sad sort of envy. I wish he had a "normal" face like everyone else's kid. I'm not saying that it's okay for me to feel this way; in fact, that's why I'm confessing it.

If you happen to be a friend of mine that's recently become a parent, please let me be clear: I do not want anyone to feel any kind of guilt. Your baby is beautiful. All of our children will have some challenges along the way. Some of your children will have a harder time than Lawson. Some of them will have an easier time.

Don't walk on eggshells around my family. In fact...

6. I don't want anyone throwing us a pity party.

Since Lawson's birth (and perhaps even before then), folks have commented on how strong or courageous he is, or how strong and courageous David and I are for being his parents. While I can't answer for my husband, I can tell you right now that there's not some Supermommy suit hidden underneath my clothes. I don't have some saintly serenity about getting through what we have to get through.

When we're faced with a challenge, we have only a few options:

1. Ignore it
2. Wallow in self-pity about it
3. Suck it up and roll with it

When it comes to Lawson's cleft, Option 1 is a no-go. Ignorance in this case means that we wouldn't prep him for surgery with his NAM, we wouldn't care about whether he's eating well, and we wouldn't care about patching his lip together. While we could have gone for Option 2, it wouldn't have been very productive. That leaves Option 3. So, while I don't put on my Supermommy suit every day, I do begin every day with a quick prayer that God gives me the grace to get through the motions of the day, as well as any challenges that come with it.

David and I aren't martyrs or saints. Nor is Lawson. Things can be rough, but they're not always rough. Most of the time, Lawson is just a regular baby. He does regular baby things. Still...

7. I want people to understand that it's hard.

Kind of a turnaround from what I just said a moment before. Yeah, I know. "Don't pity us. Nah, you can pity us. Sometimes. Wait, no, that's not right. Can I start over?"

Listen, I understand how hard it can be to be in a situation and you just don't know what to say. I've been in that sort of situation, and I find myself often saying something lame. There are a lot of people that have never met a cleft-affected baby before.

A common response I've gotten from folks is the "Hey, at least it's fixable" comment. They're right. Many children are born with challenges that aren't treatable or correctable. Some of those children have life-threatening issues to face. Lawson's particular challenge is something that can be corrected with surgery.

But I think some people are under the impression that it's a quick fix. It's going to be multiple surgeries over the course of his childhood and adolescence. It's working with a feeding team to get him the nutrients that he needs. It's going to be a long road of speech therapy to ensure he can speak properly. It's going to be a guaranteed discussion of how to handle bullying and teasing just because he wasn't born exactly the same as "normal" kids. It's going to be a journey of being strong, capable parents no matter what.

No one has to know the magic words to say in this situation (heck, I sure don't). It just helps to know that people can acknowledge that, while my son's journey won't be as rough as others', it's still going to be rough.

8. I'm grateful.

This isn't so much a confession as it is a declaration, one that has helped me process everything leading up to tomorrow's surgery. The root of a positive outlook is gratitude. It's high time to be appreciative of the things I already have going for me.

I'm grateful for my son. I'm grateful that David and I were able to conceive a child. I'm grateful that my pregnancy and my delivery were relatively smooth and problem-free. I'm grateful for the things Lawson teaches me daily. I'm grateful for the way he's shown me how to love in a way I never knew I could. I'm grateful for his strength, for the ease with which he handles the curveballs so far. I'm grateful for the way his eyes light up when I greet him in the morning. I'm grateful that he's otherwise developmentally on target (perhaps a little ahead of schedule, but I'm certainly not biased). I'm grateful for every coo, every gapped grin, every hearty chuckle.

I'm grateful for my husband. I'm grateful that I'm married to David, my best friend. I'm grateful for the dates that we can still go on, even after becoming parents. I'm grateful that he has demonstrated time and again what it means for a husband to cherish his wife (including, but not limited to, the way he makes me go back into the car so he can get the door for me). I'm grateful for the example he's already set to head our family with integrity and love. I'm grateful that I've married a man who is such an amazing father already. I'm grateful for all of his support, his help, and the way we will always handle things as a team. I'm grateful for knowing such a wonderful, fulfilling love through being his wife.

I'm grateful for my family and friends. I'm grateful that I've been born into (and have married into) a family that has shown me the fierceness of love. I'm grateful for the countless hours, dollars, and energy sacrificed in that love for David, Lawson, and me. I'm grateful for the friends that have anchored me before I was even going to be a mommy. I'm grateful that those same friends have listened to me process things one day at a time. I'm grateful for the triple-digit "likes" on Facebook every time I post an update about Lawson. I'm grateful that my family, my friends, and the friends that are practically family have left my heart full every time I think of them.

I'm grateful for my faith. I'm grateful that I serve a God who knows better than to let me coast through life without any problems, for how else would I know what it means to have true joy? I'm grateful that, when I give Lawson over to the surgical team tomorrow, God won't be letting him go for a moment. I'm grateful to have our lives intersect with medical staff and families who we otherwise wouldn't have known, and I hope that we can shine Christ's love through our experience. I'm grateful that I can stake my hope in the eternal, not the temporal.



Tomorrow will be interesting. Tomorrow, Lawson will be strong; of that, I've no doubt. It still remains to be seen what I'm made of. We'll see if I will be a solid pillar of strength and toughness, or we'll see how many times I'll break down in the course of an hour (far more likely, methinks). No matter the outcome, God will give us all enough strength to get through it.

He's amazing that way.




But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me.

2 Corinthians 12:9 (NIV)


Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go.

Joshua 1:9 (NIV)

The Culture of Anonymity

You don't have to look far into the bowels of the Internet (teehee, bowels) to find examples of nasty behavior:

• Heavy handed debate ("Let me bludgeon you over the head with my opinion! Change yours! CHANGE YOURS, DARN YOU")
• Name-calling ("Trout sniffer" and other less-than-G-rated names)
• General grammatical snark ("Way to make your subject-verb agreement disagree, moron")
• Unfounded character insults ("Get out of your parents' basement and say that to my face")

Most of this kind of meanie-butt rhetoric is simply the result of giving practically anyone and everyone access to a keyboard and a comment thread. Some of it, in rarer but still-scarily-valid cases, is less stupid behavior and more trolling.

For the uninitiated, trolling is defined as follows:

Being a prick on the internet because you can. Typically unleashing one or more cynical or sarcastic remarks on an innocent by-stander, because it's the internet and, hey, you can.

* Definition taken from Urban Dictionary (and not, say, Webster's) because reasons.

Trolling has achieved everything from being mildly irritating to egging people on to commit suicide, and although you might not be guilty of the most egregious branch of this sort of asinine behavior, you're probably guilty of it to some degree.

What's that? You'd never be so awful toward your friends or family? Okay, you've got me there. But have you made blanket insults toward strangers? Celebrities? Politicians?

You may have said them to an athlete, like these New Yorkers did to former Yankees second baseman Robinson Canó. He's now playing for the Mariners (and a bigger paycheck), and Yankees fans didn't like it.

Check out what these fans said on camera... and what they said after the interview takes an interesting turn:

 

 

Okay, I'm not stupid. I know you're probably not going to watch the video. So, if you didn't, here's a quick rundown:

 

The Tonight Show interviewed Yankees fans man-on-the-street style and asked them how they felt about Canó leaving for the Mariners. Each interview started with a general "you suck" sentiment from the fan and, after directing their comments at a large picture of Canó -- wha-bam -- the actual Canó steps out from behind the picture.

 

The reaction of these guys is priceless, ranging from embarrassment to surprise to a bit of apologetic behavior ("Hey, you know I love you, man"). Their sneers softened up a little bit. Why? Maybe it's because they saw that their jeers were directed toward an actual human being, not an emotionless photograph.

 

The Internet's done that to all of us, in one way or another.

 

We're quick to bash people, insult their intelligence, attack character, hurl venomous names... as long as it's behind the safety of a keyboard. What if the object of your insults (and yes, that includes Bill O'Reilly, Kim Kardashian, Barack Obama, and even that one girl in high school that still makes your life a nightmare) wasn't just on TV, wasn't just plastered all over your news feed, but was in the same room as you? What if he/she were standing right in front of you?

 

Okay, I'll grant you that you may still not like them very much. You might even be courageous enough to tell the object of your tirades that you don't like them. You might give them a piece of your mind about why you don't like them. But would it contain the venom that you're so easy to spew over the anonymity of the Internet?

 

Let's face it: it's easy to be nasty these days. After all, we don't really have to answer for that back-handed comment toward that guy on a Facebook thread. He's never met you, and anyway, dude's a bona fide idiot. He lives in Montana. Will you ever go to Montana? And even if you did, what are the odds you'll run into him at a Walmart and he'll (1) remember you and (2) beat you up in a back alley for that one time you were less than nice?

 

I'm not saying you shouldn't ever disagree with someone. And let me be absolutely clear: disagreeing with someone ≠ "hate." But it wouldn't kill you to be civil. Oh, what's that? They aren't being civil? They don't deserve a kind word? Then how about taking the higher road and showing them how it's done?

 

I swear, any more arguing and I'll turn this wagon around. You're going to bed without supper. And Christmas is canceled. You want to try for your birthday, next?

 



A Parable: When Things Are Awful

And now, an eye-rolling statement: Taking care of babies requires a lot of work.

 

(You're either rolling your eyes because you've been there and know it's the understatement of the year, or perhaps you're rolling your eyes because if you have to hear one more time from your pugnacious parenting friends that "wah wah, having babies is hard," you're going to hurl your tablet/laptop/phone into oncoming traffic. But I digress.)

 

Taking care of my almost-three-month-old requires the usual sundry tasks:

• Changing wet diapers
• Changing diapers that are not only wet, but filled with unholy amounts of gastro-pyrotechnics
• Letting him sit in a shallow, somewhat soapy tub while he playfully flings water everywhere (known as "bathing" to those who are slow on the uptake)
• Sneakily squeezing in a nap for myself under the guise that he needs a nap, too, so why not knock the two out at the same time
• Feeding him an ever-increasing amount of milk/formula while chanting "Chug! Chug! Chug!"
• Giving him baby-approved things to play with, switching it up often so he doesn't holler at me for being bored
• Getting him to go to, and simultaneously remain in the state of, sleep
• More typical day-in-the-life things that presently escape my sleep-lacking memory

 

Since Lawson was born with a bilateral cleft lip and palate, I can add another daily task to the docket: Taking out, cleaning, and re-placing his NAM device. His NAM (nasal alveolar molding) device is a retainer-type appliance that is held in place with medical tape and orthodontic elastic bands, and it helps coax the pieces of his lip together so the surgery (which is scheduled in early August) goes more smoothly. He's also now got what David and I affectionately refer to as "tent poles" attached to the NAM that will help to shape his nostrils pre-surgery.

 

The NAM device: a must-have for this season's fashion.

 

And since the NAM is just like that awful retainer you had when you were in middle school, it has to be cleaned regularly. At least twice a day (sometimes more if we're dealing with spit-ups of biblical proportions), I have to:

• Remove the existing tape (as needed; sometimes I avoid this until it's bathtime)
• Take the NAM out of Lawson's mouth
• Rinse the NAM with some cold water, ensuring it's clean
• Use a damp washcloth to clean the inside of Lawson's mouth (mucus, milk build-up, etc.)
• Place new tape on Lawson's cheeks, if needed
• Put ointment on the nasal pieces so they don't irritate when they're in his nose
• Hold the little fella down and put the NAM back in, securing with the elastic bands and ensuring it's in place
• Console the little dude, who at this point is pretty upset at the whole ordeal

 

As you can imagine, it really, really sucks to do this. It just sucks all around. It sucks for me to hold my son down and pull an orthodontic device out of his mouth, only for him to get it crammed right back in. Most folks who come by and watch us do it have a hard time doing so. Rightfully so; it's no picnic watching a baby act like he's getting his toenails ripped out.

 

Oh, I said I had a parable in all this mess, didn't I? Well, then...

 

I happened to have a revelation about this a while back, just after I'd temporarily tortured Lawson with yet another NAM cleaning. He'd been crying, as he usually does, going all red-faced, vein-bulgy, and communicating to me in no uncertain terms, "Mom, this is really the worst. I hate this. Why are you doing this to me? I trust you, and you do this? You hurt me. I hope you're ready for the therapy bill you're getting in about ten years. Have I mentioned that I hate this? And that I probably hate you a little bit for doing it to me (at least until my next feeding)?"

 

So, as one does, I communicated right back. "It sucks. I know you hate it. Mommy loves you, even if you can't see it right now. I know you're mad. It makes total sense to be mad. I'd be mad if that were in my mouth. But you know what? In a few months, you'll have an operation to fix it, and then you won't have to wear that awful thing anymore." Did he even know that I was crying just as much as he was? That it killed me to put him through this? He couldn't understand that a time was coming where he wouldn't have to deal with this anymore.

 

And I realized, in that moment, I was experiencing a microcosm of what God must go through when He gives us awful stuff. He's holding us down, taking out things (and/or forcing them right back in again) that are painful: Failed relationships. Financial woes. Debilitating depression. Losing someone you love. Not getting that job you dreamt of, or getting rejected from the grad school that you worked so freaking hard to get into. Battling a disease you did nothing to deserve. Watching someone else battle it. The list goes on.

 

God pushes us to our breaking point, watching us thrash about, screaming, kicking, and hating everything. We sob, we wail, we cry out in anger (and probably hurl a few choice four-letter words) at the One who did all this. He pushed all this on me. He took that away. He forced this on me. He hates me. He must love watching me suffer. This is probably what He does for fun.

 

What if He doesn't love watching you suffer? What if He watches us cry as we're broken, and He cries? What if He just wants to tell us what He already knows - that this isn't the end, that there will be better things soon, that there is a reason for all this terrible stuff, that His heart is breaking to watch us in misery - but you, in your limited ability, won't be able to understand it?

 

Lawson can't understand that he has an operation coming up. He doesn't know what I'm saying when I assure him that there's a reason he's put through this pain and discomfort. But I can hold him, soothe him, and he can understand that, but only after he pauses from his crying jag and takes in the fact that he's in my arms, he's safe, and he can relax. I can give him a bottle to calm him down, or a rattle to play with. Could he try to soothe himself by sitting on the changing table and crying it out? Probably, but it won't be as effective as it would be if I comforted him.

 

Perhaps, then, when we're put through things that are really the worst, we can surrender ourselves to God's arms, too. We can let Him hold us, comfort us, bless us through the encouraging words and actions of those close to us.

 

Then, just maybe, we'll catch a glimpse of that hope that's just around the corner from all this pain.

 

Pictured: Hope that's just around the corner.

 

One Ordinary Girl Rekindles a Talent. You Won't Believe What Happens Next.

This is all Timehop's fault.

Although, if we're really going to drill down the blame here, the fault rests squarely with my friends who have blown up my Facebook feed with Timehop throwbacks that piqued my interest enough to go, "Huh. Maybe I'll download that."

So I did. Shortly thereafter, I fell down the rabbit hole of nostalgia, discovering a link to an until-just-now forgotten blog of mine. I read a fair amount of entries, too, ones that detailed my previous blog-once-a-day resolution (which didn't suck so very bad, in all actuality).

Guys, I shamelessly adored my prose. It's embarrassing, especially since I lack any iota of self-confidence in any other aspect of my life (helloooo thunder thighs), but the thing is, I love writing. Even if it's writing about nothing, which is, well, y'know, most of the time. I enjoy creating with words, but I've discovered the caveat there: I don't like doing it when I have to. So, here I am, not having to.

What I did have to do, however, was set my almost-2-month-old son in his swing for a few minutes so I could write more than one paragraph at a time between rounds of

• Poopy diapers
• Pee diapers
• General cranky face scrunch-ups
• Rousing games of Get My Son To Grin at Me By Any Means Necessary **

** Generally involves an obscenely high-pitched repetition of "Hi!", belly kisses, grinning like The Joker, mimicking his own cooing, or any combination of the four.

The most adorable cause of sleep deprivation in the history of ever.

Naturally, having a child has been the biggest change that's happened over the past year-and-a-half. Lawson spends his day doing typical garden variety baby things: pooping, peeing, sleeping, guzzling, developing motor skills by grabbing onto an elephant toy in his little baby gym, practicing smiling, and waiting to spit up two hours after he's been fed/burped.

What separates this kid from the usual garden variety babies is his cleft lip and palate. When I was 20 weeks pregnant with the little dude, we found out that he was going to be born with a bilateral cleft (one cleft on each side of his nose). When you get that kind of news before your son is even born, when you're already worried about everything under the sun, that's really a one-two punch. We prayed, fasted, etc., in the hopes that somehow this diagnosis would have been just a misreading and that we'd see a facially complete baby boy when all was said and done.

March 23rd came, and so did our son. So did his bilateral cleft. Most folks would have been angry at God. At the very least, their faith in Him would've been shaken. Did I have a lot of questions for God? Oh yes. Was I angry, per se? No. In fact (and this is going to sound really weird when I say it), I love his cleft. It makes him unique. And, in about 2 months when he gets his surgery to repair his lip, by gum, I'm going to miss that cleft. That's the face I fell in love with. I'll be sad to see it go.

What I won't be sad to see go are the few difficulties that Lawson's had to face: wearing his nasal alveolar molding (NAM) device 24/7, not being able to suck down a bottle or breastfeed, sinus problems, etc. And without sounding so saintly, it could always be worse. Dear heaven, it could have been so, so much worse. Lawson's cleft is about the only thing that separates him from "normal" babies. He's smiling, grasping, cooing, focusing, and all the other things that babies should be doing at his age. For that, I'm abundantly, immeasurably thankful.

I was actually entertaining the idea of theming a blog around Lawson (to perhaps document the whole experience for parents that are dealing with this), and maybe I'll devote a few entries to his journey. But the thing is, the blogosphere is full of dedicated parents that are very good at documenting what's going on. That's not to say I couldn't do it, it's just, well, I think that there's more to my son than that. There's more to his life than that. There's more to my life than that. Heck, I couldn't even devote a blog to just plain mommy stuff (which is weird, since we now live in a world where you either are self-consumed with mommyness or you are self-consumed with hating those who are self-consumed with mommyness, e.g., Mommyish).

And so, here we are. Armed with a clickbait-y title that's sure to roll a few eyes, I'm sort of kind of back in the blog game. A game which, heaven willing, is more forgiving than Operation. Or Eat at Ralph's, for that matter.

TL;DR I started blogging again and had a kid while I was away. I might blog some more. I also like validation in the form of read entries and/or comments, because reasons.

Grand Finale

Well, here we are. Full circle. 365 entries later. Am I older? Technically. Wiser? Meh, perhaps. Have I learned a little from this experience?

I'd say so. Granted, it's only a very little bit, but it's something to take with me as a souvenir of That One Time When Jacquie Blogged Once A Day For A Year. I've come to the following conclusions:

Folks don't care about what I have to say. Now, hear me out on this one. I readily admit that I've kind of done this one to myself. In order for people to care about what I have to say, I have to write things that are, well, worth reading. I didn't exactly hold up my end of that bargain. Sure, I wrote one bit of hard-hitting, buffalo-style, editorial piece on the Chick-fil-A debacle, but other than that? A lot of narcissistic drivel. Bleh. We've become so self-serving with the Internet. It's always about us. What's relevant to me? What purpose does this serve me? Me me me. And don't give me that look; I'm guilty of it too. A side effect of the human condition is looking out for Number One first. Now, if I were to do this whole thing over again, and I had a theme of sorts, this might've worked out a little more differently. Which brings me to my next point:

I'm not much of a writer. I figure that, in order to be a writer, a real, honest-to-goodness, genuine article writer, you have to enjoy doing it even when you don't enjoy doing it. You don't mind trudging to your computer once a day to write a fat lot of nothing because, hey, you're a writer. This is your bread and butter. You hate that computer. Hate it. But write anyway. I love writing when I know I've got something good to say. When I don't? When it's obligatory? It's a chore. It's the worst. Still, I hope to paint pictures with my words one day, yet again, very soon.

I enjoy being a free spirit. Like so many American adults in the rat race, I look at a computer all day at work. When I come home from said rat race and settle down with my piece of cheese, what's the first thing I want to do? Oh, that's right. Not look at a glaring computer screen. Maybe a pen-and-paper journaling gig is more my speed. And certainly not once a day. None of that obligatory mess. Nope, just let me have my hair in the wind and be free as the dang wind blows.

I'm glad I did this. Yes, it was obligatory much of the time, but to say that I actually committed to a sorta-kinda New Year's resolution for a full year is pretty exciting, I'd say. Maybe I've unearthed a few more nuggets of wisdom and truth than I know. It ain't been so bad, really.

Will I come back to post occasionally? Sure. When I've got something valuable to say. Until those valuable things come along, you just sit tight.

I'll be back.

Dag nabbit

Well, see, I was going to post this lovely entry to culminate my 365-day journey. As it is, our internet's not working. So, I've composed that heartfelt piece offline and it's waiting in the wings.

So, consider this a placeholder until we get that back up and running. BONUS CONTENT TOMORROW, GANG.

Penultimate

Tomorrow's my last obligatory entry in the ol' blogosphere. Can't say I'm not a teensy, tiny, maybe-a-little-bit-bigger-than-tiny bit appreciative that I've just about fulfilled my resolution.

But you know, I'm also a little bit proud of myself for maintaining the one-blog-a-day gig for a full calendar year. That's not to say that I've been writing hard-hitting journalism by any stretch of the imagination. I've learned a lot, though.

My culminating entry will be tomorrow. A grand finale of sorts, if you will. Get excited, stay tuned, and you cats have a great upcoming Friday in the meantime.

NyQuil Ni'cap

Sometimes, the worst kind of "sick" you can be is when you're not exactly unable to function. If you're laid up in bed with a debilitating stomachache, at least people feel sorry for you. They leave you alone (or help take care of you, whichever is your particular love language).

But when you've got the usual autumnal run of a sore throat, occasional phlegmy cough and general fuzziness, it doesn't matter much. Nope, gotta put on your best and you stick out your chest and go off to the races again.

And again. And again.

For this reason, I've taken the last available dose of NyQuil in the cupboard. It's not even a full dose, but I'm hoping it'll help me sleep. Last night was wretched, let me tell you.

Peaceful

Tonight, I didn't crack open my laptop in a mad panic that I was missing anything on the usual social media outlets. (I still haven't cracked open my laptop; this here entry is composed on my phone.)

Instead, I walked to Suwanee town center with David, enjoyed the fall foliage, ate there (Five Guys, heavens yes), walked back, played some old school Sega Genesis, and took a relaxing bath.

And you know what? It was amazing.