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The Pink Room: Thoughts About Intentional Living
Chapter 5/ A Praying Mom.
Part (Previous post contain the previous chapters.)
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Mom’s prayer
muscles got a workout early on with my brother—I took over that calling later
in life. Until high school, I was perpetually annoyed with my little brother,
Paul. He was scrawny and hyper and there was always “something.”
He was in the
middle of things all the time, jumping or hanging on you—often just talking and
not stopping. I am three years older. There was the time Paul broke his arm; he
was really little. He was a fairly violent little boy. The cast became a weapon
to torment Beth and me with. Most parents have to warn older siblings to be
nice because, one day, the little one would be big and could get them back. We
never had that; Paul with a cast had us running. He was what I like to call: evil.
I have a vivid painful
memory of sitting on the floor watching The Muppet Show, one second, in my bliss
because I loved that show, and the next second, my ears and teeth ringing. He
thought it was funny to lift his cast straight up and drop it on my head. I
couldn’t decide which emotion was more important, the pain or the anger. He was
small enough that I couldn’t get him back. So my choice was to stay irritated
with him for our formative years. Our parents claimed he didn’t understand—he
knew. I learned how not to harm him when I really really wanted to.
He was always
brilliant and if he didn’t have such a soft heart, probably would have turned
out to be an evil genius. He was always curious, loved Legos and generally one
step ahead of everyone. He won all the games, took all the accelerated classes,
and impressed all the teachers.
There was the
time he cut the TV cord with a wire cutter. Oh my goodness--that shocked all of
us! The girls were in the kitchen (Beth, Mom and I); we had the TV on in the
background and were talking. Suddenly there was this large “POP” and the world
stopped. Paul flew back a foot or so and landed on his butt. He had been behind
the TV with a wire cutter! He decided to try it out-- the cutter worked.
Then there was
the time he was practicing balancing (he was in gymnastics—Mom thought it would
help him burn some energy,) he fell, and hit his forehead on rocks outside the
back door. His head wouldn’t stop bleeding, so it looked like someone had been
murdered outside our door. Or the time he hit his nose on the coffee table and
had a hole on the bridge of his nose and needed to go to the emergency room… There
was always something.
Life goes along swimmingly
for seasons and then just about every category of life will fall off the rails
for a while. I prefer smooth sailing. I can see, it is true, the trials are
what offer opportunities for real growth. Not too long ago I was a part of
Alpha downtown in Green Bay, I love that program. One of the conversations that
came out of it was how Paul, in the Bible (not my brother,) said that he was
glad for his trials. People were mulling over that reality. I can honestly say
I have never been glad about a struggle itself, yet I can honestly say:
sometimes the result of the struggle has been so wonderful, or such a blessing,
I am glad the struggle happened.
I left a very
good job, in what I considered a dire set of circumstances and was broken-hearted
about it. Through that transition I ended up at a job that invited me to blog
and photograph all over Europe. Nothing I could have anticipated. That is a
superficial example, but it was clear to me that one would not have happened
without the other—so I was filled with joy because of it all.
You see it all
the time, someone dealing with a disease suddenly finds peace with the past. Or
a child is hurt and then opens up to a parent about something that was
bothering them. Pain can eventually bring joy.
The difficulty is
finding meaning in the pain and in that those transitions. Being open to
answered prayer looking like any number of variables--I prayed for peace about
that job, it did come, but not in the way I had hoped for—I had to leave. I
prayed for meaningful work while I was there as well, I ended up I blogging
about and photographing Norbertine Churches and Abbeys, and creating
faith-based art installations on a college campus.
I know others
were praying for me through that season as well. I talked to my mom at length
about the struggles I was having at work, through it I was able to maintain my
integrity, forgive and not seek retribution--I don’t think that would have been
possible without mom’s prayers.
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My pastor often says:
you are either coming out of a trial or entering one. For that reason prayer is
necessary. It helps in so many ways beyond connecting to a greater power in a
spiritual way. I am eternally grateful for the prayers of others, especially Mom’s.
As I’ve gotten
older I have realized that I am nothing without prayer. The beautiful and
difficult thing about relying on God like our lives depend up it, is that our
culture perceives that as being trapped. The truth is, I have never felt more
free.
