Just Marilynn

She Asked For Freedom

In the middle of an ordinary day, our entire office shut down, and we gathered to hear from a fiery woman from a place I won't name. For her safety, I can't share a picture of her. I have nothing for the eyes to see other than the words I type.

She had red hair and big brown eyes and an even bigger heart. Beside her was a strong and supportive husband. He let her do the talking and I chuckled inside because she was just the type of outspoken woman I can appreciate.

Her stories were rich and surprisingly positive. Well, they were surprising for me because I know how little it can take for me to find reasons to complain. Unlike me, she lives in a tough place. The kind of place in which prison and persecution are real. Only one percent of her people are Christian. In her country, freedom of religion is promised by law but punishable by the enforcers of the law. People may read a Bible but they cannot gather or evangelize.

When someone from our small tribe said, "How can we pray for you?" She asked for freedom. Then, she went on to tell us stories about the miraculous ways God has provided for her people—His people—who are so hungry for His stories. They are hungry for change and they need many things we take for granted. Like shoes. Yet, of all the gifts this fiery woman smuggles into refugee camps, the most appreciated gift is the Word of God in their mother-tongue.

In her world, the local church—the Bride of Christ—is working to help people receive Scripture. While it's not illegal to own a Bible, booksellers can be fined and jailed for selling the Bible. So, the local churches purchase copies in order to distribute as many Bibles as they can (within the maximum quantity allowed by the government).

Today, her sole mission was to encourage us to keep working through our ordinary days in the office. She came to share the stories of what happens in places we can't see. There we were, the seen, being encouraged by the unseen.

She asked for freedom, will you help me pray?

 

Falling Forward—Ruined For Life

I cooked a big savory pot of Smitten Kitchen Chicken Soup today. Earth shattering, right? It was delicious and especially pleasing because I found it through a random Google search. Yet, the soup didn't inspire this story. My dad did.

Today, my seventy-nine year-old stubborn father ended a twenty-one day total fast. By total I mean total. He drank a glass of milk to take his medications. He drank water. He wasted away on a diet of nothing.

You are probably thinking, "Why? Why would he do that?" I asked the same questions. "Dad, when are you going to stop?" Those were my words of encouragement.

Through those twenty one days, he went to our church every day to pray. Me? I pestered him to quit and randomly asked God to make him stop. Deep, right? I was shallow. So shallow that I turned away. There is something about that type of sacrifice that horrifies the flesh. It is repelling because that type of sacrifice has the power to ruin.

At one o'clock this morning, dad was on the floor of the kitchen. He thinks he was thirsty and fell while searching for a glass of water. It took some time before my mom finally heard him. My brother had to pick him up—all 126 pounds of his tiny weakened frame (the picture above was pre-fast). 

Again, the question, "Why?" Dad's only response has been "Where is your faith daughter?" How do you respond to that? Ultimately, he felt called to fast and pray: for our church leaders, for my family, and for physical healing. Today, he admits his actions were not wise. As a family, we would never advise this type of extreme fast for an elderly person. Never. My mom is worn out. Seeing and supporting her husband through the past few weeks has taken a huge toll on her physical and emotional health.

So, what was the point? There is a line I like to sing, words written by the musician, William McDowell:

My life is not my own
To You I belong
I give my life
I give my life away

I want to live those words. My dad's sacrifice has so humbled me. His sacrifice has ruined me and reminded me of who I was created to be. I spent many years chasing a "special anointing" and praying for a "fresh anointing." All the while, the Christ, the Anointed One waited patiently. He waited patiently for me to learn about the Suffering Servant as described in Isaiah 53.

Perhaps the whole moral to the story is that we are called to die for one another. Fasting and praying don't earn us glory—those measures of faith give Him glory. The earth shattering point is that this life we are called to calls us to sacrifice, share, give, bless, cover, shelter, and even die for one another—for those we love and for those we call strangers.

My dad has always been my hero. He is far from a perfect man and we share many faults, yet, he has always fallen forward, on His face, before the One True God. This year, I want to fall forward. I'll be in the Word to seek His Voice, and praying about how and when to begin fasting.

I hope I am ruined for life.

Not So Perfect Holiday

Holidays are generally anything but holidays. Once upon a time—holidays were holy days. In a land, far, far away—holidays were rested days. I have been looking forward to a holy holiday. My shopping was completed early. My house was a mess, but I'm learning to let that go, and in a pretty big way. I didn't even flinch when my in-laws arrived and the house was fairly filthy. I was focused on that holy rest, especially because I have been so out of focus lately.

I cussed my way through a children's CandyLand trail—at my church. It was a enchanted winter wonderland! Yet, for awhile, all I could focus on was what I didn't have, the perfect photo. It was just one of those days that follows many other tiring days.

And I have been tired in my bones for awhile.

This Sunday, our pastor spoke about joy. The type of joy that the shepard's felt when they laid eyes on the One—their Savior. Yet, this perfect child was born in the most imperfect and unexpected circumstances. As our pastor so eloquently put it, Jesus was born into a stable filled with the stench of life. Well, my pastor actually called it "poop."

As a mother, I couldn't help but think about Mary. I can't imagine the brokenness she experienced in her lifetime. I do not imagine she was a strong woman. I can't ever imagine myself as being strong enough to birth Love destined to die. No, I imagine she was broken and weak and desperately clinging on to the One True God though all of her days.

And she began those days, with Him, surrounded by the stench of life.

Tonight I am not imagining much. I am walking through life, one imperfect and unexpected step at a time. My mom was admitted to the hospital on this Christmas Eve. Might you say a prayer with me? There are many people who are tired in their bones, possibly broken, discouraged, unloved, and struggling to endure a not so perfect holiday. People like my mom's nurse and people like the patients that fill this hospital and many others.

I get it.

Someday, maybe not today or tomorrow, but one day, the not-so-perfect pictures will mean more to me than will the perfect ones—because they captured real moments. I will look back and say, "Those were the messy days in which the Truth showed up."

Until then, I will be broken and weak and desperately clinging on to the One True God though all of my holidays. I will be slain along a CandyLand trail and live to tell the tale.

Because He gets it.

Friendship, Coffee, and Zucchini Muffins

There are three ingredients that make a good week: friendship, coffee, and zucchini muffins. Nearly every week, a dear friend meets me at Starbucks (mostly). There we curl up on couches to share our lives—our dreams, hopes, and joys as well as our wounds, tears and sufferings.

While sipping our favorite treats of the season—and wolfing down our zucchini muffins—we have planned, plotted, and pursued our passions including filming a documentary, dreaming up storybooks to be edited by The Book Chief, and planning the conception of my first child (there is a science and strategy to such things).

Here is the proof:

Quite often, we talk about ordinary things like housekeeping. Just today, my dear friend shared about struggling to master endless piles of laundry (proof that she is a mommy to a newborn, two boys and wife of one man). After she poured her heart out, as a friend, I attempted to pour His Love back in. Instead of complaining, we focused on how the One True God might show up in creative ways. We didn't land on a solution right then. We just "fixed our thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable."

With a good perspective, we stood up straight, righting ourselves for our busy-full lives. Not long after, I smiled so big when my dear friend sent me a text saying "I came home and [my husband] and the boys had put away all the laundry for me."

These are faith-building God-answers-prayer moments born in unexpected places. It's a sacred place—this Starbucks—because our conversation, our community, our friendship has grown in holy ways in this most secular place. Indeed, there are three ingredients that make a good week: friendship, coffee, and zucchini muffins.

Wholly Dedicated (Holy Holes And All)

The littlest love of my life turns one year old in just thirty-five days. One year and where did the time go? One year and our lives are wholly changed in the most holy of ways.

I should have birthday cake on the brain. Instead, I've been dreaming about the perfect way to celebrate Jaden's baby dedication at Creekwood Church. I planned on cooking a batch of pumpkin pancakes with cinnamon whipped cream last night. Instead, at nine o'clock at night, I was doing my best to clean the house by shoving random loose papers, mismatched parts, spare toys and anything-everything else into the spare bedroom. However, I did manage to whip the cream.

I fretted about our outfits until finally falling sleep. Miracle of miracles, Jaden slept in and I had time to get ready and enjoy a hot cup of coffee. Now that's a luxury! Then the in-laws came over a tad early and helped get him ready. With all of these blessings lined up, I thought to myself, surely Jaden will be a dream during the baby dedication service. I imagined a cooing happy boy waving and babbling "hi-hey" to the congregation. It turns out I really was dreaming.

Yes, Jaden was "that" child and we were "that" family with "that" child. I'm sure he wasn't that bad but the super-special-spiritual-service I saw playing out in my dreams was a blur. I don't remember much of it except one part in which the pastor said "If my lawnmower is red, my kids want a red lawn mower too." In the moment I didn't really catch it. I was juggling Jaden—hoping he wouldn't accidentally pull my top down—trying to not knock down Shayne's crutches—somewhat remembering to smile—and feeling badly for the other parents dedicating sweet‑mild-mannered children. In other words, I had my hands full. So, as a one who believes everything means something, I know I remembered something important. Namely this, Dad's are so very important.

It wasn't but a few minutes and lil man was gleefully off to his Sunday school class with the other Critters. Poor baby, he's all boy and just wanted to play. In retrospect, today was perfect. Of course lil man was intent on disrupting the super-special-spiritual-service I dreamed of. Of course, my earring dropped down my dress moments before the service began. Of course nobody got a good picture of us. Of course...life didn't go according to plan. In years past I would have focused on what should have been. Today, I focus on what I have. What shoulda-coulda been doesn't matter. Those are holes that don't count against the whole of life.

We entered into a covenant today. As a couple, we dedicated ourselves to glorifying God by loving well. As a family we committed ourselves to live life in community—holes and all (more on that later and if you want to hear the sermon click here). It was a good day and we topped it all off by making pumpkin pancakes together. Of course, it was all perfectly imperfect!

Oh and this was the icing on the pancakes! Alise Levens was so super sweet to share the meaning of Jaden's name! Names are so important to us Hawaiians. I didn't know if it would make it into the program but it did and my heart melted. Later we were given a gift bag with a tiny powder blue Bible with Isaiah 40:9 written on the jacket. His first Bible. Truly, Creekwood cares. 

*As it has been forever since I've last written as myself, this post may be nothing more than a loose collection of rambling nonsensical mommy-musings. So, if you are reading this, well, thanks for loving me.

Maybe

I used to dream up a scenario that would provide the perfect writing atmosphere. It went like this: Maybe I should spend a few leisurly hours at Starbucks curled up in a comfy couch while basking in the warm arfternoon sun. Surely that would be just the key I needed to unlock a treasure trove of witty words.

Oh, those dreams are long gone. Instead I'm learning to seize fleeting moments be they ideal or not. Like right now. I'm sitting at the kitchen table with my back to countertops loaded with dishes. Jaden is crying and the hubby is exasperated. All the while I am still in my most unglorious pajama's covered in flour. Did I mention that it's nearly six o'clock in the evening?

In order to make it though the week as a working mom I spend Sundays cooking up meals galore. It's all guts and no glory. Often I am tempering my emotions as I am toasting vegetables. Do I feel bitter cooking up as storm while the hubby plays video games? Heck yes! Yet, I know he works hard as well and deserves a break now and then.

As Jaden continues to cry, there is a darker part of my heart that says, "This is not how it should be." I've listened to that part of my heart for awhile now especially when the dishes and the laundry and the cleaning and the crying and the cooking begin to pile up on my shoulders. This is not how it is supposed to be.

Then again, maybe it is.

 Maybe it's all about developing a new person. One that does not want to pull their hair out at every little incovenience. One that sacrifices without the applause of cheerful fans. One that gives without expecting a reward. Who would that person be like?

Maybe me?

It's possible. It's possible if I allow myself to be formed into the image of the One who loves perfectly. With that thought, suddenly, the house has fallen silent with the sweet sounds of a sleeping baby. Peace. Just as suddenly, light has chased away the darker parts of my heart and my perspective adjusts. Maybe this is how it should be. Maybe I can enjoy cooking as an expression of love...whether it is received the same way or not. Maybe I can relish a trip to the grocery store just as much as I delighted in spending countless useless hours shopping for shoes. Maybe I can count myself blessed with a homeful of chores when so many don't have homes at all. Maybe I can cook away with content knowing my sweetly sleeping men are just a breath away. Maybe this is the perfect writing scenario after all.

Maybe.

New Year...New Life

I'm thirty-five today. If my math is right, that makes 12,775 days of living. Many of those moments I once wished I could unlive. In fact, in a past life, I spent much of my time attempting to unlive through various vices. I was different then.

Threaded throughout my years of unliving were also efforts to cleanse myself. I strived to please God. I tried to pray more. I tried to read the Bible more. I tried to be a nicer Christian. I tried. I tried. I tried until I failed. Then, I went back to unliving.

I unlived until I began to let the Master live through me.

Earlier today a coworker showered me with birthday Scriptures—literally. It is her tradition to pray over and write out Scripture that speaks to the birthday girl (or boy). She writes the Scriptures on colorful paper destined to be curled into wonderfully-bouncy-confetti-strings. Of course, all of the Scriptures spoke to me but today one verse stood out in particular: "Those who cleanse themselves from the latter will be instruments for special purposes, made holy, useful to the Master and prepared to do any good work" (2 Timothy 2:21 NIV).

There are many "latter" aspects to our lives. This particular chapter is specifically teaching about dealing with false teachers. I would argue that there are many types of false teachers. However, for today, my heart is inclined to focus on the Master.

This inclination is partly due to our daily staff devotions. This week our time of worship and prayer has centred around the theme of drawing near to the Master. As I read my wonderfully-bouncy-confetti-string Scripture it occurred to me that the only way to cleanse ourselves from the latter is to know the Master. In knowing Him—not just knowing of Him—but deeply diving into knowing Him is the only way to live.

On this thirty-fifth birthday, I am struck by a simple and profound reality. My lil man—all of three months and thirteen days old—will only ever know me as I am now. He will never know me as the girl that broke hearts—including my own. That amazes me. Yet, I am humbled by another simple and profound reality: the Master of the Universe chooses to only ever know me as I am now. According to His Word, He says, "I—yes, I alone—will blot out your sins for my own sake and will never think of them again" (Isaiah 43:25 NLT).

He lives through me. He cleanses me. He chooses to know me as I am...and He gives me good gifts.

Speaking of gifts, today, my mom gave me a homemade scarf. My favorite Aunt Betty called to love on me. My hubby showed up at work with a dozen red roses and a lil bling. My coworker, Julie, baked a Reece's Peices brownie cake. My boss blessed me with a pretty picture frame. My dear C also dropped by the office. She made me a swanky hankie. Of course, she also had a Starbucks in hand. It's been a wonderful day but nothing beats the gift of the Word of God. Nothings beats the gift of a relationship with the Master. It is solely because of that relationship that I can celebrate a new found appreciation for my mom, a deepening respect for my husband, and the delights that only girlfriends can share. Truly, my unlived days are over.

Choose the Master and He will live through you. He will cleanse you. He will choose know you as you are...and he will give you good gifts.

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights
with whom there is no variation or shifting shadow" (James 1:17 NASB). 

Welcome Home Jaden!

 

Going home was oh so sweet and scary. We had fun dressing Jaden for his first encounter with the real world. It was neat to realize he would experience sunshine for the first time in is little life. We were allowed to take our time especially since we hadn't any sleep save the couple hours the nurses kept him in the nursery. I was determined to keep him with us but without rest we were useless. Once we had recovered we headed out. By the time I got home I was exhausted and so was Jaden although he was sleeping soundly. I was in tears. My pain medication had worn off and thankfully my mom made the pharmacy run for us. My dad had my husband take his new comfy recliner for me to use. His chair has been a blessing! Then we ended up having my Aunt Betty and Uncle Mike grab a few more necessities from the drugstore. The moral of the story? Ask for help and receive it gratefully when help is offered. Oh, and take the pain medication your doctor perscribes! 

Jaden's First Day

  

With Jaden in our arms, the world seemed to quiet around us. At least for a few brief seconds. Nobody tells you how shaky the epidural makes you. Or, that every shred of privacy will evaporate. Shayne had to help me into the bathroom to do the things I had taken for granted my entire life. Thankfully I didn't have time to dwell on much. But I will say that Jaden wasn't the only one to be diapered that day!

I was placed in a wheelchair and wheeled through the double doors of the labor and delivery unit. I was a little scared as we passed by the waiting room. Perhaps my nerves were just shaky from the ordeal my body had just been through. A baby chime played to announce Jaden's birth and then off we went. It was time to move into the postpartum room where we were transferred into the care of Theresa, the postpartum nurse. Can you believe all three nurses were named Theresa! At least we didn't have to worry about remembering too many names.

All six of our family members followed us to our room and practically devoured Jaden all at once. From that moment on we received visitors until we left the hospital. It was pretty crazy. Of course we loved sharing Jaden but it did put a great deal of pressure on us in the midnight hours. Jaden became overstimulated and we were up all night. We are now at day 13 and we are still learning how to negotiate sharing Jaden with creating healthy boundaries for his sake and ours. It is hard to do but this little honeypie is worth it!

Jaden's Birth Story

Jaden Kaleo Howe
(Jehovah has heard the voice in a high place)

Get yourself up on a high mountain,
O Zion, bearer of good news,
Lift up your voice mightily,
O Jerusalem, bearer of good news;
Lift it up, do not fear.
Say to the cities of Judah,
"Here is your God!"
(Isaiah 40:9)  

Our sweet baby boy was born on September 30, 2011 at 10:16am. Shayne and I had a feeling he would arrive on the last day of the month. Jaden's arrival on this particular day was special to Shayne because he had been laid off on September 30, 2010 from Sikorsky Aircraft. Moreover, his walking papers were delivered sometime during the ten o'clock hour. That began a seven month exercise of trusting God as He grew our faith. On a silly note, I was hoping for a September birthday because I preferred sapphire to opal for his birthstone. I know. I am goofy! I had a feeling Jaden would make me wait to the last day. Perhaps he knows his mama well. I can always use a little more patience, and to be truthful, I was just about done being patient.

As a measure of precaution against pre-labor, pregnant women are advised to avoid massaging their breasts. On Thursday evening—since we were five days overdue—I decided to give it a try. Within an hour or two I began to cramp. I didn't realize just what was going on until I googled labor pains around 8:00pm. I have a million books and resources from our baby classes and I still ended up googling. Most women described early contractions as menstrual cramps. That was exactly how I was feeling. I also found some blog posts about birth stories and they helped to prepare me for what was to come. I decided at that moment to share our birth story someday just in case someone needed reassurance like I did.

The contractions came in five minute increments until 9:00pm. Then they became random. Sometimes five or fifteen minutes a part. Shayne decided to go to sleep just in case we were headed to the hospital that night. I tried to sleep but the contractions never subsided and soon I was in too much pain during the contractions to lay down. I had to keep moving. I had been trying to keep track of the contractions with my stopwatch until I found an pregnancy app called Sprout that let me record each contraction and stored the data for me. What a lifesaver!

The contractions became regular around 2:00am. I woke Shayne up by kicking him out of our bedroom. I wanted him to sleep until it was time to go but I also needed to keep moving more than ever. I double checked my bag and grabbed the goodies I had baked for the nurses from the freezer. The week before I had made banana chocolate bread, pumpkin pecan bread and bran muffins. Always hoping to be hospitable! I made sure we had the camera, my favorite colorful homemade quilts (one made by my mom and one made by my Aunt Betty), and the Sentsy pot.

I figured a hot shower would help around 3:00am. My doctor had said to head to the hospital when the contractions were five minutes apart but I decided to wait just a bit longer. My friend Alicia went to the hospital when her contractions were three minutes apart. Of course, she was having her second child. Nevertheless, I went with my gut and took a shower and did my hair and makeup even. I had to keep everything as normal as possible so I wouldn't freak out. I woke up Shayne around 4:00am and encouraged him to take a shower. He did, and we made sure the dogs were taken care of. By the time we were ready to leave it took me awhile to make it to the door. I had to stop every two to three minutes and wait for the contraction to pass.

Thankfully we were delivering at Methodist Mansfield Medical Center which was only five minutes down the road from our house. Shayne dropped me off at the front door and my intention was to make it to the elevator but I had to stop several times and wait for him to assist me. By the time we made it to the triage station I was writhing in pain with big tears rolling down my cheeks. For a moment I was taken aback because I couldn't wear my nightgown. Theresa, the admitting nurse, firmly suggested I put on the hospital gown I had been trying to avoid. Then I had a million questions to answer in order to be admitted. It was horrible to be flat on my back when the contractions hit but Shayne was by my side the entire time. Finally my cervix was checked and it was decided that I was dilated four centimeters. Before we could move to the labor room I had to be checked—and miserably rechecked—to make sure his head was in position.

Around 5:00am we made it to the labor and delivery room. Shayne called our family to let them know that the big day had arrived. He dimmed the lights, covered me with a quilt and plugged in the Sentsy pot. The moment we were settled in the labor and delivery room I asked Shayne to start a worship playlist I had created. I had wanted a worshipful atmosphere to ease my fears and to welcome Jaden into the world.

Once settled, Theresa, the admitting nurse, left me in the care of Theresa, the labor nurse. The contractions were coming on stronger and stronger. I had told the nurses that I could handle a pain level of 5-6. I think I was trying to be a little too heroic. I couldn't stand for Shayne to be anywhere but at my side when the contractions came. He was a great coach always encouraging me to breathe. I muttered all of the things women say during delivery like "I can't do this...I never want to do this again...One is enough." And then there are my favorites, "Stop talking!" and "Where is the epidural guy?"

We had to wait for an IV to be given to me before the epidural could be administered. I must have counted every drop of fluid. Blessedly, the epidural was administered just as I was dilated seven centimeters. It was quite scary because I was shaking so much and I was told to keep completely still while a monster needle penetrated my back. Despite my fears all went fine. Once the epidural began I didn't feel another contraction. Thank you Jesus!

The contractions began to slow down and became irregular so a small dose of Picotin was given to me. Theresa took great care of me and Shayne seemed to relax a bit once I was no longer in pain. At this point I had to wear an oxygen mask and the nurses had to keep repositioning me to check Jaden. I don't think he took well to the epidural and my blood pressure went very low. It was rather uncomfortable and not how I imagined labor. The nurses that came and went always did so with a smile and a kind word. I think a few just stopped by to enjoy the pumpkin spice aroma emanating from the Sentsy pot. Their encouragement and compliments helped to ease my mind.

I was very happy when my waters broke on their own. I felt silly for having come to the hospital several days earlier when I thought my waters had broke. They hadn't. Days later, while laying in that hospital bed, I learned what it really meant for my waters to break. They broke not once but twice and with a huge gush each time.

All along Theresa assured me that the doctor was on her way. My OBGYN was out of town so Dr. Erin Westerholm took her place. I have no idea what time she arrived but she checked me and things started moving real fast. The next thing I knew my feet were up in stirrups and Dr. Westerholm was explaining how to push. Of course, I never do well with verbal instructions—especially under pressure—and I totally got mixed up. I thought I was supposed to hold my breath while she counted to ten. Despite my mix-up it took three sets of contractions consisting of three pushes each time and Jaden was born.

I didn't feel the contractions but I did feel an incredible pressure. During the second set of contractions his head was stuck for awhile. That was a little scary. Much later I learned that the massive bump on his head was due to that moment. Oh, how I cried when I found that out. I couldn't help but think "If I had only pushed a little harder or a little faster." Jaden's pediatrician, Dr. Joki, assured me that it wasn't my fault but the thought still hurt this mama's heart.

Shayne did the daddy duty of cutting the umbilical cord then Jaden was quickly rubbed down and put on my chest. I was amazed at his tiny perfect parts. The doctor and nurses were amazed at his fair skin, blue eyes, and red hair. So were we. It was a speechless moment. It seemed like forever and a fleeting moment all at the same time. He was whisked away to undergo all of the necessary tests. I am so glad we thought to take pictures of his first few moments. At first he was wonderfully indignant about his first bath until the nurse began to wash his hair. He seemed to like that part. He was soothed and swaddled and placed back into my arms with Shayne close by and there we were. A family of three.

Coming soon...I will share a few memories from our very first day with Jaden and more pictures of course.