Four years ago, my husband and I squinted through snow flurries as we wound our way to Denver.
We were driving my 13-year-old to an MRI screening for cancer.
Lymphoma is a primary consideration, the radiologist had said, goading us toward the test that day.
I still recall with vividness my son’s drawing, proclaiming my anger issues to the world.
It was in red marker (his favorite color). Chunky hands rested on wonderfully slim, stick-figure hips. “I made you look mad, but you’re not mad in this picture,” he explained.
Y’know that feeling when you’re in one of the stressed, worst versions of yourself? That was me a weekend ago.
I had a million reasons. But as the sun sank on Sunday, it was obvious I was falling into classic unhealthy patterns of my personality type.
My father is the broad-shouldered, strong, internal teddy bear type, with fingers like sausages. In my childhood, he was a Midwestern farmer. In his spare time, he donates his mad skills to car repairs of missionaries, single moms, people like that. He’s that kind of guy.
And it’s common for him to come back into the house with blood zigzagging down his leg or seeping through his shirt.
As we all prep for school-or-not, ’tis the season for Death by Appointment. The last few weeks have carted my kids to the dentist, the doctor, the counselor, the orthodonist, back to the dentist and doctor (four times, at least), and finally, the endodontist. I am now old enough to have a child who needs his wisdom teeth out.
As God continues to nudge me to not do for my kids what they can/should do for themselves, I had my 16-year-old fill out his own paperwork. But y’know, he’s the kind of kid that takes his own spin off, say, the boxes asking, “Are you pregnant?”
Here in Colorado, our shelter-in-place ends in a matter of days, yielding to reduced prevention measures. As we celebrate a homebound birthday of my most extroverted child today, I’m reminded how tough these weeks have been for him–resulting in some signs of stress. He opened his quarantine gifts sent by Grandma and Grandpa, and we’ve got a cookout, and all-family games of hide-and-seek and kickball on the docket.
I think, too, of my friend waiting to finally grieve her husband’s passing in community. I long for worship services in person. For fear to subside.
First week of COVID-19 closures: a week of strange dreams.
Once, I dreamt I was driving in the dark, but my headlights kept flipping off. I kept protesting that I could hit something.
Another night, I was unprepared for a trip to a writer’s conference I wasn’t sure why I’d signed up for–but my editor was there, anticipating I would have great things to say. I’d forgotten shoes, blouses, my computer charger.
This week, my family and I shoved in the car ski boots and a sled and carefully calculated food to feed a family with three teenagers. In the 2-hour drive through the mountains, cell service dropped abruptly about twenty minutes in. Our friend’s cabin, swaddled in 3 feet of snow, has no internet (brilliant!), no reception, and is primarily heated with a potbelly stove.
The plan originally seemed dicey. My friend with cancer is declining. And after this trip, my husband leaves for two and a half weeks.
A friend asked me today on email how my Advent was going. I may have remarked it was still tightly sealed with the rest of the decor in the garage.
My lack of decorating thus far allows me to ignore the fact that I would like to be preparing my heart.
So now that I’m a mom of teenagers and all their weirdness, we talk about things like we did last week: Is it okay to date a non-Christian?
This naturally means I have introduced things like oxen into our conversations before (cue the “unequally yoked” verse, 2 Corinthians 6:14). What’s a good dating conversation without lowing livestock?
![Now You're Speaking My [Love] Language](https://www.janelbreitenstein.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/love-languages-text-1.jpg "Now You're Speaking My [Love] Language")
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