four-year-olds and Jesus

dear rory,

she was whimpering. her face was scrunched up in an effort to keep the tears in her eyes.

"mommy..."

"come here," mom and I both said at once. being fourteen years older than my little sister, sometimes I forget I'm not her mom.

Megan forgets sometimes too, and so she threw her little self into my lap. which may have been a good thing, since mom was already crying.

with her head turned back, Megan watched the tv as she wrapped her arms around my neck.

"why are they doing that to Jesus?" she whispered sadly into my cheek.

"they want Him to die," I said. "they say He is a bad man."

"but He's not."

"you're right. He is perfect."

we both watched. the movie showed Jesus standing before jeering crowds. crowds that, only a week before, had been singing Hosannas to His name.

Jesus stayed silent to their insults.

He was oppressed and afflicted, yet He did not open His mouth; He was led like a lamb to the slaughter... (Isaiah 53:7)

they struck Him. and though it was simply a cartoon, I felt my eyes burning, and I squeezed my sister tighter. we were both watching our God die.

our God who had, as Joni Earickson Tada once described it, "poured Himself into baby flesh."
for a minute, I wanted to tell my sister that it would "be okay". that Jesus wouldn't die. but then I remembered... that's why He came as a baby in the first place.

***
"How can you become a Christian?" the Sunday-school teacher asked.

Hands shot up.

"Yes, Renee?"

"You have to ask Jesus into your heart," my seven-year-old self replied.

"And what did Jesus do to save you?"

"He died on the cross for my sins."

Easy.***

"Nay, what are they doing to Jesus now?"

"They're nailing Him to the cross."

She buried her closed eyes under my chin, as the video tactfully, but emotionally, showed the Roman soldier bend over our Savior. What it didn't show, I knew. The Roman soldier hammered metal through His outspread palm and punctured skin and bone.

But He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on Him... (Isaiah 53:5)

I looked over towards mom. She watched as her four-year-old struggled with Jesus' death. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. Dad turned the volume down, but said quietly, "This is good. She understands."

"Is that His mother?" Megan whispered when she looked up.

"Yes, that's Mary." Mary, who was also a mother crying for her child. Mary who had carried the Son of God in her womb.

***

"Mary, did you know? That your baby boy, will one day heal the nations?"

the words were being sung to me by my cousin Elizabeth, who had been barren her whole life, but was now with child herself.

my own child felt like it could fall out at any moment.

I stood on the stage in front of a couple hundred people and tried to nonchalantly adjust my child. just for the record: rolled up blankets are not good children.

how I was chosen to be Mary for our old church's Christmas play, I still do not know. I can't sing, and I can't act. but I loved the nativity story. and I suppose my enthusiasm carried me through to the top spot.

I felt a little funny. not terribly nervous. just funny. I was at my most awkward stage of life, Joseph was like a foot shorter than me (I had to kneel down for the scene he placed his hand on my shoulder), and my solo went a little higher than my vocal chords could manage. but there I was, dressed in rag-like clothes, pretending to carry the King of the world inside my dress.

"When you kiss your little baby, you kiss the face of God..."

the stage lights were making me sweat, but at that moment, I shivered and imagined I really was Mary, about to give birth to the one who would redeem the nations. it was a scary feeling.

what would it be like to raise God in the flesh? for wholly God He would be. but also wholly man. "my" child would suffer hunger, pain, and temptation like all the rest of us. He would get thirsty. He would get sick, have headaches, wake up only to find He was still exhausted. He would face annoying people. He would have brothers and sisters to pester Him. He would have chores. He would see death and pay taxes and work hard. People would let Him down, lie to Him, cheat Him, spit on Him, hate Him, beat Him, and mock Him.

and yet He wouldn't sin and blame it on His circumstances. He would remain perfect.

I forgot about the audience and the fact that Joseph was a midget compared to me.

I was Mary. God was about to make His appearance on earth.

"This child that you deliver, will soon deliver you... oh Mary, did you know?"

***

it was useless holding my breath. seeing Mary weep as she watched her son, perfect man and perfect God, hang on the cross was heart-breaking.

Megan and I clung to each other, and I let quiet tears slide down my face. I felt like I was watching the story as a four-year-old again. Jesus is good... why are they doing this to Him?

I looked back at the seven-year-old me who had thought that salvation was so easy. In a way, salvation is easy... for us. but for God, it meant sacrifice and blood and tears and sweat and heartbreak.

my pre-teen self up on stage had grasped that concept for a moment. and now I was grasping it again. not for the first time. not for the last.

we kept watching Jesus' final hours on earth. we cried until His last breath.

and then, there was silence for three days. a dead man lay in his tomb. the world waited.

the Son of God came back to life. the grave could not stop Him.

and He is the mediator between God and man to this day. He knows what it is to be God. and He knows what it is to be man.

***

After He has suffered,
He will see the light of life
and be satisfied;
by His knowledge my
righteous servant will
justify many,
and He will bear their
iniquities...
because He poured out His
life unto death,
and was numbered with the
transgressors.
For He bore the sin of many,
and made intercession for
the transgressors.
(Isaiah 53:12)

***

thank you, Lord Jesus. for making salvation so easy that a four-year-old can understand. for making salvation so complex and beautiful that we'll never really understand all that you sacrificed by "pouring yourself into baby flesh."

love,
muffin

december pages

dear muffin,

hi. remember me?

I feel like a wombat that just crawled out of its cave after a long hibernation, blinking in the crystalline sun & suddenly remembering what wind tastes like. [whether or not wombats actually hibernate is entirely irrelevant.]

the fact of the matter is, nursing school is over. the chapter is closed, every word read. I am now one of those post-grad creatures wandering between the world of textbooks and an ever-growing pile of job applications. I said goodbye to Harper for the last time today & felt just a bit sad. a chapter of my life was lived in those hallways, and I'm always sad when a page turns. no going back.

mostly, though, I miss the ER. I miss Doug & Kate & Chris & Diego & Rachel & Justyna & Kurt & Lori & Ryan & Amber & Dr. Sevier & Adam & the other Adam. I miss the jokes and teasing. I miss the crazy patients, nice patients, frightened patients, grumpy patients. I miss the warm rush of satisfaction when an IV slides into place. I miss feeling like a grown up as we all hang out in the break room, eating our lunches and talking. I’ve grown over the past 8 weeks, and I know I’ll remember these days as some of the best in my life.

* * * *

the ambulance theme song catches my attention from across the nurse’s station. I close my charting and jog over just as Kate, my preceptor, picks up the receiver. “This is Northwest Base, go ahead.”

“Northwest, this is Palatine 25. how do you copy?”

“loud and clear, Palatine. go ahead.”

“alright, we have a 73-year-old man found non-responsive at home after a suspected heart attack. he was PEA on the monitor when we got to him, but since then we’ve been able to feel a carotid a few times. pulse is gone now. we started compressions, put in a King airway, & got a line in him. bringing him in now, ETA 6 minutes…”

someone scrambles to call a Cardiac Alert for room Bravo-2. we pour into the room with a crash cart, clearing the floor, piling equipment and priming bags of fluid. we are ready when the paramedics burst in with the wheeled stretcher, delivering chest compressions as they approach.

a paramedic gives report amidst the flurried activity. “we’ve given him 5 doses of epinephrine but haven’t gotten a pulse back. he’s gone into v-fib a few times, but mostly he’s flat-lining.”

I catch sight of a tech about to draw blood; in a burst of courage I flag him down.

“hey, I’ll start an IV and get blood from that instead.” he nods and pushes the tubes and tourniquet in my direction. I jump in without thinking twice.

the patient’s arm feels like cold wax beneath my fingers; dead weight. there is no twitch when I slide the needle into his vein, no exclamation of pain. his arm jerks rhythmically as someone delivers chest compressions. I calm my breathing and search for the blood flash. bang; got it. the IV is in. I hang a bag of fluid wide open and step back.

“I need a med nurse!” someone calls. I don’t even hesitate.

“got it! what do you want?”

the doctor considers. “epi. let’s try it again.”

I have never set up an epinephrine cartridge before. once, after a simulation, my instructor passed a cartridge around and explained how it works. “you pull off the yellow tab, twist the two parts together, and you’re set.” now, staring at the pieces as I dump them out of the box, it seems more complicated. I jam the cartridge into the injector and double-check with the tech.

“did I do that right?”

he nods. “you’re good to go.”

“Kate!” I call as I scrub an IV port. “first dose of epi is going in... now.” she nods and records the time.

thump, thump, thump. the room is still except for the tech delivering chest compressions. it feels like we’re holding our breath as we wait for the epi to take effect.

flat line.

10 minutes of compressions and 2 doses of epi later, the doctor uses an ultrasound to check for heart activity.

“I got nothing. anyone object if I declare it?”

no one speaks. we know there’s nothing else to be done; 7 doses of epi would jump-start a stone.

“alright,” says the doctor. “I’m calling it at 4:33. you can stop compressions.” the tech steps down from his stool and drags a shaking arm across his forehead. compressions are a workout by anyone’s standard.

“I’ll send the family to the viewing room. go ahead and get the body ready.”

suddenly, the room is quiet. it’s just me, Kate, and a tech. Kate is filling out her time-keeping page, so I turn towards the bed.

the white body lies bare, glaringly pale in the fluorescent light. his chest is extended as though with a deep breath; the ventilator left air in his lungs. I stare for a moment, half-expecting an exhale to relieve the tension. but he lies rigid.

“hey, would you mind…?” the tech points towards the man’s eyes, and I realize I’m the only person still wearing gloves. I step over and gently press the man’s eyes closed, but not before I see the vast emptiness staring up at the ceiling.

“the family is here; I’ll take him over,” announces someone in the doorway. with that, we are alone in the room, left to clean up papers, plastic packaging, and EKG stickers off the floor. to prepare the room for the next patient.

life is a thread. this christmas, look around you at the people you hold dearest. notice each one. because pages turn, & you will never return to this one.

I hope today’s page was beautiful for you. tomorrow, we will share a page. & I am thankful for that.

love always,

rory

beating rocks

dear rory,

sometimes I amaze myself...

I am really good at giving advice.

I mean, not to "toot my own horn", but

HONK HONK.

I always know how to handle situations...

unless it's my own.

***

yesterday Pastor talked about the Israelites.

as he recounted their repeated complaints, I felt myself almost squirming with contempt.

those idiots.

one minute, they're marching out of slavery towards a land that was promised to their forefathers by God Almighty. the next minute, they're watching God pound the waters of the Red Sea over the heads of one of the most powerful armies in the world. and the next minute...

they're thirsty.

hold the camels.

we had better turn around and offer ourselves as slaves in Egypt again. sure things weren't always easy there- our sons were being killed, we were worked almost to death under the boiling hot, desert sun, and our Pharaoh despised us.

but at least we weren't thirsty.

good thing God has more patience than I do. instead of striking them all down as I might have, God commanded Moses to strike a rock.

and what do you know? the God of miracles performed a miracle. out of the rock came water.

***

Sunday after church I had a long talk with a friend.

I found myself giving advice.

because I'm so good at that.

I was in the middle of saying something about not letting hard times make us bitter or angry-that God has a reason for the trials- when I stopped. I heard something quiet. I think it was God laughing.

***

you may remember that back in the winter, I was confined to a hospital room for several days and that I wasn't happy about it.

what you probably don't know is that while I was pouting in the hospital, God was preparing to show me that I too am an Israelite...

the hospital cart rolled down hallway after hallway. I watched people's faces as I rolled past. they were giving me a look that I had given many a time to strangers in hospital beds. the look of "I wonder if you are about to die." it's an easy look to accidentally give, but a harder one to receive. it made me want to make a monkey face at them. but I was tired, so I just stared blankly back, probably confirming their saddest imaginings.

the cart reached Destination MRI waiting room, and I said goodbye to my family and Laura. they smiled. I smiled.

but I was scared as anything. and I was angry. and bitter. where was God taking me? I just wanted to be comfortable again.

I looked up at the man wheeling me to the MRI room.

"don't be afraid," he said.

"there are a lot of friends praying for me," I answered. because that sounded like the right answer. he probably didn't want to hear my bitterness and anger.

but God saw my heart. and God struck a rock.

"I'll be praying for you too," the man said.

I licked up that drip of water and let it sink into my heart a second before being helped into the room and asked to lie down on a bench-like table.

"will my iPod be able to play during the scan?" I asked an older nurse.

"sure!" he said and smiled. he took my iPod and hooked it up to a device that would send the music through my protective mask during the hour and a half procedure.

I looked back at the cave I would be trapped in and took a deep breath. my claustrophobia isn't a huge fan of caves. especially hospital caves.

but then I was in. I heard the first few notes from my music come through...

followed by ceaseless hammering. I couldn't hear my music due to the hammering of the machine I was trapped in.

at first, I was fine. but forty minutes into it, I was feeling almost frantic. and I was feeling miserable for myself again. poor, poor me.

As the thunder rolls, I barely hear You whisper through the rain, "I am with you".

the hammering had stopped. "Praise You in this Storm" by Chris Tomlin filled my ears instead.

I will praise You in this storm. I will lift my head. You are who You are, no matter where I am.

Moses was beating at that rock. and water was gushing out.

And every tear I cry, You hold in Your hand. You've never left my side.

the hammering didn't start again...

And though my heart is torn, I will praise You in this storm.

... until the song had ended. then it continued without ceasing until I was taken out.

***

God was still gently laughing.

Pastor was still preaching.

and I was still an Israelite.

I watched the sun setting through my friend's eyelashes, as I heard the advice come from my own hypocritical lips.

you see, in the past few weeks, I have fallen into an angry and bitter net once again. I'm not sick this time. I'm struggling to forgive.

I have let hurt turn into bitterness. and I have let sadness turn into anger towards God.
do you know, I actually thought to myself for a moment that it would be rather nice not to have to worry about God and His commands? (please gasp here.) do you know, I actually thought to myself that maybe I would be better off without Him since He doesn't seem to care anyways? (please gasp louder here)

in other words...

"God, I am thirsty. why have You brought me here? it would be better for me to march back to Egypt and become a slave again."

*face palm*

***

my struggle continues even as I type these words. is it possible that I still feel angry?

I am an Israelite at heart.

I am wandering through the wilderness. the unknowns and hardships scare me. lately, it doesn't seem to matter that what I am leaving behind me isn't worth returning to. it doesn't seem to matter that what God is leading me towards is worth dying for.

lately, I just don't like being thirsty. but I also don't like being an Israelite.

because I know deep down that God is the only one who can gush those thirst-quenching waters at me. He can bring healing. from a lifeless rock. to a hurting heart.

***

looking at my friend, I suddenly stopped giving advice and asked her to pray for me.

"I'll be praying for you too," I promised.

as I hugged her, I realized...

we're all Israelites. we're making this journey towards the "promised land" together. it's rough. it's rocky. it stinks at times.

but we have left our slavery to sin behind us. we are marching, walking, sometimes inching our way on our bellies towards the end goal.

we fall. we thirst. we fail.

God catches. God quenches. God in His mercy forgives.

I lift my eyes unto the hills,
where does my help come from?
my help comes from the Lord,
the Maker of Heaven and earth.

please pray. I'm praying for you, my fellow marchers, as well.

love,
muffin

can I see an I.D.?

dear rory,

who am I? and what am I doing here?

oh, I know who I have been. I have been everything that has led up to this moment in my history...

I was the firstborn. I was the big sister. I was born and raised in Small-suburb, Illinois. I grew up in a home where having an abundance of teasing and laughter was more important than being rich. at the age of five, I was already dreaming that I would become a missionary or a teacher in some far away country. I was the girl who couldn't help but laugh at the other girls and their silly crushes and pointless drama at public school. and for that reason, I was the girl who wasn't very "cool". I was the second-grader who wrote out a card for my teacher explaining how she could be saved from her sins and go to heaven. I was the third-grader who showed up to school crying so hard, my mom had to come pick me up on multiple occasions. I was the fourth grader who was thrilled to be home-schooled. and then not so thrilled when I realized my friends thought home-schoolers were weird. I was the one who wasn't excited about leaving the church I had grown up in. and then I was the one who was just as, if not more, excited than anyone. I was the girl who learned so much and made so many new friends and re-met so many old friends that I thought I would burst from happiness. I was the girl who experienced so many sparkling memories and endless adventures that I realized what a good, sheltered life God had given me. and in these last two years, I was the girl who lost a sibling, who spent many weeks sick in bed and then in the hospital, who began to doubt God's plan, who was reminded of how amazing our Creator is, who graduated after thirteen years of school, who has another sister on the way, who became closer to one best friend and fell in love with the other, who missed out on one missions trip but then experienced a different one that melted my heart.

that is my story. it's not very thrilling. but it's made me who I am.

and that reminds me...

who am I? and what am I doing here?

it's so easy to forget.

***

intimidating-looking stranger: "oh, you've graduated high-school? where are you going to college?"

me: "umm... well... umm..."

*why can't I just answer the question?*

me: "umm... well... I'm not going to college this year. I'm staying home and helping my family out and waiting on the Lord to see what he wants me to do."

intimidating-looking stranger staring as though I've just slapped them in the face: "Really?!"

me: "psshhh. no. I'm just kidding. I'm gonna get my business degree........... and then I'm actually planning on running away to join the circus and become an elephant rider. maybe if I'm lucky, I'll even meet a nice lion tamer with a mustache the size of Texas. we can get married, have fifty children, and raise them all to become acrobats. after that, we can retire and open a home for abused lemurs. and then we can spend the remainder of our lives teaching them how to make gourmet ratatouille."

***

it really doesn't matter what I make up as long as I say that I'm going to go to college. as long as I am going to college, I have an identity. and as long as I have an identity, my life is going well.

don't get me wrong. I am not against college in the slightest way. I just don't feel like God is calling me to college right now. and it is sad that so many people think that college is what ultimately defines a person.

but that reminds me... if I am not called to be at school right now...

who am I? and what am I doing here?

***

as a kid I read about missionaries with wide-eyes.

they risk their lives. they experience more wild adventures than anyone else. they live in the deepest jungles and on the remotest islands and share the Gospel. they help spiritually and physically sick people who would die otherwise. and then they come home and share all their awesome stories.

how much cooler could a person get?

I wanted to be one of them.

but as I grew, I realized that that dream was just *slightly* (okay, maybe *mostly*) self-centered. I mean, the idea of being a missionary is a wonderful, selfless thing. but I was kind of going in on it for the fame and glory and adventure side.

and about that time, I learned an important lesson: we can be missionaries right here in our own neighborhood. there are a lot of broken people all around us right now.

so..... BAM! I was gonna feed the hungry. I was gonna clothe the naked. I was gonna stop abortion. I was going to phone the President and give him a few ideas I had to help stop poverty. I was gonna adopt a million children. I was gonna give clean water to kids in Africa. I was gonna knit scarves and blankets until my fingers bled and then go downtown and use my bloody stump arms to distribute my work. I was gonna win the lottery and donate every last dime. I was gonna work in a soup kitchen. I was gonna be superwoman.

and this time, I was going to do it with selfless motives. my heart was ready. I didn't even care if people knew what I did. I just had to do it.

and I had to do it all.

and that's where all the juice in my energizer machine suddenly spluttered. how on earth was I supposed to do it ALL?

 ***
rewind two years from today.

it was dark and I watched the headlights play on the street ahead of us. your mom was driving. we had just finished watching "Slumdog Millionaire" and my heart was still hurting as I thought about what a terrible life kids have in the slums of India. it's filthy dirty. it's empty and lonely. they're sold into sex-trafficking if they're girls. they become part of Mafia-type gangs if they're boys.

quietly I said, "I wish there was some way I could help everyone at once."

your mom smiled at me through the rear-view mirror. "dear," she said, "God calls different people to help in different ways. if you get depressed over not being able to help everyone, you are going to feel as though the whole world is on your shoulders, and it's not. it's on God's shoulders. you only have to do what God is calling you to do."

"I know," I sighed. "I just feel like there are so many options. and all I know is, I don't want to just live my life for myself. I want to help others."

then your mom said something that shook me:

"be what He has called you to be TODAY, and leave the rest to Him. He knows what He is doing."

***

right now, I am looking at that conversation in my journal. as soon as I got home that night two years ago, I wrote it all down so that I would never forget her words.

but I have amnesia.

so once again, I have been asking myself...

who am I? what am I doing here?

and by "here" I mean "now".

I know what I should be doing. I know who I should be.

I am a daughter of the King and I should be striving to be more like my Father every single minute of every single day.

okay, but time out.

is it really too much to ask that I be something AWESOMELY INCREDIBLE in the world's eyes AND be more like Christ? I mean... come on.

Colossians 3:1 "If then you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth."

okay... well, can I at least have a detailed road-map of my entire life? that would make spending these slower, harder days of trying to be more like Christ and waiting for His direction easier.

Proverbs 3:5-6 "Trust in the Lord with all your heart. Lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him and He will make your path straight."

so... who am I?
Galatians 2:20 "I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me."

what am I doing here?

I am learning (very slowly and painfully) to say good-bye to the old self. I am learning that who I truly am is not what I have done or wanted to become or what I still want to do. who I am isn't what the world says or doesn't say I am. my identity is in Christ alone. my calling is to be more like Him.

obviously, I still have a personality. the things I like to do and eat, and even my hopes and dreams make me unique. just like yours make you unique. as one friend put it "I am unique, just like everyone else."

and being unique is good...we're not called to be robots. but as Christians, we should be striving to be more like God. and we should find our identity in Him. because the things of this world will pass away. yes, we can enjoy them and I believe God wants us to. but ultimately, the success we have or don't have will disappear. the money we make will be spent. the degrees we earn will rot, the houses we build will fall, and the fame we gather will be forgotten.

even though it may sound childish, I want to be like Jesus.

and the last time I checked, being like Jesus was a lot harder than going to the jungle or going to college or even saving the world.

it's not something easy. it's not something that I always *like* telling other people. sometimes, I would rather have a list of accomplishments and goals and successes.

but then I ask myself...

who am I without my Savior? what would I do without Him?

and that's when I truly have an identity crisis.

love,
muffin

ps- please forgive me for rambling. and please don't think I am being preachy. I still have so much more to learn. and re-learn. and re-learn. and re-learn. and re-learn...