Category Archives: Marriage

Helping helps!

By Taylor Arthur | 23 October, 2013 - 7:06 pm | , , , , ,
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Team CJA - Tears Event

In honor of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month . . .

It had been a month since Caleb died. The dust was settling, and people were getting on with their lives. I was sitting on the couch in the living room staring at the television, googling crazy things like “Why did this happen to me, God?” and watching youtube videos made by other grieving moms that made me cry so hard I would eventually pass out from exhaustion. FUN TIMES. (Note: one of the unfair things about a late-term still birth or infant loss is that I (like many moms) was already on maternity leave. Our bodies are still recovering from delivery, even if there is no child to care for. There is a hole ripped in time, and we are stuck in a maternity-leave limbo with no baby.)

And then, I prayed, “Lord, please give me something to do or I am going to go crazy.”

Almost instantly, Jack received an email from a God-conduit–my friend Kasi–about the TEARS foundation . I went to therapy that week, and my therapist, Phyllis–another God-conduit–handed me a TEARS advertisement. Their annual walk was coming up; there was still time to enter a “Caleb Joshua Arthur” team. A path cleared before me: I would assemble a team to walk in memory of our son, and raise money for other families who needed help with burial expenses. God had answered my prayers!

I spent the next few weeks in a frenzied effort to honor my son and assemble the biggest, most lucrative team ever assembled for the TEARS foundation’s remembrance walk. We showed up in full-force with Caleb’s full name filling up our t-shirts. Family and friends from all around participated, and we felt a roar of support for this angel son of ours. This moment in history could never make up for every sports event we would not attend for him, every graduation we would not listen to his name being called, every first day of school and field trip and every single thing I was so happy and ready to share with Caleb as his proud mama . . . but this moment in history was a moment in THIS WORLD when my son’s NAME was called, there was a crowd to cheer for him, and we felt proud, proud, proud. I still have tears rolling down my face just remembering how proud we were that day.

The TEARS foundation became an important piece of our grieving Caleb. I plunged into support groups and volunteer opportunities that allowed me to spend time honoring my first born son with people who understood how important that was for me to do.

I gave to fill a hole I couldn’t fill by myself. I am still doing that, in every blog I write and newly grieving friend I reach out to. I don’t know what else to do. And, I promise: it helps. This grief is unbearable on the couch alone googling crazy things and watching youtube videos. It’s too much pressure on my marriage to expect my husband to be the only person I spill my bucket of tears on every night. But, it can be carried with a modicum of grace when we let God use our suffering, our experience, to help others who suffer as well. McKayla Butler is doing that with her blog, “ rainbows for noah: what loss looks like from here .” Sarah Slack and her staff are carrying their griefs to balm others’ sorrows through every funeral they make possible and every support group they gather through the TEARS foundation . The Stillborn, Still loved Guild is working to create awareness and community for those surviving a stillborn child.

There are places for us, friends, to use our holed out hearts for good. There are places we can speak the names of our dead children and rise with pride as their parents. There are places where this deepest agony can be filled with grace. Find your place. And help. It helps, I promise.

God bless you, in your pain and your crazy google moments.

I pray He is with you.

I know He is . . .

Taylor

Miracles and Murmurings

By Taylor Arthur | 18 October, 2013 - 7:28 am | , , , , ,
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And my God will fully satisfy every need of yours according to His riches in glory.
Philippians 4:19

I must confess: I have spent my whole life judging the Hebrews during their wilderness sojourn. It is difficult for me to watch them murmur against the God who continually, faithfully provides for them. They witness the ten plagues against Egypt, including the smiting of every firstborn male in Egypt. They leave Egypt weighted down by their captors’ treasures after 430 years of bondage, led by a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night. And yet, when Pharoah gives chase, they cry to Moses, Was it because there were no graves in Egypt that you brought us to the desert to die? What have you done to us by bringing us out of Egypt? Didn’t we say to you in Egypt, ‘Leave us alone; let us serve the Egyptians’? It would have been better for us to serve the Egyptians than to die in the desert! Number 14:11-12.

When Yahweh again saved them by extraordinary means–parting the Red Sea, providing dry ground for them to walk across the sea floor, and drowning the Egyptians who chased them–and led them into the desert, they continued to grumble when they couldn’t find drinkable water at Mara. He provided water, but then they got hungry. He provided abundant honey-like food, but they wanted meat. He gave them quail to eat, and when Moses was gone just a bit too long talking to Yahweh on their behalf? Bam! They created a golden calf and worshiped it.

It is so easy for me to judge them. Ingrates! But, really, as I think of them throwing their fits every time their basic needs for survival beg to be met, I wonder how many times I have thrown the same tantrum about something much less significant than food, water, and safety . . . Yuck.

Having gone down the pathetic “poor me” path more than my fair share, I am beginning to realize that it never helps me be a better person. Now, I’m not saying that feelings are not completely valid, or that we shouldn’t grieve a loss (of many kinds). We should take time to rest after struggles, and Yahweh even built Sabbath in for us so that we’d have a rest in this wilderness. But, what I am saying is that we need to be darn careful not to cross the line from frustration and grief and exhaustion into grumbling.

Harper Collins (I refer to this Biblical Commentary like I would a friend because I sincerely love this big, buxom book!) points out that there are positive and negative motifs working in the wilderness account. God’s continuous, miraculous provision for his people as a positive motif juxtaposes the Hebrews’ repeated murmurings against Him. They resent the hunger, danger, thirst. But I think it goes deeper than that with them and with me: I think we resent the awareness of our absolute dependence on God . We’d rather think we have some control over our lives.

In Egypt, they were slaves: beaten, raped, starved, thrown out like garbage. And yet, there was a comfort in the familiar that they would rather return to, and a danger in the unknown they kept trying to flee. In the wilderness, the only comfort, the only stability lies in trusting God. And that is hard: ego crushing, dream shattering, dangerous hard. I don’t want to be hungry all the time, and I don’t want to have to live a life where every morning I wake up and ask God just get me through this day, please . But that level of dependence, that level of necessity, is where God does miracles.

I can write a volume about the miracles God has performed throughout my life, starting with all the mornings, time after time, when I opened my Bible or devotional to find exactly the words I needed to brave another day, feeling God so close on the couch, snuggled up with me and my cup of coffee. Isn’t that a miracle? I can write about the miracle of my marriage, thriving and real and growing, a shelter for both Jack and I in the midst of desert. I can write about Christmas mornings with presents under the tree, dinner parties with friends, camping trips, date nights, birthday parties, snuggling warm babies on the couch every morning . . . but this doesn’t sound like a barren wilderness, does it? It sounds like a life: a beautiful one. This beautiful life continuously crops up in the midst of defining hardships.

So I think we need to decide: are we a people who define ourselves on bondage, Pharoah’s armies chasing us, need, and loss? Or are we a people—a Miracle people—who define our lives by Liberation, the parting of the Red Sea, Providence, and Redemption? For every need God’s people experienced, for every cry they uttered in the wilderness, God heard and provided. And while we would all rather never have to know an empty belly or checking account, the need for a pediatric heart surgeon, a priest, or the strength just to get out of bed, our need hollows out in each of our hearts a place for God to move.

Oh geez. I don’t like this. I find myself feeling more and more empathy for those Hebrews all the time.

Let’s pray for Miracle eyes, embedded deep in our hearts, to seek out a God who fills every belly and quenches every thirst.

God bless you,

Taylor

“Do not worry . . .”

By Taylor Arthur | 17 May, 2013 - 10:27 am | , , ,
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Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?

And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith? So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well . . . Matthew 6:25-33

I had a very embarrassing moment with God a few weeks ago. Have you ever had one of those moments where you have so justified your sin that when the gentle nudge of the Holy Spirit completely exposes you, pricking you with conviction, that all you can do is nod your head in complete submission? That was me in an embarrassing, private moment with my Lord when I opened up an old Baby wipes box filled with shoes . . . size 3 shoes, in fact. Let me give you the back-story.

There are few things I enjoy more than dressing my boys up. Especially at Christmas and Easter, I thrill to take their pictures in little matching outfits. It’s one of the cheaper joys of motherhood for me: whether they are hitting and biting each other a minute before or after I snap the shot, I will forever have my two little matching boys to trophy.

For Easter this year, I was thrilled to find darling seersucker suits in both their sizes for bargain basement prices. I endeavored to finish off their outfits with new shoes and shirts to match, and was heading out the door to the mall when my husband informed me that new shoes and shirts weren’t in the budget. Now, in my defense, I am a great bargain shopper, and I don’t even shop that much. But to my husband’s credit, we had agreed on a budget, and I had forgotten to leave room for Easter accoutrement. And now, he was proposing the crazy idea of the boys wearing old clothes for Easter—!

I don’t remember anything else that he said because I will confess that I threw a grand mal fit at the very idea of my boys not wearing those adorable seersucker outfits for Easter. I couldn’t believe that he would even ask me to consider something so out of the realm of my reality . . . I pulled out every manipulation and tear jerking memory I could think of . . . I insisted that if I did not complete the boys’ outfits, I would have a break down. It was ugly: spoiled and rank.

I cried and cried, until I had lost my husband’s attention and was kneeling in our bedroom alone. I knew I wasn’t rational, and at that point I didn’t even know why this was so important to me. I didn’t pray for help, kneeling there. Instead, I filled my mind with justifications and excuses, entitlements . . . blah, blah, blah. The tears kept falling, and I puddled into pitiful.

I finally felt Jack standing in the door behind me. I turned to see the puzzled look on his face. He winced at the tears running down my face, and at Caleb’s memory book open on the floor in front of me. His face recognized that I was just as confused as he was as to what was going on. He sighed. “If it means that much to you, Love, let’s go get your Easter outfits.”

And, even though I could justify disrespecting my husband who is generous and fair beyond reproach, the cute little boat shoes I had fought for and the matching tangerine oxford shirts I practically stole they were such a good deal weren’t nearly as much fun to buy as I had hoped. Something else bothered me: Sam’s miniature feet had grown way more than I had thought they had. In fact, after he had been measured at the shoe store, I wondered if he even needed shoes, or if there may not be a pair at home that may fit? Of course, I bought him new ones anyways.

So, later that week, when I discovered in that old Baby wipes box that there were actually three—3!—pairs of shoes he could wear for Easter, and that he never needed new ones, and that maybe, just maybe God had provided for my family before I even considered that he could, I replayed the ugly scene of my fit-throwing, disrespectful, ungrateful yuck . . . and I knew God wasn’t going to let me justify any of it.

Since then, I’ve been thinking a lot about Matthew 6: 25-24. We are urged, “not to worry” about our “life, what [we] will eat or what [we] will drink, or about our [bodies], what [we] will wear.” And that all seems so great in theory, but every parent out there knows how real the practicalities of parenting are. Our job is to worry about taking care of our children: to protect and nurture their lives, feed, clothe, and educate them.

But as much as it is my duty to provide for my children, I understand now that there was one thing I didn’t do concerning the whole Easter fiasco. I didn’t go to God! I didn’t pray, and pour my heart out to my Father, and tell him, Lord, I know this may sound crazy in an Eternal context, but I really desire to dress my boys up for Easter. I don’t know where it comes from. Is it pride? Is it a wound I have that I’m trying to bandage with seersucker? Does this, too, have to do with a grief issue? Am I just being a brat? I don’t know, but I do know that You search me and know me. Will You provide for me something more than just Easter outfits? Will You provide a filling for this gaping hole I don’t understand?

And then the veil lifted for just a moment. If every need and desire is brought first to our heavenly Father, then the context of that emptiness may be addressed first spiritually and then materially if need be. He can provide all healing, all filling, spiritual and material. And I wonder if I had approached my Father, instead of charging ahead to consume, would I not have taken the time to look for a pair of shoes for Sam? Maybe I also would have found the darling little shirt Abraham already had? Maybe . . .

I am realizing that most of what I want materially is tied to who I am spiritually. My desires and lusts are always about missing pieces of my heart that I cannot purchase back. Only God can fill my broken spaces. For my real material need, I know “ . . . indeed your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well” Matthew 6:32-33. It’s never about the seersucker, really. It’s always about what’s going on in my heart.

And so I am trying to want things less, and when I see a pair of shoes or that cool big toy on display at Costco or a Pottery Barn display that triggers an inner, grand mal fit of lust and entitlement, I am trying to say a little prayer: Lord, here is my want. Will you show me my need, and satiate my lust for this world with your kingdom and your righteousness?

Trying . . .

Taylor

Christmas: Mom’s Superbowl

By Taylor Arthur | 23 December, 2012 - 4:05 pm | , ,
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It’s Sunday afternoon, and I just sat down for the first time today (except for the time in the car to drive to Mass, and sit in the pew, and then drive home.) I just now finished the bulk share of the cooking for our week of merry-making. I am tired.

This Christmas is my fourth as a mom of an earthly kid, and I think (as I pat myself on the back) I am improving little by little each year. Before I was blessed to be a mother, I used to daydream about Christmases with little, padded feet running down our stairs, rushing to the Christmas tree. I thought about all of the great moments yet to come, all the moments when I would get to relive the magic of my own childhood as I watched my children live out theirs. But, I was looking at Christmas through a child’s eyes.

Then, they were here. And, I began looking at Christmas through a mother’s eyes. At first, it was simple: reindeer pajamas for Christmas Eve and a Fischer Price puppy with a bow on its head for Christmas morning. It was magical, and beautiful.

But then, something happened, and I’m not sure how. I became aware that our Christmas card would look better if Bram were in a red sweater, and if Jack’s and my outfits color coordinated so if–and that is a big if–someone snapped our picture as a family at the Christmas tree farm or holiday party, it would be Christmas-card-worthy. So, I started to shop for that aforementioned sweater mid-December. By the time I had that illustrious shot taken, I barely had time to order our cards and send them before Christmas. It was stressful.

Then, when Sam came, things got more complicated: the boys’ outfits had to match. And, not only did they have to match at Bram’s preschool Christmas program and on Christmas Eve, but also at the tree farm and Candy Cane Lane . . . you see where this is going. By this year, I was shopping in October for casual outfits and by November for The Christmas Outfit.

I also started shopping earlier for the boys’ gifts and for all of our family before Thanksgiving rolled around. I started Sam’s advent calendar, a string of 24 hand-sewn miniature stockings (to match his brother’s), determined to have it finished by December 1st. Of course, it wasn’t, and for the first week and a half of December, I just handed Sam the stocking for the day, let him fish out his candy cane, and he couldn’t have cared less. Then, Bram’s stockings kept falling, even though they are three years old now and should know how to stay put on the mantle. After several taping jobs, he, too, was handed a stocking per day. He gladly chomped on his candy cane without a mention of his stockings not being hung.

I decorated the house, for the most part. There are still craft supplies on the window sill in the dining room and the pictures in the bathroom have yet to be hung. The nativity scene in the stair case still looks silly with no garland around it; I bought extra, but it is still hanging over the bannister.

I had Christmas bedding for the kids, and it’s been on their beds since the week after Thanksgiving!!! Yay, Mom! Except, I haven’t washed the bedding AT ALL since I put it on. I hope this isn’t something CPS can charge me with later . . .

And, we were doing fine, as the Christmas cards went out (I ran out, and forgot to order more, so everybody that usually gets one and didn’t, please don’t take it personally) . . . We were doing fine until yesterday morning, Saturday before Christmas. I woke up in a panic, realizing I didn’t have enough time to do everything I still had to do. I presented this fact to my husband, who had plans to take our oldest out Christmas shopping. I presented this to my husband, not as fact, and as “I’m so sorry that I underestimated how much I had to do and could you please change your plans for the day,” but as an “I can’t believe you thought it would be a good idea to leave the baby with me on my baking day” kind of way.

So, just like every year, the Jack and Taylor Christmas fight exploded all over our already jam-packed day. I guess I make too big a deal out of every little thing for Christmas. And, he was shocked to learn he wasn’t grateful for all I did, and had no idea how much work it takes to do the dressing and shopping and planning and baking and wrapping and stuffing and coordinating for perfect Christmas cards, perfectly dressed children, perfectly (not) decorated house, perfectly wrapped presents, and enough scrumptious food to eat for the week of Christmas so that it can feel like vacation around here and not feel like just another day of Mom serving oatmeal for breakfast and chicken nuggets for lunch.

And then, we calmed down and I baked for two days straight. I said I was sorry for blowing things out of proportion, and he said he was sorry for being so hard on me. And, I asked if he would try to act like he was impressed over the baking and wrapping and dressing and picture-taking and card-making and present-wrapping and coordinating because, after all, this was my Superbowl. And, even if he didn’t think it was all that big of a deal, all of this stuff I’m making myself crazy for is–hopefully–the stuff the kids will remember when they start their own traditions someday.

He chuckled at me, and said he would try. And I realized that Christmas is Mom’s game: all of the details that somehow whirl into magic. And I wonder, as do my friends, how did our mothers do it all? I know they had to have had more coffee, less exercise, and maybe even forgot to pick out an outfit for themselves even though everyone else was dressed perfectly.

Christmas and all of its trimmings happens above and beyond a mom’s normal, endless list of chores. I realize that it might just not be possible to do it all–the normal, and all of Christmas–and that some things must be let go. I try to sleep, at least, to make sure I don’t turn into Mrs. Clauzzila. But, try as I might, there is–and maybe there always will be–that moment every December when I realize I’m behind, or lacking . . . then maybe I will freak out. Maybe that’s just part of my Superbowl.

I hope not. I hope I can get Christmas down to a science, and be able to execute it without a freak out and without diminishing the magic. Bram is old enough this year to truly grasp the magic, and I intend to drink in every minute. I know that he will grow up to probably be just like his Daddy, and tell his wife she’s overdoing Christmas and won’t she just please relax? But I’ll also hope, down deep in that manly heart, he knows that his memories of Christmas were born out of his Mama’s love for him. Maybe then, he won’t be too hard on his wife.

And, whether my kids wear matching outfits or not, whether the cinnamon rolls burn or not, these children are here with us, in this almost-decorated house. Jesus in the manger and my two children asleep in their beds on Christmas Eve is enough magic for this detail-obsessed, perfectionist Mama. Praise the Lord for children–especially His Son–and for the fact that no matter how imperfect we are, He came down to love us just the same.

Merry Christmas! Go Mamas! . . . may your tired hearts and aching backs be filled with Jesus’ love this Christmas.

Taylor