The Foresight in Forsythia

Our house was built in 1929. It was the eleventh house we saw on our house-hunting search a few years ago, and when we walked through the front door, we knew we were home. I continue to learn about this house; I know which floorboards squeak and what time of year the hallway under the swamp cooler vent is drafty. I know that if I crack the blinds in our East-facing eating nook that the sun will cast elongated triangles of light on the walls of my West-facing bedroom in the mornings. After a broken-English conversation with our Vietnemese landscaper I know that the mound of ants on our front sidewalk is only a signal that the weather will likely be changing, and not a reason to beckon an exterminator. 

When Eric and I were house-hunting, we drew a red circle around this very neighborhood. We loved the mature lots and historic feel and towering trees. We moved in long after Spring had sprung and the dead of Summer was upon us. Central air was unheard of in the 20s (as were, say, closets, and master bedrooms), but that's what we signed up for when we chose this house. Moving in in June, it wasn't until the following April--when Colorado is in its Great Thaw and the natives are ouside tossing frisbees despite the 50 degree chill in the air--that I saw something new to my native eyes. Forsythia. 

Having lived the majority of my formative years in the foothills of Evergreen, I surmise that this wild, neon shrub called forsythia was edged out of the mountain ecosystem by some 1,000 feet, or so. I know it seems silly to be so excited about a bush, but what struck me is that one day I was driving through my neighborhood and all I saw were the brown, dry, rustling remnants of a Colorado winter. The very following day our neighborhood was ablaze with wild, eratic, neon, forsythia. It's as though Bob Ross had paid our neighborhood a nocturnal visit and punctuated the drab city streets with "happy little shrubs" overnight. Their contrast against weather-worn fences and frozen Earth was stunning to me. It symbolized how quickly things can change. One day life is drab; the next it is vibrant. 

For a lot of my close friends and family, it has been a tough year. I have watched life and circumstances change in an instant--for the worst: a negative pregnancy test, miscarriage, death or severe illness of a loved one, termination from a job, divorce. I have cried out to the heavens on behalf of numerous grieving, aching friends pleading that Something's Gotta Give. 

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One of my best friends was having a rough day. She was frustrated and distraught and decided to retreat to her bedroom to collect herself for a moment. When she descended her staircase back into reality her eldest son presented her with a picture he had scribbled during her respite. Scrawled across the page were the words "His mercies are new every morning." This little kiddo used a scripture from Lamentations to remind his Mom that, "hey, there's always tomorrow." Faith like a child.

We planted two forsythia bushes in our backyard. They were too puny to produce blossoms this Spring. I cannot predict what next year has in store. But perhaps I, too, will need the promise of Spring's rebirth. Perhaps I will need the wild, neon, forsythian reminder that life and circumstances are capable of changing in an instant--for the better. 

A Piece of the Puzzle

In college I worked at an after-school daycare program at Immanuel Baptist Church in Shawnee, Oklahoma. It was ideal; I worked 3 hours per weekday afternoon and never had to work weekends. I had my own class of 5-6 year olds and essentially got paid to play games and take them to recess. I am a freakishly competitive person, and sometimes I could not stifle that fire in me even among kindergardeners. While all the other teachers sat perched on the cement benches surrounding the playground, I worked up a sweat organizing, coaching and playing soccer games with the kiddos. There was one little boy who was dribbling the soccer ball down the courtyard. When he was within two feet of the goal he stopped running, bent over and picked up the ball and threw it into the goal. In the heat of the moment I shouted, "that's BULL CRAP!!" It was one of those record-scratching moments when all the teachers ceased conversation and the kids looked at me wide-eyed and mouths agape. I knelt down to eye level with the little guy and attempted to fashion a "teachable moment" out of my horrifyingly inappropriate outburst.

Since birth I have had to manage a strange dichotomy: I am over-the-top competitive, but I seldom compete. I am fearful of coming off as ill-equipped or incompetent. I talk a BIG talk and, honestly, I am capable of walking a BIG walk. But my trepidation sidelines me.  I was the girl who loved swim team practice and impressed the coaches by working hard to surpass personal records. But on the days of swim meets, you would find me vomiting in the locker room, soggy toilet paper clinging to the bottoms of me feet. My parents were abundantly supportive; they never pressured me to be "the best" or to "go out there and make us proud!" They simply encouraged me to try. And if I failed, no biggie.

My 7-year old niece Lexi just wrapped up 1st grade. In recent visits she has filled me in on end-of-the-year picnics and field trips. Her face lit up when she talked about Field Day! I had flashbacks of my own 1st grade field day: wobbly three-legged races and waiting in line to do the standing jump. I remember chewing on my lower lip as the selected Team Captains scrutinized who the next addition to their Tug-of-War team would be. My insides screamed "PICK ME! PICK ME!" Nobody wanted to be the last man standing, the odd man out. I wanted those ribbons. They were embossed with gold lettering and, in my case, they said Whitt Elementary School Field Day. The 1st place ribbons were blue; 2nd place were red and 3rd place were white. Even in First Grade there was that one boy and one girl who dominated all events. They accumulated a stack of blue ribbons and fanned them out for all to see. I was the girl who had mostly whites, a couple reds and one blue (for chin-ups! I couldn't do a chin-up today if there was a million dollars at stake). There were many events where I didn't even place, and all I received was a hearty shoulder squeeze and a "nice try!" from the gym teacher.  I gripped my ribbons in my sweaty hand and heaved huge sighs of relief that Field Day was over. When I got home, i pinned my badges of honor to my bulletin board. I made sure my one blue ribbon was the most visible.

I asked Lexi, "did you earn any ribbons!!??" She stared at me blankly. "Momo, we don't get ribbons." Oh. I have asked other kids recently, "who won your [insert any sport] game this morning?" And they say, "I don't know. We don't keep score." These days, you don't receive trophies for winning. You receive them for participating. I have spoken to teachers who have been  burdened with this unbelievable mandate that they aren't allowed to fail their students. We are so focused on equality and tolerance that we dumb down superiority in efforts of leveling the playing field. Everyone succeeds. Everyone gets an "atta boy." Somehow we think that we are boosting esteem when we eliminate the possibility of failure. It is quite the contrary.

In light of this recent national trend of killing people, it makes me think hard about OUR nation. We aren't the only nation with access to guns. Is it possible that a privileged Santa Barbara kid makes YouTube videos plotting his revenge on girls who rejected him (and carries out this revenge by shooting them) because he was never taught to fail? Was he given Cs when he deserved Fs and does he have a shelf in his room displaying unearned trophies? There is a common denominator of disgruntled, entitled youth who barge into school rooms and massacre innocent peers. If a motive is uncovered, oftentimes it includes the inability for Said Gunman to problem solve (as was the case of the Arapahoe High School shooting in Littleton, Colorado this Spring. It was disclosed that he set out to kill a certain teacher because he didn't make the Debate Team).

Perhaps the most vital skill we can teach our children is the ability to recover from failure. It needs to be taught; it is not inherent. I needed my parents to wipe tears from my cheek after I botched my recital piece. I needed my parents to enroll me in opportunities to compete. Furthermore, I needed there to be a Darwinian system of Survival of the Fittest in place in order for me to measure myself against it.  Isn't true "success" oftentimes borne from deficiency? As a Nation, of course we need to review security and gun law reform. But perhaps we need to spend more time dwelling in the space that exists after you fall off the horse, and before you get back in the saddle.

Resting in Peace

Today the Lafata family lost its Matriarch, two days before Mother's Day. If there is ever a woman to leave a permanent imprint on our hearts and souls, it is my Oma.  Her legacy will live on...

On 9/19/1919 my Oma was born in a small town in Germany. Her stories of childhood are colorful and wildly entertaining and the stuff memoirs are made of. She had friends who lived across the river with whom she would frolic about in the evenings. To avoid being home past curfew, she would strip down completely naked and hoist her clothing above her head so she could wade across the river and get home on time, rather than wasting her time making it to the nearest bridge. It's that spunk, that feistiness, and maybe that good ol' German gruffness that kept her alive well into her 90's. Well, that, and her faith.

Oma wore many hats. She had a deft hand in the kitchen and those same hands gracefully played the piano till the very last month of her life. She bounced children (6), grandchildren (14), and great-grandchildren (26?) on her knees and taught us all lessons of grace and perseverance. She could tell you about Jennifer Lopez (J-Lo, according to Oma) and could rattle off the birthdays and anniversaries of everyone in her family. Despite living in the US for 60 some odd years, her German accent was still as thick as the potato soup she cooked on the stove. And boy did she love Jesus.

Oma signed every card or letter the same way since my earliest memory of her: Walk with Jesus. I have given that mantra extra thought today as I have been collecting my thoughts and marinating in my memories. Oma could have written "Trust in Jesus" or "Believe in Jesus." She could have said "Pray to Jesus" or "Serve Jesus." But she chose to gently instruct us to "walk with Jesus."

Recently I have been going on lots of walks. Zach does great outside and loves being pushed around in his stroller. And mostly, it's a chance for me to get caught up with my girlfriends. Life happens on those walks. Laughter and tears and confessions and revelations. And it's the same when I am alone. I soak it in and think and pray and process. And I believe that I am doing precisely what Oma has asked of me all her years.

The idea of walking suggests movement. It quitely nudges someone off the couch and beckons them to put one foot in front of the other. It doesn't demand haste or exhaustion, and yet it draws someone from the prison of being idle. Walking with Jesus is relationship, not religion.

As common as it became for the Lafata family to see Oma's scrawl of "walk with Jesus" scratched on everything she ever signed, those three words became her mission. I remember when I brought Eric out to meet Oma. I think I brought my mom and dad, too, just for some extra cushion. :) Oma made sure Eric was out of earshot and she asked me in her sweet, Germanic cadence, "Monica, (Mow-nee-kuh) does Eric walk with Jesus?"  It's a remarkably "un-judgy" question/request when it comes down to it. It's not much to ask. It's as simple as getting up in the morning, tying your shoes and taking steps. Small steps. Day by day.

No more than a few hours ago, Oma stood at the pearly gates. God beamed down at her and said, "well done, my faithful servant." Oma was unable to walk in her last days and weeks. But she is walking now. Alongside her Jesus. We love you and will miss you Oma.

But those who hope in the Lord
will renew their strength. They will
soar on wings like eagles; they will run
and not grow weary, they will walk 
and not grow faint.
Isaiah 40:31

One Year Later...

Last Valentines Day I sat on my couch for a few hours staring straight ahead. Eric was flying, so I was left alone with my thoughts. I was in the midst of fertility turmoil and was feeling particularly raw and bereft on a day that is meant to be romantic and sentimental. I decided to put pen to paper and “go public” with our story of fertility and trying to conceive. I thought maybe I could make sense of it; maybe I could externalize the things that had been swimming in my head for some time. And so I wrote and I shared and I cried. The support, empathy and encouragement that followed was humbling and extraordinary. I could never have known what was waiting for me just around the bend. 

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Zachary Claude Paddock was born on December 31st at 5:51AM. He came earlier (and was way scrawnier!) than I predicted. He is 6 1/2 weeks old now and has already changed and grown so much. The infancy stage is a day-by-day process--a constant surrendering of control--just as my ‘trying to conceive’ and pregnancy stages were. It makes me realize that possibly the human species is never meant to feel like we have everything under control because then we wouldn’t need God. I pick up my squirmy newborn in the early hours of the dark morning, bleary eyed, delirious and desperate for sleep. I hum a warbly, morning-breath rendition of  “Chariots of Fire” and melt when Zach doles out a gassy sleep-smile that, I’m sure, is totally unintended for me. He has to do so little, nothing, actually, for me to love him wholly and unconditionally. He grips his tiny hand on my shirt collar and heaves a robust post-milk sigh and I know I would die for him.

I have loved the name Zachary for a long time. It just seems like a strong name. I loved how the short ‘a’ worked with the short ‘a’ of Paddock. Zach Paddock. When we found out we were having a boy I looked up the meaning of Zachary:  Remembered by God. My eyes welled with tears at the meaning of his name--at the meaning of it all. God remembered. When I felt like I was navigating that lonely fertility road with no end in sight, God remembered. 

But I cannot detach from the stories I have heard along this journey. I have mingled tears with so many girls who, like me, have felt forgotten. There was not one day of my pregnancy and certainly not one day of Zach’s life when I don’t wonder, “Why us? Why did God choose us and not someone else to bring this child into the world?” To say that He “remembered” is to imply that He occasionally forgets, which is untrue. Nothing catches God by surprise. But in my cyclical reasoning, I am brought back to my root question: “Why us? Why now?”  And my only answer I can come up with is that I simply don’t know. I am not meaning to sound all martyr-ish. I am thankful and infinitely blessed. 

One of my FB friends posted a quote from Amy Grant:  “Beautiful the mess we are; the honest cries of breaking hearts are better than a hallelujah sometimes.” I dedicate this post to my dear friends who are still in the thick of it. I have not forgotten what it feels like to be parked on the other side of the fence. I still pray for anyone who is in a season of waiting and wanting and pray that in due time, you will feel Remembered by God.