I'm the Big Brother

This is my little man....my best buddy.....my goldfish cracker eating, block-building, book-reading, remote sneaking, sweetest ally. We spend a lot of time together and, truth be told, he makes my world go round. 

None of that will change on a Wednesday in late August, but it will shift dramatically. Because this engaging little guy is about to become a BIG BROTHER to a baby sister. And no amount of preparation can possibly suffice to ready him for how the orbit of his personal planet is about to shift.

This is my little girl. Thirty years ago, my parents, affectionately known as Tom and Mae, strolled into Northside Hospital, holding her by the hands between them. I still have the picture in my mind: I am standing by the nursery window where my newborn is sleeping peacefully in her bassinet. I look down the long hallway and see them heading my way - Tom and Mae with a little girl walking toward me like a big girl. Tears punctured through as I realized how grown up our baby was and that our sweet time together would be forever altered. The pure emotion of that moment remains all these many years later.

This time it will be my little man walking between my husband and me, history repeated. I have every reason to believe my daughter will experience the same life-shifting moment that I did at the sight of her baby visiting his new little sister for the first time. I am both joyful and misty that our baby boy's world is about to be profoundly rocked. There is great anticipation around the birth of this little baby girl, along with the apprehension that any change brings. 

So - turning two, becoming a big brother and starting pre-school are just a few of the adjustments that will have to be made in one small boy's life. I think he's ready for the challenge. He is surrounded by all the love that one little fellow could possibly have - a love that will transcend all the difficult and challenging moments of this most natural and momentous event in the life of one beautiful little family. 

Fog

There’s a Carl Sandburg poem entitled “Fog.” It goes like this: 

 The fog comes on little cat feet. 
 It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches
 and then moves on. 

It reminds me of the way the gnarliness of life can sneak up on you. It creeps in and the next thing you know, you’re covered in a thick cloud of indecision and loneliness and despair because of circumstances, be they contrived or uncontrollable. But, like the fog over the harbor, or the fog that hovers over the mountains where I live, these things eventually drift away and move on, one way or another. 

 And, in the meantime, while the fog still lingers, you have a choice. Certainly, you can sit, paralyzed by doubt and uncertainty and fear, waiting it out as you hunker down like a quivering mass of jelly, waiting for the worst and fantacizing catastrophe. Or you can try to outrun it like the storm chaser who finds himself in the path of a monster tornado. How you respond to the unfortunate events of life is up to you. 

I know all this - as I have executed many of my own worst-case versions of wailing and gnashing of teeth in the midst of life’s unhappy moments. But, in my better moments, I am able to take the position of choosing my response. I may not be able to control the situation, or I may have created a situation in my mind that, in actuality, is much less fearsome than I imagine. Yet, the fact remains, how I deal with it, is ultimately up to me. On my finer days, the choice is clear. I choose joy. I choose peace. I choose self-control. I choose to capture my thoughts and to dwell on what is good and admirable and noble. Instead of succumbing to the fog and being blinded to those things that are worthy, I choose to submit, hands open and trusting, to the authority of the One who knows me better than I know myself. And I choose to remember that there is a Creator who has a love for me like no other, a plan for me that has been in place since the foundation of the world and a hope and a future that is beyond my wildest dreams. 

I have a friend, an acquaintance really. Ever since I’ve known her, she has been dying. Today she lies in a hospital bed, her earthly journey probably drawing to a close. This will sound strange, but, in the short time I’ve known her, Margaret has taught me how to die, all the while living fully. She has faced her illness with grace and humor and, most of all, a compelling trust in her Lord. Through all her pain and suffering, and it has been egregious and extended, her countenance has portrayed an inner strength that can be sustained by no other Source. It has been a beautiful thing to watch, as Margaret has rested in her very personal fog. 

So, I guess the question I pose today is this: When the fog drifts in, as it most certainly will, how will you react? Will you stumble around, sightless in the shroud of doubt and fear? Will you cower in the dimness, waiting for the cloud to pass, or strike out blindly, trying to find your own way out of the mire? Or will you choose surrender to the greater plan and look for answers in the still quiet voice, as Margaret has done? 

That’s when you can rest - that’s when the reason prevails and the peace pervades your soul. That’s what Margaret has chosen. And, I know unequivocally, that when the fog lifts for her, there will be joy beyond imagining. That’s how I want to live out my days, making those choices that depend, not on circumstances or my own willfulness, but on the constant Presence of the Love that went to the Cross for me so I could live fully. I want people to look at me, as I have looked at Margaret, and say, “I want what she has!”