Thanks IRS

The IRS is a favorite target of hate and resentment, stealing our hard earned dollars, threatening us with repercussions if we don't fill out our forms correctly, so that many spend more hard earned dollars having the pros do it.

My husband fills out our taxes, except for the year my mother died leaving us with a new tangle of issues. We had the pros do it and they made a mistake. Figures. So typically Roger does it, and worries that we'll get audited because our numbers are so odd. I am self employed and we have a lot of deductions, so he figures we are screaming for extra attention.

This year he felt extra worried. During 2009 we had 3 children in college, so we qualified for 3 of the new college tax credits, resulting in a huge refund in addition to the decent sized one we already were due. The money arrived in our account online, so I breathed a small sigh of relief.

Then yesterday the envelope arrived with the IRS return address, a dreaded omen. I opened it to see what they had to say, and sure enough, we had made a mistake. We didn't take a new credit we were due. They corrected it and we got an extra $800 we hadn't claimed.

This actually happened to us once before, they corrected a child credit we didn't see. I am frankly amazed. It makes sense to me that if we mess up and owe them more, they are going to correct it and demand their money. But I think it's remarkable that when we don't claim a credit, they fix it. It doesn't seem like they'd be obligated to bless us in that way.

We were trying to figure out how to fund Nora's grad school next year, and the government has practically paid for her first semester. Thanks, IRS! God can use anything, that's all I can say.

April 10

Today would have been my dad's birthday. This is the third one he hasn't been around for, so it's getting easier, but I still don't like it.

For some reason, perhaps the unexpected nature of my mother's death, her death anniversary has been the sad date in missing her. But for Dad, it has been his birthday.

Christmas of course is sad without him, but there are other people to enjoy and celebrate, and after all, it's Jesus' birthday first and foremost.

But on this date when I would normally celebrate my father, it is sad to not have him around to enjoy. The greatest loss is not having him here to rejoice with his grandchildren, rooting for their endeavors, being proud of their accomplishments. We attend yet another graduation this May without him.

When Junia graduated from high school four years ago Dad was not only present, we didn't even know he had cancer. We have photos of that day of celebration. Those are the last photos of Dad looking normal, as the following month brought his diagnosis, chemo, and a swift three month march to the grave.

So it's especially poignant to approach Junia's graduation four years later, and to realize all he has missed. I expect he's quite aware although in a different reality, yet we still can't hear his words of praise or feel his hug of congratulations.

Dad, I'll always miss you on April 10. You were a great dad and grandfather. Thanks for loving us all so well.

The Least

Having left town for three days to take my youngest son college visiting, I had only two days to prepare for Sunday. Since Saturday my husband Roger and I had to teach a workshop, getting that planned with him became the priority before I left. We finished that, and I got worship planned, but no sermon.

That sermon, normally done by Thursday at the latest, didn't come together until Sunday.

So this morning, unlike my usual Sunday morning, I had to finish the sermon. Print a retreat application for a parishioner. Practice a ministry in music which I rarely do. Play not just the opening choruses, but also the other songs as our pianist was elsewhere. Do the children's moment at the last moment instead of the youth pastor. After worship practice special music for next week .

Then I walked in the bathroom and discovered a paper towel in the toilet. Our septic system doesn't need that kind of challenge. So I had to fish it out.

It was the perfect cap to the morning. Not that the day is over. My son needs clothes washed (normally a Sabbath off limits task) for his school trip to Costa Rica that leaves about 4 a.m. Monday. And I have to plan our evening youth experience.

The joys of ministry! Truly it is a privilege and I am grateful. As we enter Holy Week, I cannot begin to show my gratitude to Christ for His sacrifice. The least I can do is fish a paper towel out of the toilet.

Pain and Progress

My status update on Facebook caused some thinking. I started with Passion plus purpose equals progress but through pain. My friend David suggested this formula: "think you're missing something ... the impetus that gets us actually moving. i propose that (Passion + Purpose) * movement = progress - (pain / n) where n is obedience to the Word of God."

To which I countered: Passion + Purpose x Power (Holy Spirit) equals Progress...but I don't think the Pain is divided by obedience. Ask Jesus in the garden. Obedience makes pain worthwhile, but it still hurts. And I don't think pain necessarily subtracts from progress either, but often is required. Again, think of Jesus in the Garden.

Does all good progress have to be filtered by pain? I wish it were not so, but I'm not sure painless progress exists. Even happy things are fraught with the pain of change. A child walks and we rejoice, but we are also letting go of that child a little bit.

Not all pain is debilitating. And it can achieve a purpose itself, and usually does. Referencing Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane again, the greatest pain ever experienced brought the greatest progress ever made, victory over sin and death. Well worthwhile pain.

Some pain seems pointless. In the middle of suffering we often can't see past the tears on our pillow. But the same God who never misses a tear drop does not allow those tears to fall to the ground without refining our character, the salt in those very tears etching away at our selfishness, our pride, our resistance to God's ultimate purposes.

O Lord, that it would not be so, that we could walk the upward way without pain, but thank You that You go with us as we travel, and that every pain we feel in our steps forward You sense the echoes of from centuries ago. We walk no path that You have not already trod.

God does seem to allow us seasons without suffering. We rest and recuperate. But I can't say we are making much progress in those times. So at some point, we reenter the fray, if we really want to live, and not just mark time.

As I write this, I wonder if I have a warped view of life. This has been my experience, living on the front lines as I do, which is why Roger and I choose comedies when we watch a movie, too much pain in the real life we experience. That doesn't mean the pain is all my own, I am grateful for the unscathed life I live, no great illness, no children in tragedy, no relational heartbreak. But I cannot watch the world around me with an unfeeling heart.

So I hurt. And I grow. It must cause some "pain" for a young plant to break out of its seed pod. And someday, we will truly break free, and finally arrive where there is no more crying or pain. And that will be real progress.

Mothers are Professionals.

After 23 years of parenting, putting four children through school, I am ready for some official recognition of my credentials. I would love to create an official licensing service for parents, to recognize their expertise. I might not be an expert in all children, but I sure am about mine.

My kids struggle to overcome dyslexia. This gift and disability means their full potential which is sky high finds itself earthbound by their struggles to communicate what they understand and know.

Those professional educators who have the privilege of teaching my children know a lot about education and teaching techniques. I appreciate their knowledge and training. But they do not understand how dyslexia functions and how to best unlock it.

In a nutshell, they believe if my kids would just try harder, practice more, do more exercises and learn more tricks, they could perform like everyone else, which quite frankly, is actually less than they are capable of given the right opportunity.

Our high school desperately needs a workshop to educate the teachers on this issue, as do colleges, especially where my girls attended. But when I discussed this yesterday, one of the advocates for this said, "We'd have to bring in professionals."

Makes sense, and I hope they do it. But just once I'd love to stand before them all and give them my parent's perspective, tell them what its like to watch a kid not be able to read an assignment, even a prompt for one, to not be able to tell one homonym from another, to misspell things so extremely that the spell checker can't figure it out, or even worse, supplies a different word that does not fit, and worst of all, to watch them sit frozen unable to unleash the torrent of ideas in their brilliant minds in a fashion that the verbal world can understand.

I won't get to do that, so forgive me for taking it out on you, kind reader, who bother to come here and see what I have to say.

To Be Known

This week I had two interactions with classmates of my children, now grown or almost. The first encounter occurred at the grocery store. I thought I recognized a young woman the age of my oldest, 23. Her maturity took me aback, having not seen her for so long, but I decided that indeed she must be who I thought she was.

When she ended up next to me in line I said her name and she acknowledged that she had recognized me, even though she remained reticent to talk to me until I persisted. We compared notes on the latest on our families.

Later that night after a swim meet at a local private school I was standing in the hall and a young man I did not recognize said to me, "I'm Jermaine" (not his real name). We began to talk and he remembered not only Wesley, his kindergarten classmate and friend, but Junia who broke her arm on a bike ride when Jermaine was present.

The attitude of the first young woman seems more typical, to respond when approached, but not to initiate a conversation with a mother of one of your contemporaries you haven't seen in years.

I am still intrigued by this young man's statement to me, "I'm Jermaine," obviously wanting to be known, saying his name and expecting that would call up my memory and I would know him.

Beyond our school connection Jermaine and his family had briefly participated in our church, which is how he was present on that bike ride. I felt sad when they drifted away, and encountering him so many years later renews that longing to connect with this family spiritually.

And I think his statement also reminds me of our innermost longing, to be known. To be recognized. To be remembered. And expecting that the stating of our name would awaken that recognition in others.

I anticipate the day when not only will I meet Jesus face to face and he will know me by name, but he will give me a new name, which no one else knows, and in that moment of renaming I will become more fully myself than I have ever been.

Meanwhile, I am looking for those I know, to acknowledge and validate their existence. Thank you, Jermaine.

The Night Before Bliss

Twenty-three years ago tonight I went to bed totally unaware of the bliss to dawn the next morning. I was 10 days away from my expected due date for my first-born child. I awoke that morning with my water breaking. I went to my computer and put finishing touches on church work so I could be off for the next 6 weeks.

Later on February 4 I held in my arms a healthy daughter we named Nora after my mother, who was there to witness her birth. I figured by the time my six weeks of maternity leave ended, I'd be chomping at the bit to get back to work.

When that day came, I would have walked away from my job had I not felt as responsible for my new church as I felt for my new child. So I juggled both parenting jobs together, the pastorate and the baby.

I loved that first edition so much, we had three more. People used to say to me when they saw me dragging around four children born within six years of each other, "You've got your hands full." My comeback became, "Joyfully so." I wrote a song about it later that asked, "Who wants empty hands?"

My hands are becoming empty these days. Nora attends grad school in Baltimore, Junia is graduating from Wheaton this year, Luke is now a freshman at UK, and Wesley will launch to college in less than two years. I'm losing my favorite job.

On this eve of the day I became a mother 23 years ago, I praise God for the blessing of four amazing children. They challenge me daily with their wisdom, compassion and capacity for growth.

This week also holds other memories. Saturday will be nine years since my mother died. Her only ambition in life was to be a mother, and I didn't really grasp until she was gone how grateful I was for her legacy in that vein.

So Nora, as you reach a new milestone, thank you for who you are. And to the rest of my children, for being more of a good thing. And Roger, you've been a great partner in parenting.

I'll miss seeing my girl tomorrow. But I am glad she is happily occupied in her own world. Keep it up beautiful daughter!