Be Like Coffee

Today Ben asked me to sing him a lullaby before his nap.  I croaked out a few words, but had to stop.  It wasn't pretty.  I promised that I would sing to him soon.  "What did you say. . .soon?" he asked gingerly. 

"Yes, soon.  Not yet, but soon, I will be able to sing to you like I used to."  I reassured him.

"But what if your voice doesn't come back?  What if you can't sing anymore?"  he asked.

"It will and I will."  I insisted.

Reasoning with his intuitive four-year-old mind, he said satisfactorily, "Soon. . .that means you don't know when, but it will."

Then after he lay his head on his pillow, he said, "Does God get mad?"

I was not sure where he was going with this question.  Did he think God was punishing Mommy by taking her voice away?

I said, "Yes." and without thinking first, I went on.  "In the Bible, it says that God is a jealous god.  He wants us to love him more than anything else."  The look on Ben's face made me stop.  A jealous God had always been a difficult concept for me because I thought of jealousy as something not holy, and God was holy. So, I changed my tactic, "And God gets mad when we hurt other people."

"Oh.  Like bounty hunters!"  and before I could say more, his eyes were closed.  Either he was satisfied with this answer, or he didn't want to hear any more of my explanation.

His question reminded me of my visit with the ENT yesterday.  My vocal cords looked good, but acid reflux had eaten away at my esophagus.  So the doctor was discussing ways to combat GERD (sounds like an evil villain), number one was to alleviate any stressors.  I told him about my eldest and my job.  His response was "It's not your fault."  I looked confused, so he clarified.  "Your son's condition is what it is and it will get worse and that's reality.  It's not your fault."

Is this another variation of the question that people put to Jesus after he had healed a man blind from birth:   "Who sinned--this man or his parents?"

I was not experiencing guilt about my son's condition.  I am experiencing grief that his hands won't straighten; that his gait is becoming more unsteady.  Overwhelming grief that he will not become independent. . .ever. . .but instead become increasingly dependent.

Last night, a high school friend sent me a link to a blog about a mother faced with the reality that her 13 yr old son will no longer walk, but will be confined to a chair or have a surgery whose outcome is uncertain at best.  It was a beautifully written blog--the line I remember most clearly is where the mother realizes that God is using this packaged pain for perfection:  "His gift that comes packaged in pain but reveals itself to be beautiful and holy and transforming and healing and, yes, perfect."

Why is it so hard to accept the difficult lessons?  Why do we feel a sense of injustice when things don't go the way we think they should?

D's condition is not my fault.  I didn't lose my voice because God is punishing me.  These are things that are "normal in an abnormal world" as Stephanie Hubach wrote in a recently republished article Those with Disabilities Make Us Whole.  This world is filled with sorrow, disappointment, tragedy.  That's reality.  Worry can't change that. 

But I can be changed. This reminds me of an email a friend sent; it's one of those forwards that is passed  around every so often.  Boiling water is our suffering, or trial.  Our response to that water can be like the carrot, the egg, or the coffee.  We could be like the egg, fragile and delicate unable to withstand much until the boiling water makes us hard, strong, but with an exterior that is easily cracked.  Or we can be like the carrot who starts out hard, calloused and indifferent and through times of difficulty becomes soft, too pliable, easily smashed.  Or we can be like the coffee grinds.  We can become transformed by the difficulty into something aromatic, delicious, even transforming the difficulty itself into something wonderful.

Lord, let me be like coffee.  :)