Last week my dad’s cousin, Paul, passed away suddenly at the age of fifty-nine. On March 15, he collapsed in his home and spent a week in the hospital. He remained in a coma and never regained consciousness. During that time, his kids posted regular updates in a blog where they kept family and friends informed about his condition and expressed their gratitude for the outpouring of love and prayers.
Although I never actually met Paul (or if I did I was young enough that I don’t remember), I was saddened to hear his story. I started following the blog the day after he entered the hospital and the words of his family moved and inspired me as they expressed their unwavering faith in God’s plan and celebrated their father’s entrance into the Lord’s kingdom. One recent blog entry includes a series of audio clips from a 2009 estate planning meeting in which Paul completed a personal legacy interview. Knowing that he was a faith-driven man, I was curious to hear his perspective on his greatest challenges, personal fulfillment, and life lessons. Not only was I inspired and encouraged to make greater strides in my own faith journey, but in just 25 short minutes I received a full snapshot of who this man was, what he valued, and what he wanted people to know about him as a person and as a follower of Jesus. Even after his death, his hopes, dreams, and legacy can live on because he took the time to ponder these questions and record his answers.
As I listened, I kept thinking about the beautiful gift this short interview now presents to Paul's children. I am fortunate enough to have my parents alive today, but when I inevitably find myself in the world without them, there is nothing I wouldn’t give to have access to such a recording. I sometimes find myself confronted with the realization that Reese will never remember me if I am torn from her life even in the next few years. Although I don’t like to think about it, the knowledge of that possibility gives me the encouragement to capture as many memories as possible and makes me wonder if I shouldn’t be sitting down across from a recording device every few years to answer questions that she might someday want to hear from my own mouth and my own heart.
In the last question of the interview Paul was asked, “If you knew you had only 30 days to live and health and money weren’t an obstacle, what would you do?” His answer included sharing his testimony of faith with as many people as possible. I’d like to help him do that, so the link to Paul’s interview is below.
I would also like to encourage everyone to ponder that question every day. Don’t think of it as a hypothetical because for some us, it may not be and for all of us, it won’t always be. If you find something in your heart’s desires that you’re not doing today, start doing it. If you’ve been putting off a dream, start chasing it. And if you’ve never made a recording of your personal legacy to leave behind for your children, start thinking about how they will remember you when you’re gone. Never forget that we are all here on borrowed time and tomorrow is not a guarantee. If today is your last day, how will you be remembered? Who will share your legacy? What do you want your kids to know? Write it. Record it. Videotape it. It will be the greatest gift you could give them.
http://paulsweas.wordpress.com/
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Here We Go Again
After Reese was born, I went through a short period of time where I didn’t know if I wanted any more children. That period started after a serious hemorrhage had me fearing for my life in the delivery room. It continued with a blistery, nightmarish introduction to breastfeeding, and it culminated in an episode of postpartum anxiety during which I spent several weeks trying to convince myself that diving out the window and running to Mexico in my pajamas was actually not a good idea. As I sat on my toilet fighting off another panic attack with my squirt bottle in one hand and a jar of Tucks pads in the other, I promised myself that I was never going to do this again.
Almost two years later, that time seems light years behind me. Eventually, the blisters healed, the anxiety faded, the stitches dissolved, and I finally started to look back and say, “I guess that wasn’t so bad.” Then Reese started to smile and coo and each milestone pushed the negative memories deeper into the recesses of my mind.
As I watched the most beautiful baby I had ever seen grow into the most beautiful toddler, I fell deeper in love each day. All of the “I’m never doing this again” moments like teething, whining, tantrums, and public embarrassment pale in comparison to kisses, cuddles, first words, and baby belly laughs. But I still experience plenty of both feelings, often in the same breath. As I make my third attempt to figure out why she’s crying while our dinner burns on the stove, I wonder, how could I possibly do this again? And then I sneeze and Reese says, “Bess you, Mommy” and I think, how could I not?
Last month, as I sat in our bathroom holding a positive pregnancy test, my excitement was interrupted by a brief resurgence of memories… the labor pains, the sleepless nights, the squirt bottle. Dear God, not the squirt bottle! Do I really want to do this all over again?
Suddenly, Reese emerged from our closet wearing my shoes and Matt's tie. “Bye-bye, Mommy. I go work,” she said as if she actually had somewhere to be. As I started to laugh and cry at the same time, she walked over to me and touched my cheek saying, “Mommy sad?”
“No, honey,” I answered. “Mommy’s happy. Mommy’s very happy.”
October 28, 2012… Here we go again!
Almost two years later, that time seems light years behind me. Eventually, the blisters healed, the anxiety faded, the stitches dissolved, and I finally started to look back and say, “I guess that wasn’t so bad.” Then Reese started to smile and coo and each milestone pushed the negative memories deeper into the recesses of my mind.
Last month, as I sat in our bathroom holding a positive pregnancy test, my excitement was interrupted by a brief resurgence of memories… the labor pains, the sleepless nights, the squirt bottle. Dear God, not the squirt bottle! Do I really want to do this all over again?
“No, honey,” I answered. “Mommy’s happy. Mommy’s very happy.”
October 28, 2012… Here we go again!
Labels:
parenting
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Amazing Love

As I went through the list of possibilities, I started to (in typical Lisa fashion) over-analyze each one as if I would actually walk away from this blog post with my chosen power. Like if I could make anything appear, would that be the same as stealing? Wouldn’t I inevitably become greedy? What if I actually had extra arms? That would be weird. Where would I buy shirts? And a clone? Let’s not even go there. Would Matt love us both? (I said, let’s not go there). Maybe all the super powers that seem so great in our imaginations would actually make our lives more complicated in the long run. Maybe it’s better to accept the occasional forgetfulness, to leave a dirty toilet here and there, and to just take stuff to the car in two trips. Better yet, maybe instead of wishing for unrealistic super powers I’ll never have, I should focus instead on the one I’ve already been granted.
The chorus of my all-time favorite Christian song goes, “Amazing love, how can it be / That you my king would die for me?” The song ponders the great mystery of Christ’s love and the difficulty we might sometimes face in wrapping our minds around the possibility that He would suffer and die to give life to each of us.
I was reminded of the depths of a mother’s love just last week after an outbreak of tornadoes destroyed parts of the Midwest. A mother of two sat huddled in the basement of her Indiana home with her children wrapped in a blanket underneath her. Using her body as a shield to protect them, she listened as her home crumbled around her. Debris pummeled her body from every angle, and she prepared herself to die so her children could live.
Both children emerged from the rubble without a scratch, and thankfully, their mother survived as well although she lost parts of both legs. As I followed this story in the news, it always brought me to tears to think that this mother had the strength and courage to put herself in between her children and the forces of nature. Amazing love, how can it be? And yet, I have that love. I have that ability. I could, and would, do the exact same thing for my child without skipping a beat. If that isn’t a super power, I don’t know what is.
Labels:
faith,
Hearts at Home,
love
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Doing Something Right
I question myself the most in the moments that make me feel like a “bad mom” – when I forget to turn on the baby monitor until I hear a faint cry from the other end of the house; when I realize that she’s been walking around with a poopie diaper for who-knows-how-long; or when I get bored during our play time. When she catches a cold, develops a diaper rash, or falls and gets hurt, I always feel at least a small sting of guilt. Even though the realistic side of me knows I can’t prevent everything, sometimes it’s still hard not to wonder if I wiped her well enough, washed her hands often enough, or watched her carefully enough.
To a certain extent, I think all moms do this at least a little bit. We wonder if any of the decisions we make will someday affect our kids’ health, intelligence, or social skills. We want to do what’s best for them, and we equate that desire with the need to be perfect. Because of this need, we tend to judge ourselves for what we do wrong way more often than we take pride in what we do right.
I may not make the right decisions 100% of the time and I don’t always measure up to the mythical perfect mother, but every time Reese hugs me and says, “Zuh-vee, honey,” I remember that the small things I do wrong don’t matter nearly as much a big thing done right.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Living in a Fish Bowl
I used to work for University Housing Services at ISU, and many of us lived in the same building in which we worked. Our supervisors often reminded us that we lived in a fish bowl, meaning that the students were always watching us so we had to constantly work to set a positive example whether we were officially “on duty” or not. I suppose the same concept can be applied to any professional who lives among those they serve including teachers, police officers, church leaders. I used to think of this concept only on a professional level, and I never thought to include parents. Having a toddler is a quick way to learn just how deeply that concept applies to parenting. Here's how I realized it:
She turned her innocent face toward me and repeated, “Big head.”
I could almost hear my former supervisors reminding our whole staff, “You live in a fish bowl now so choose your words and actions wisely.”
That incident happened weeks ago and since that day, every time I pull her shirt on or off she says, “Big head.”
I always respond apologetically, “Honey, mommy is sorry for saying that you have a big head. You have a very beautiful head.” Now she says, “Beau-ful, big head,” which is at least an improvement.
As silly as it sounds, I feel really guilty about this. With just one spur of the moment comment, I made my daughter believe that she has a big head. I wish I could just brush it off and say that she doesn’t really understand what she’s saying anyway, but (as I’m learning more and more lately) it’s never safe to assume that a baby doesn’t understand a concept.
Whether we acknowledge it or not, we all live in a fish bowl. The bowl is tiny and the audience is impressionable. Choose your words wisely. Choose your actions carefully. And never tell your 20-month-old daughter that she has a big head.
Labels:
parenting
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