One of My Greatest Regrets as a Parent

“I need to hear this; this is good stuff. Debby, this needs to be your next blog post. No, I’m serious; I need to hear this.” 

I was on the phone with a young, energetic, hardworking, doing-it-right Mom. Her love for Jesus, her selfless devotion to her family, her involvement in the lives of others make her “shine like stars in the universe." (Philippians 2:15)

Yet, as I listened, I could tell all was not well.

Holding my phone to my ear, I leaned against my sink and looked out my kitchen window. A beautiful blanket of pristine snow carpeted my lawn. A bright red cardinal was sitting alone in the naked branches of the tree. Winter. Every detail spoke winter.

But my mind didn’t stay gazing out the window. Rather, my mind carried my heart to a wintery feeling in my own past and my own parenting. 

I could relate to what my precious friend was sharing. She is dear to me, and I felt deeply the disappointment of the current scenario she and I were discussing: a child, a disappointment, a broken heart, a shattered dream, and an uncertain outcome. The tone in her voice let me know the depth of her sadness.

Embracing her Mother’s pain, I offered, “____," and I called her by name, "one of my greatest regrets as a parent is I did not teach my children how to navigate suffering.” 

When I elaborated, my sweet friend stopped me mid-sentence and said, “I need to hear this. This is good stuff. This needs to be your next blog post. No, I’m serious. I need to hear this.” 

At her insistence, I will share our phone conversation with you.

One of my greatest regrets as a parent is I did not teach my children how to navigate suffering.

Here is what I did wrong:

•    I tried too hard to protect them from suffering. I worked desperately at rescuing my children from life’s pain. I saw myself, unconsciously, as The Great Mother Warrior standing between my children and the oncoming forces of life. I wanted so badly to shield my dear ones from injury, illness, insult, and pain. However, these are inevitable ingredients of human existence, and cannot be avoided.

•    I attempted to rewrite the script, trying to create a less painful experience than the one they were facing. Hello! You can’t rewrite the script. Life is consistently punctuated by disappointment, hurt, and heartache. Right? Editing and re-editing these realities do not make them go away.

Here is what I would do differently: 

•    The adjustment would start with me. I would release an impossible goal. I would stop pouring my energy into to trying to erase their pain. Pain is very real. I do not possess the power to erase it. A mother can comfort, a mother can come alongside; a mother cannot erase pain.

•    I would release the futile attempt to rewrite the script that edits out the pain. This promotes an unrealistic view of life. 

•    I would pray for wisdom, and strive to find that blessed sweet place where reality and comfort, walking hand in hand, gently lead to God and to growth. 

And this is the key:

•    I would spend more time teaching my children life skills of walking with suffering, not seeking to eliminate suffering. A child needs inspiring interpretation skills to prepare them for facing difficulty. A godly interpretation, not an elimination tactic, is a life skill that will serve a child well. 

Life skills training would look like this:

• Acknowledge their pain; it is real

• Acknowledge what is true, both for them and for you

• Smother them with authentic, heartfelt comfort

• Guide them through the situation with an invaluable, supernatural set of lenses. Help them navigate the situation at hand while preparing them for life’s obstacle course ahead. Such life skills will provide bedrock stability when the waves of suffering threaten to destroy. 

I invite you to listen and learn from Jody, another young woman in my life. I have known her since she was a little girl. Now she is Mom to a suffering little boy, and her heart and words reveal wisdom beyond her years. With Jody's permission, I share her recent letter to her son, whose name has been changed.

Dear Landon,

 It’s another big day for you.
Another big month.

No sugar coating necessary, we all know there is nothing fun about this. 

We know you are scared.
In an instant, your Dad and I would take your place.

To our great heartbreak, we cannot take this from you.

To our great frustration, way too often the only answer we can give is “I don’t know.”

We can’t take this from you. We can’t create an alternate, less-painful route for you. We can’t answer why.

But here’s what we can do. We can promise you this:

You will not be alone.

We will climb this mountain, we will fight this battle, we will hold your hand for as long as this takes. For the duration of our lives if you need us that long.

We are so, so proud of you. You are stronger than you know.

Let’s make this count, shall we?

Every ounce of our love, 
Mom and Dad

Thank you Jody; thank you for guiding us down a better path.

Back to the phone conversation at my kitchen sink…

As I reflect, I realize something: Fear of suffering prevents us from being prepared for suffering. I still have much to learn. Looking back sometimes helps in looking ahead.

Question: What about you? How have you as a parent prepared your children for the inevitability of suffering?

In a Communist Hospital

My View From A Gurney

“To jest chlopak!” It is a boy! With that declaration our son, David Lawrence Thompson, Jr. entered the world, April 6, 1979, a hearty 9 pounds, 141/2 ounces. Today, I vividly remember the details from that exact day 37 years ago.

Lying on the cold, hard gurney, I took in my surroundings. I was in a birthing ward in a Communist hospital behind the Iron Curtain in Warsaw, Poland. The long windows revealed that it was an early cold spring morning outside. Around me women were in various stages of the birthing process, some behind curtains, some not. It all looked and felt like something out of a black and white World War II movie. Only the birth experience itself, and the nearness my husband seemed familiar. The language, the equipment, the smells, the sounds, even the dress of the attending medical staff was different. And the procedures were definitely different. I was thankful to have arranged for a colleague to transport dissolvable stitches from the International Pharmacy in Vienna, having been told that none would be available. Good call.

Larry needed to leave; he would return with food and toilet paper, since the hospital could not provide supplies for its patients. I was alone, so very alone. A Sister, a Polish nurse, came by my gurney and asked if I would like of cup of tea. Tea? That would be nice. I was keenly aware of how terribly much I missed my Mother. The tea would be soothing.

Feeling desperately alone on the gurney, having just given birth in a land so far from my own, my thoughts floated back over the previous few weeks. 

Larry and I had searched arduously for a Polish doctor who would allow a husband to be present in the delivery room. Since this was Baby #2, we felt adequately trained in the method of natural childbirth. However, this was an outlandish request in the Communist medical system, and we needed a Polish doctor to grant permission. Finally, and I say finally, 6 weeks before my due date, we located a Professor Doctor who gave the desperately needed approval. Though he was not even present and a midwife was just as involved as the attending physician, this Professor Doctor would later take full credit for the successful delivery.

Why would any woman want to add childbirth to her repertoire of cross-cultural experiences?

A very good question. My bedrock answer then and now: the will of God. Years earlier as a student at Mississippi State University I became involved with the organization of Campus Crusade for Christ. There I met a group of students who had a smile on their face, a spring in their step and a song in their heart. These students were marching to the beat of a different drum, and I wanted join their ranks. I yielded to God complete control of my life and my future. I selected Proverbs 3:5-6 as my life verse: "Trust in the Lord with all your heart. Lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct your paths.” 

Larry’s marriage proposal was, “Will you go with me in helping to reach the world for Christ?” My answer was “yes” - to the Lord, to him, and to a future of being a pioneer missionary.

The ramifications of these decisions found me alone on a gurney in a Communist hospital. I was not trying to be a heroine; I was not seeking to be a martyr. I just wanted to be in the center of God’s will. I was fully convinced His will was the safest place to be, and I also knew His will was "good, acceptable and perfect." (Romans: 12:2).

A host of factors had led to our prayer-saturated choice of giving birth in Warsaw. We had a little 3-year-old daughter to consider, and we had a home of our own. Any missionary will agree that no matter where home is, it is home, even when the address is Communist Poland. I did not want to have a baby while living transient out of a suitcase. Desperately, I longed to bring our baby home to our home and the modest nursery we had prepared for him. And we did.

Fast forward to 2007.

“What in the world were you thinking?!”

My son had just become a father, and the story of his own birth was the topic of our conversation. This is the son who was the first baby boy to be born in the Cold War to evangelical missionaries living covertly behind the Iron Curtain. David will never be able to be President of the United States; our Constitution prohibits anyone being born outside its borders from holding that office. But he will always have typed in his passport Place of Birth: Warsaw, Poland. This is a precious treasure. The Poles are remarkable people, and any identification with them is an honor.

But his question took me back to my view from the gurney where the cultural differences dominated, where the physical and emotional challenges were as real as my next breath.

There on that gurney, with tears streaming down my cheeks, a holy awareness enveloped me. I sensed the Presence of God is a real and tender way. He was there with me; no, I was not alone. In an ocean of the unfamiliar, He was The Familiar.

“If I settle on the far side of the sea, even there Your Hand will guide me.” He did. (Psalm 139:9-10)

“My Presence will go with you and I will give you rest.” He did. (Exodus 33:14)

“In Thy presence is fullness of joy.” Confirmed. (Psalm 16:11)

Even on a gurney.

Question: Where on your gurney of life have you discovered the Presence and faithfulness of God?

I didn't do it on purpose.

You don’t want to miss this! Children’s Author Beverly Cleary is approaching her 100th birthday, and Jenna Bush Hager invites us to sit and visit with the two of them on the TODAY show recorded at http://youtu.be/dcT5hsD2Pb. (cut and paste into your browser)

“I didn’t’ do it on purpose,” the Literary Legend says, on turning 100.

This amazing author has written more than 40 books, and has sold more than 75 million copies in 25 languages. Her first was penned in 1955. Beverly Cleary's wit, humor, and candor come through in this personal conversation. I was particularly inspired to learn her motivation for writing. 

Questions of interest are:

What are you most proud of?

What are you looking forward to?    

A bit of lightweight research gave me even more insight into the life of this fascinating woman. At Scholastic.com I discovered: 
•    The role her mother played in her love of books
•    Her own struggle as a reader
•    Her advice to children who aspire to write 

Learning to Love Books
Beverly Cleary was born in McMinnville, Oregon, and lived on a farm in Yamhill, a town so small it had no library. Her mother arranged with the State Library to have books sent to Yamhill and acted as librarian in a lodge room upstairs over a bank. There, Beverly learned to love books.

A Struggling Reader
When the family moved to Portland, where Beverly attended grammar school and high school, she soon found herself in the low reading circle, an experience that has given her sympathy for the problems of struggling readers. By the third grade she had conquered reading and spent much of her childhood either with books or on her way to and from the public library. Before long her school librarian suggested that she write books for children when she grew up. The idea appealed to her, and she decided that someday she would write the books she longed to read, but was unable to find on the library shelves — funny stories about her neighborhood and the sort of children she knew.

Advice to Children
Beverly's hobbies are travel and needlework. When children ask Beverly where she finds her ideas, she replies, “From my own experience and from the world around me.” Henry Huggins, written when she was in her early thirties, was her first attempt at writing. Her advice to the many children who write asking for “tips” on writing is for them to read widely while growing up, and when the time comes for them to write, they will find their own way of writing and will not need tips to guide them.

“Sixty years of work and a storybook life, with more chapters still to come,” leaves me wanting to dash to the children’s section of my public library! How about you?