How often have we prayed something like, "O Lord, be with cousin Billy now in a special way"? Have we stopped to consider what it is we're requesting? Imagine that you are a parent who is preparing to leave your children with a babysitter. Would you dream of saying, "O Betsy, I ask you now that you would be with my children in a special way?" No way. You would say, "Betsy, the kids need to be in bed by 9 pm. They can have one snack before their baths, and please make sure they finish their homework. You can reach us at this number if there's any problem. Any questions before we go?" We are very specific with our requests and instructions for our babysitters. We want them to know specifics. It should be no different with prayer.
--David Jeremiah
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I'm learning and I'm wondering - when I'm not specific in my prayers, is it because I'm worried that if I am and God says "no" or "not now", that I will feel let down? As long as I'm not specific, I don't have to trust him with everything?
Nanny's Reply
I sent my mom an email copy of the blog from Tuesday.
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Oh my ! What a wonderful way of describing the joy of awaiting being a Nanny, the pain and suffering of meeting our Gabriel, knowing he could only stay with us a short time and so much to tell him. It was hard to carry our Gabriel, wrapped in his blanket to the morgue, but so there were so many things I had to tell him as we walked together that last time. He needed to know that he would always be my first grandson and that he would forever have a special corner in my heart. Gabriel needed to know he was now part of a big family that were waiting for his return to heaven and that they would tell him stories about his Nanny and Mom and Dad. One day we would be together again and I would help you and Mr. Spit as you grieved his loss and began to celebrate this little baby we knew as Our Gabriel.
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Oh my ! What a wonderful way of describing the joy of awaiting being a Nanny, the pain and suffering of meeting our Gabriel, knowing he could only stay with us a short time and so much to tell him. It was hard to carry our Gabriel, wrapped in his blanket to the morgue, but so there were so many things I had to tell him as we walked together that last time. He needed to know that he would always be my first grandson and that he would forever have a special corner in my heart. Gabriel needed to know he was now part of a big family that were waiting for his return to heaven and that they would tell him stories about his Nanny and Mom and Dad. One day we would be together again and I would help you and Mr. Spit as you grieved his loss and began to celebrate this little baby we knew as Our Gabriel.
Huzzah!
I'm late in posting.
Miss Amelia, who is a trooper, is through surgery and would appear to be fine.
If you would continue your prayers that the thing in her head is benign, (current request seems to be that it would be a third eye ball.)
Huzzah!
Hooray!
Hallelujah!
Amen.
Miss Amelia, who is a trooper, is through surgery and would appear to be fine.
If you would continue your prayers that the thing in her head is benign, (current request seems to be that it would be a third eye ball.)
Huzzah!
Hooray!
Hallelujah!
Amen.
Scrawled on the Calendar
In Very Large Letters
Amelia's Surgery
(This is Amelia)
Could you please say prayers for her mum and her dad and her surgery? And her poor brother's Alex and Ben, who have had a lot to adust to.
Thanks
I'm a Lady and So are You
Well, today's etiquette column is a bit of a reverse.
Here's the quandry:
You receive notification via Face Book that your boss has requested to add you to her Friend list. Do you confirm or ignore? Why?
What do you think of this? (Why yes, this is a real dilemma in my life, why do you ask?)
Your Homework
Answers in the comments below. Be sure to put up the button if you answer.
Taking a Toll
There is, to put baldly, a ranking of grief when your baby dies. People assume that mum feels it the most, then dad, and then others. If the others get any attention at all, it's of a scant nature. Frankly, by the time most people have enquired after mum, they forget anyone else who might have been involved in this life. Everyone else is peripheral.
My mother was, to put it mildly, tickled pink to be a nanny. The day I phoned to tell her I was pregnant, "Good Morning Nanny", that was the day she put the sign on her office door:
"I'm not allowed to tell you that my daughter is pregnant, so I'll tell you that I'm going to be a grandma!".
When I got pregnant, well, when I was about 20 weeks pregnant, my mother announced her intention to join GANG. It's an initiative from the Stephen Lewis foundation, helping grandmothers in Africa, who, as a result of the scourge that is HIV/AIDS, are raising their grandchildren. Like all Anglican women, they run garage sales and pasta suppers and concerts to help the foundation. I've been eaten the spaghetti, I've been to the concerts, and I own a variety of useless kitchen implements, as a result of the garage sale.
It's funny, but I could tell you all the many things I've missed out on as Gabe's mum. I can tell you the little losses that quickly add up into big ones. I can tell you the things I looked forward to, and the pain that was mother's day. I can enumerate all the loss from the death of your baby. Perhaps, I think actually, almost certainly, grief has blinders. We are so wrapped up in our terrible pain, we forget that others lost something.
Last night we were at HomeSense. Looking around, poking. Nothing in particular. Debating the merits of an armchair - she thought it was comfortable, I thought it was horrible. We both liked the fabric.
And for just a moment, I followed her eyes. To the little boy things. To the furniture and bedding and toys. I watched her look. And look away. A lifetime of competing moments passed through her eyes, as I watched.
My mother did indeed join GANG. A kind and compassionate woman called my mother this time last year, and merely asked what job she wanted in planning the garage sale. No question of the semantics of joining, no question if this was appropriate, simply a request. "What do you want to do to help?" A question, that after the pain of grief, my mother found easy to answer.
And suddenly in HomeSense, I saw the terrible cost to a grandma. I could see my mother, as women crowded around, sharing pictures and stories, moving away to organize things. I could see her working quietly in the corner, moving away, leaving the conversation. My mother, for all her voice and strength, she wouldn't advocate. She wouldn't tell you that she's a grandma, unless you asked.
And what stories does she have to tell? While other women tell of presents, does my mother tell them of the blanket she bought? A first and last gift? When they tell the story of rescuing their daughters, of giving them a break, does she tell the story of taking a cab to the hospital, because she was too upset to drive? When they say that their daughters are exhausted from child rearing, does she say that her daughter is exhausted from grief and trying to get pregnant again?
My mother calls my son "our baby". He was born to not just Mr. Spit and I, but into a family. With a history and traditions and values, and now a future doesn't include him, and I'm not the only one who grieves. His tree is surrounded by 4 roses, and a set of tulip bulbs, called Wendy Love. She planted them with care last fall.
Perhaps it is enough to say that grief can take a terrible toll. And it is not specific about whom it hurts or when. Simply because no one realizes the toll, does not mean it is not there. Our baby. Our past. Our future. Our sorrow.
My mother was, to put it mildly, tickled pink to be a nanny. The day I phoned to tell her I was pregnant, "Good Morning Nanny", that was the day she put the sign on her office door:
"I'm not allowed to tell you that my daughter is pregnant, so I'll tell you that I'm going to be a grandma!".
When I got pregnant, well, when I was about 20 weeks pregnant, my mother announced her intention to join GANG. It's an initiative from the Stephen Lewis foundation, helping grandmothers in Africa, who, as a result of the scourge that is HIV/AIDS, are raising their grandchildren. Like all Anglican women, they run garage sales and pasta suppers and concerts to help the foundation. I've been eaten the spaghetti, I've been to the concerts, and I own a variety of useless kitchen implements, as a result of the garage sale.
It's funny, but I could tell you all the many things I've missed out on as Gabe's mum. I can tell you the little losses that quickly add up into big ones. I can tell you the things I looked forward to, and the pain that was mother's day. I can enumerate all the loss from the death of your baby. Perhaps, I think actually, almost certainly, grief has blinders. We are so wrapped up in our terrible pain, we forget that others lost something.
Last night we were at HomeSense. Looking around, poking. Nothing in particular. Debating the merits of an armchair - she thought it was comfortable, I thought it was horrible. We both liked the fabric.
And for just a moment, I followed her eyes. To the little boy things. To the furniture and bedding and toys. I watched her look. And look away. A lifetime of competing moments passed through her eyes, as I watched.
My mother did indeed join GANG. A kind and compassionate woman called my mother this time last year, and merely asked what job she wanted in planning the garage sale. No question of the semantics of joining, no question if this was appropriate, simply a request. "What do you want to do to help?" A question, that after the pain of grief, my mother found easy to answer.
And suddenly in HomeSense, I saw the terrible cost to a grandma. I could see my mother, as women crowded around, sharing pictures and stories, moving away to organize things. I could see her working quietly in the corner, moving away, leaving the conversation. My mother, for all her voice and strength, she wouldn't advocate. She wouldn't tell you that she's a grandma, unless you asked.
And what stories does she have to tell? While other women tell of presents, does my mother tell them of the blanket she bought? A first and last gift? When they tell the story of rescuing their daughters, of giving them a break, does she tell the story of taking a cab to the hospital, because she was too upset to drive? When they say that their daughters are exhausted from child rearing, does she say that her daughter is exhausted from grief and trying to get pregnant again?
My mother calls my son "our baby". He was born to not just Mr. Spit and I, but into a family. With a history and traditions and values, and now a future doesn't include him, and I'm not the only one who grieves. His tree is surrounded by 4 roses, and a set of tulip bulbs, called Wendy Love. She planted them with care last fall.
Perhaps it is enough to say that grief can take a terrible toll. And it is not specific about whom it hurts or when. Simply because no one realizes the toll, does not mean it is not there. Our baby. Our past. Our future. Our sorrow.
