Lessons from the pain

Today I attempted to write in my journal about all the joy these past weeks have brought us.  I found myself looking back at past entries . . . and realized that there has always been joy.  Sometimes we just had to look for it.  Here is a journal entry that brought back a flood of memories and emotions.  I would have never shared this before, but lately I have come to realize that hiding the pain from everyone might not have been the best.  Just so you know, when this was written, it had been two years of chronic pain, Tara was almost five years old, and Blake had just turned three years old. Here is a piece of my heart.

December 9, 2005
I used to think that God had spared my life so I could help raise my children.  Now I realize that He spared my children to help me!  On my hardest days, my body screams in pain so loud that I have no choice but to be silent for fear that if I open my mouth to speak, only screams will come out.  So I am silent, lying on my usual place, my couch that is practically shaped to my body contour for all the hours I have been there.  Tara and Blake play beside me, climbing around me when they want my full attention.  They are typical preschoolers.  Carefree and silly.  How comforting that is to me as I lay watching them, silent.  Then it comes.  The request from one of them for me to do something that I can not.  "Mom, can you show me how to do a cartwheel?" "Mom, can you be the horsey and I be the cowboy?"  "Mom, when are you going to make lunch?"

At first I manage some composure. "No, Mama can't do that.  It hurts Mama's back.  Maybe we could put you in a gymnastics class.  Wouldn't that be fun?"  "No Baby, Mama can't be the horsey.  Maybe Daddy can be the horsey with you when he gets home."  "As soon as my medicine starts to work then I'll get you some lunch.  Just wait a few more minutes, please."  It just flows out.  Answers to the hundreds of questions their little minds come up with everyday.  And then I see it.  The look of disappointment.  The quiet sigh.  The downcast eyes.  The silence.  It is more than I can bear.  My pain is forgotten.  My babies need their Mama.  I can not do cartwheels, play horsey, or jump up at any moment.  BUT!!!  I am their mother and no one can console you like Mama can -- even if it is because of her that you are sad.

Now I'm in my element.  "Come here, Baby.  What's a matter?  Do you need some cuddles with Mom?"  Kisses and hugs.  "Oh, no!"  I exclaim.  "This is very serious!  I think the Stinky Sad bug got inside of you!", I declare with my best dramatics.  Their eyes are wide and their wiggling stops momentarily.  "Don't worry!  I'll get it out of there!  I'm going in!"  I shout as I do a tickle search of their tummies.  "AAH!"  They squeal in delight as they turn and claim that now the Stinky Sad bug has gotten into me.  "We're goin' in!"  I'm warned as four pudgy hands dive toward my stomach to return the tickles.  "Ha, ha, ha! You got 'em!  Thanks for saving the day, Superheroes!"  Kisses and hugs.  "I'm so glad God gave me the most wonderful boy and girl in the WHOLE world to be my little sweeties!"  I say, grabbing my last chance for an extra hug before they run off to the next game.  "You the bestest Mama ev'oo (ever)!" Blake says with a jump.  "Mama, you're the only Mommy I ever  wanted."  Tara declares sweetly.  "Aw, thank you Sweet Babies."  I reply.  Now the tears come.

People say, "I don't know how you deal with the pain everyday."  Well, that's how.  I have two little angels that help me refocus on life and joy.  "I'm sorry I can't do everything because of my back."  I say to Tara, who stays next to me on the couch.  "What are you talking about, Mom?  It's fine."  She reassures me.  "Don't cry Mama.  Do you want me to sing to you?"  As Tara sings "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star", she places a blanket over me, tucks a stuffed kitty into my arms, then brushes the hair off my forehead with her hand.  Just like I do when she is sad or scared . . . or uncertain.  Now she is in her element.  She loves to mother her little brother, baby dolls, and anyone else who will let her.  "I love taking care of you, Mom.  Just like you take care of me."  She says tenderly, wise beyond her years.  Compassion.  Service.  The rewarding feeling you get from helping others in need.  How do you teach that?  You allow yourself to be vulnerable, showing emotion, acknowledging that you need them, and allowing them to use their gifts on you.  Everyone wants to be needed and useful.  It keeps us going.

I have a lot to teach my children, and they have a lot to teach me.