Mark 10:8-9....."and the two will become ONE flesh so that they are no longer two but one. Therefore, what God has joined together let no one separate."
There's a scene in one of my all time favorite movies, The Princess Bride, that for years has proven to spur many a successful quote-offs in my family. It's the scene when Princess Buttercup is being forced to marry Prince Humperdink against her will, but there are whispers among the wedding guests that her true love, Wesley, is coming to save her.
I know I make an obscene amount of references to movies from the 80's but really, in terms of movies, who can disagree that my decade produced some goodies. We probably could have gone without parachute pants and unfortunately, Vanilla Ice ended up being sort of a dud, but still, who can forget that little priest in his gaudy wedding garb with his oddly pigmented face and champion speech impediment.
"Mawwiage. Mawwiage is what bwings us togethaaa, todayyyy. Wove. Twue Wove....." Prince Humperdink interrupts and urges him to the grand finale before the important stuff even has a chance to be said. "MAN AND WIFE. SAY MAN AND WIFE!" To which he responds forlornly, "Man. Annnnnd. Wife."
If you're equal parts hopeless romantic and hormonal pre-teen like me, your reaction might have been similar to both mine and Fred Savage's at the time, "STOP! NO! This can't be happening! Where's WESLEY?! He's supposed to save her! She can't marry HUMPERDINK." And as your heart broke and your face fell, you knew, or seemed to think you knew, that the damage had been done. There was no going back. They were married. One. It was over for Wesley.
We all know how the story ends so I'll spare you the dramatic detail because this post isn't really about getting married or who gets who or if all ends well, it's about the afterbirth of marriage. The one flesh part. Which can be tricky and most of the time isn't all that cute.
The other day I was RAGING. I was hormonal, the yummy soul food, time with family, twinkling lights, everything is merry and bright, time to toss the leftovers and get on the scale, post Christmas depression had hit. I was on a roller coaster of emotion; elation at being chosen to be the mommy of two precious little girls and sorrow at not being chosen for their younger siblings. Gearing up to take down a MOUNTAIN of Christmas décor and head dive into more house construction AND it was New Year's Day; the FIRST day of the year; full of promise and hope and newness and change and things unknown and reflection and preparation and black eyed peas but for some reason I could NOT pull myself together which made me feel worse considering it was 'supposed' to be all those things. So naturally when things don't feel right and I'm a mess I do what I do best. I would love to be able to tell you that I took a deep breath, made a green smoothie, went for a jog, read my Bible and gave it all to God, AS USUAL, but that would be very, very untrue. Rather I looked for the nearest, unsuspecting, target and when I found him, I attacked with the enthusiasm of a caged raccoon. I picked and I nagged and I rolled my eyes and I lashed out and I ignored and I said hurtful things on purpose and made mountains out of molehills and in general had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day only made worse by the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad way in which I acted toward someone I love and cherish very much.
Of course after the smoke had cleared and he was still standing, guns undrawn, rock solid and unmovable, AS USUAL, I ended up in a puddle of awful, guilt ridden, self loathing tears on the floor. As I choked on the embarrassment and shame and the pitiful apology that could have been avoided entirely had I made a smoothie, gone for a jog and given it to God, I wondered aloud "WHY? WHY do I always beat up on you? You've done nothing. You're so precious to me. You are never anything but loving, supportive, kind, generous, patient and wonderful. I don't know why I do that. I'm so sorry." The words that came out of this loving, supportive, kind, generous, patient and wonderful man's mouth next, were truly straight from God in my opinion. Simple in structure but holy and profound to me that day.
"We are one person. It's easy to beat up on your spouse because it's like beating up yourself."
And there it was. What God has joined together, let no one separate. Not even you, Whitney.
It crushed me. I had always read this verse through the eyes of a child it seemed. Naïve and foolish. Assuming this was speaking of the dangers of outside influences; affairs, etc. Things that led to the ultimate separation of divorce. And I'm sure it was, but in that moment I knew there was much more to it. This idea of one flesh. This idea that what I do to me, I do to he.
When Andis and I were engaged we went to pre-marital counseling. One day our counselor read THAT VERSE. Every woman knows the one. Regardless of how you feel about it, it's the one that has made my skin crawl more times than any other verse, ever. "Wives, submit to your husbands." He turned to me and asked me how that made me feel. I tried to hide my contempt but it came out before I had a chance to wrestle it down. "AWFUL!", I said. Submission was a dirty word in my world and my parents could probably attest to the fact that it had always been. Andis, however, looked like he had been slapped. "It's not about that," he said quietly. "It's about mutual love and respect. Caring for someone else as much as yourself."
"Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands as you do the Lord.....Husbands, love your wives just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her.....in this same way, husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies. He who loves his wife, loves himself.....for this reason....the two will become one flesh. THIS is a profound mystery." Ephesians 5: 22-32 paraphrased
Submission to one flesh. Selfless. Sacrificing. Honorable. Holy. Mysterious.
All those times that I thought I was shadow boxing there was actually someone else in the other corner of the ring.
He. Me. One flesh.
I get it now.
Time to put the gloves down.
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
I USED to think roller coasters were fun.
I've never been a bungee jumper or a zip-liner or a skydiver. Well there was that one time but it was only because I was trying to impress the man I knew I wanted to be my best friend until death do us part. Considering I wanted to back out, screamed bloody murder the ENTIRE WAY DOWN and probably had a pee spot on my jeans afterwards makes me think the odds might not have been in my favor on that one. He married me anyway so all's well that ends well.
Roller coasters on the other hand? Bring. It. On. Something about being strapped in and someone else pushing the lever that makes it TOTALLY different on the risk scale and WAY doable. And I do. If theme parks weren't so dang expensive and hours away, I would be on roller coasters every weekend if I could. Roller coasters to me are like roman candles; amazing and wonderful and exhilarating and shocking for .02 seconds and then it's over. And being over is good because there's a certain rollercoaster threshold that we all have and let me tell you; once surpassed, it is ALL DOWN HILL; literally AND figuratively.
Yesterday I reached that threshold, but the ride unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, DID NOT STOP. I felt like I was 6 again and on the Merry Go Round for the first time. You remember the Merry Go Round don't you?! That awful kiddie ride that looks so beautiful and fun from the outside, like it's made of candy and rainbows, but once you get on you realize it was designed by Satan himself. Why you people encourage your kids to get on that thing is beyond me. I guess maybe the picture BEFORE the one of them projectile vomiting on you turns out pretty cute, perhaps?
So yeah, yesterday. At one point I just had to grab a brown bag and pray that Mary Poppins would save me and my horse would LEAP off of the ride and go pogoing through the country side so I could get some AIR. It did not happen. Instead, this is what did.
About an hour after the meeting to determine if we were the right 'fit' for the girls had commenced and our caseworker had presented the 70 page Goble stack of information, she left the meeting so that the adoption committee could arrive at their determination. She got in touch with us to say that she had received overwhelmingly positive feedback, that everyone seemed to be pleased with what The Goble Family had to offer, and that we should have a decision shortly. Yay! Our three girls seemed so close that I felt as if they were locked in the next room and I was waiting patiently to be given the key that would open the door to our interconnected futures. I still held a soft, sad spot in my heart for the fact that their brother would not be joining them, but I had already settled myself into a forced peace about that some time before so rather than being excruciatingly painful it was more like a quick, band aid ripping pinch and then it became more of a dull ache. Until I read the rest of the email.
Sam, she went on to inform us; piece number three of our four piece puzzle; the little boy that runs away from me in my dreams, the son that my husband would not yet have, the one that, mere MOMENTS before, my mind was pushing way down into the heart caverns where things not yet understood live, WAS in fact also available for adoption! I had no words. I had no breath. All of my dreams, my prayers were about to come true. Our puzzle would be complete and our babies would not be separated after all. God was good. So good.
But we continued to wait. And by wait I really mean: prayed, cried, paced like a starving lioness, tried to distract my busy, over anxious, OCD imagination with Facebook, Pinterest, Google, YouTube, GodVine, Grey's Anatomy and even some work thrown in for good measure.
And then it arrived. The email outlining the fate of our future. And I saw them. Those three little words. YOU'VE BEEN SELECTED. In that moment time stopped, and those three little words were more profound then all the I Love You's and I Hate You's of which I had ever been on the receiving end. They were the most beautiful words I had ever read. They were the words that were paving the way to a future filled with laughter and giggling and screaming and fighting and pancakes with way too much syrup and allowances and chores and sleepovers and tickle wars and pain and tears and scrapes and cuts and bruises and passing grades and failing grades and little league and little dribblers and broken hearts and hopscotch and family game night and bedtime prayers and manners and maybe none of that but maybe all of that. My babies were on their way home. It had been a long journey, but then again, it was only just beginning....................for two of them.
"It has been determined that you have been selected for the adoption of two of the four children in question. Congratulations and good luck."
Isn't a tornado formed when the warm air of the south and the cooler air from the north sweep into each other and the effects of the two opposites create the perfect storm? There is no explanation for how I felt but that's as close as I think I can get at this point.
Inexpressible joy and confidence. Indescribable confusion and fear. The golden key that unlocked the door to the room where my two oldest girls were being kept, had been handed over on a silver platter while the other two keys had been put in a bottle, sealed and sent out to sea. You know that moment when you are laughing so hard that you start to cry or that moment when you are crying so hard that you can't help but laugh? The two emotions must be similar enough in nature that your mind and heart literally become confused and exchange one for the other, even if just for a moment. How can one heart have enough room for such overwhelming joy and overwhelming sadness at the same time?
And then I knew. In that moment I had become a mother.
And while one side of my heart swelled with pride, anticipation and thankfulness, the other side shrank back in the face of fear and doubt. But just for a moment. A moment is all it took for me to remember my new title and all of the responsibility and strength that it carries. For to whom much is given, much more is required. So like the growing embers in the belly of Smaug, the dragon from the Hobbit, a fire had been lit in me that would not soon be put out.
".....suppose a woman has ten silver coins and loses one (or two). Doesn't she light a lamp, sweep the house and search carefully until she finds it?" Luke 15: 8
The answer to this is a resounding YES. So in the meantime I'm off to hunt for a good deal on some scuba gear.
Roller coasters on the other hand? Bring. It. On. Something about being strapped in and someone else pushing the lever that makes it TOTALLY different on the risk scale and WAY doable. And I do. If theme parks weren't so dang expensive and hours away, I would be on roller coasters every weekend if I could. Roller coasters to me are like roman candles; amazing and wonderful and exhilarating and shocking for .02 seconds and then it's over. And being over is good because there's a certain rollercoaster threshold that we all have and let me tell you; once surpassed, it is ALL DOWN HILL; literally AND figuratively.
Yesterday I reached that threshold, but the ride unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, DID NOT STOP. I felt like I was 6 again and on the Merry Go Round for the first time. You remember the Merry Go Round don't you?! That awful kiddie ride that looks so beautiful and fun from the outside, like it's made of candy and rainbows, but once you get on you realize it was designed by Satan himself. Why you people encourage your kids to get on that thing is beyond me. I guess maybe the picture BEFORE the one of them projectile vomiting on you turns out pretty cute, perhaps?
So yeah, yesterday. At one point I just had to grab a brown bag and pray that Mary Poppins would save me and my horse would LEAP off of the ride and go pogoing through the country side so I could get some AIR. It did not happen. Instead, this is what did.
About an hour after the meeting to determine if we were the right 'fit' for the girls had commenced and our caseworker had presented the 70 page Goble stack of information, she left the meeting so that the adoption committee could arrive at their determination. She got in touch with us to say that she had received overwhelmingly positive feedback, that everyone seemed to be pleased with what The Goble Family had to offer, and that we should have a decision shortly. Yay! Our three girls seemed so close that I felt as if they were locked in the next room and I was waiting patiently to be given the key that would open the door to our interconnected futures. I still held a soft, sad spot in my heart for the fact that their brother would not be joining them, but I had already settled myself into a forced peace about that some time before so rather than being excruciatingly painful it was more like a quick, band aid ripping pinch and then it became more of a dull ache. Until I read the rest of the email.
Sam, she went on to inform us; piece number three of our four piece puzzle; the little boy that runs away from me in my dreams, the son that my husband would not yet have, the one that, mere MOMENTS before, my mind was pushing way down into the heart caverns where things not yet understood live, WAS in fact also available for adoption! I had no words. I had no breath. All of my dreams, my prayers were about to come true. Our puzzle would be complete and our babies would not be separated after all. God was good. So good.
But we continued to wait. And by wait I really mean: prayed, cried, paced like a starving lioness, tried to distract my busy, over anxious, OCD imagination with Facebook, Pinterest, Google, YouTube, GodVine, Grey's Anatomy and even some work thrown in for good measure.
And then it arrived. The email outlining the fate of our future. And I saw them. Those three little words. YOU'VE BEEN SELECTED. In that moment time stopped, and those three little words were more profound then all the I Love You's and I Hate You's of which I had ever been on the receiving end. They were the most beautiful words I had ever read. They were the words that were paving the way to a future filled with laughter and giggling and screaming and fighting and pancakes with way too much syrup and allowances and chores and sleepovers and tickle wars and pain and tears and scrapes and cuts and bruises and passing grades and failing grades and little league and little dribblers and broken hearts and hopscotch and family game night and bedtime prayers and manners and maybe none of that but maybe all of that. My babies were on their way home. It had been a long journey, but then again, it was only just beginning....................for two of them.
"It has been determined that you have been selected for the adoption of two of the four children in question. Congratulations and good luck."
Isn't a tornado formed when the warm air of the south and the cooler air from the north sweep into each other and the effects of the two opposites create the perfect storm? There is no explanation for how I felt but that's as close as I think I can get at this point.
Inexpressible joy and confidence. Indescribable confusion and fear. The golden key that unlocked the door to the room where my two oldest girls were being kept, had been handed over on a silver platter while the other two keys had been put in a bottle, sealed and sent out to sea. You know that moment when you are laughing so hard that you start to cry or that moment when you are crying so hard that you can't help but laugh? The two emotions must be similar enough in nature that your mind and heart literally become confused and exchange one for the other, even if just for a moment. How can one heart have enough room for such overwhelming joy and overwhelming sadness at the same time?
And then I knew. In that moment I had become a mother.
And while one side of my heart swelled with pride, anticipation and thankfulness, the other side shrank back in the face of fear and doubt. But just for a moment. A moment is all it took for me to remember my new title and all of the responsibility and strength that it carries. For to whom much is given, much more is required. So like the growing embers in the belly of Smaug, the dragon from the Hobbit, a fire had been lit in me that would not soon be put out.
".....suppose a woman has ten silver coins and loses one (or two). Doesn't she light a lamp, sweep the house and search carefully until she finds it?" Luke 15: 8
The answer to this is a resounding YES. So in the meantime I'm off to hunt for a good deal on some scuba gear.
The Examined Life.
I want you to think back on your life; all of it. From if you were a preemie to the relationship you had with your father to if you were spanked to how you did in school to the sexual relationships you had to the drugs you did or didn't do to the regrets you have and the missed opportunities and things accomplished and what went right and what went wrong and how many do-overs you wish you had and what physical ailments if any that you have and your ideas about God and punishment and how you would handle this thing and that thing and the other thing. And I want you to spend months writing it all down; in essay form and questionnaire form and multiple answer form and all of the pages and pages in between. And when you're done; after you've read and re-read and edited and re-edited and had your husband and your mom and your best friend look at it until they just didn't want to know anything more about you, I want you to look at that STACK. It's a pretty hefty stack no doubt. Probably 70 something pages or so. And I want you to ask yourself, 'Is it ALL in there? Does that stack represent WHO I am? After reading it, could you walk away and be able to describe in detail what it means to be Whitney Kay Goble? Satisfied? Ok.
Now I want you to imagine a panel of about 12 people sitting around a table and reading through the 70 pages of notes on your life; yes, all the nitty gritty details, all the boring details, all the in between details.
Now I want you to imagine that panel of people, with that 70 pages of notes spending an hour or two determining if you were 'fit' to be a mother and not only a mother but a mother to several little babies to whom you have already knitted your soul.
Keeping in mind they have never met you. They will likely NEVER meet you. And even if your caseworker does a bang up job and even makes an adorable little scrapbook of you so that they can get a 'feel' of who you are, how could they possibly REALLY know?
They won't have access to your smile or the way you tell a story or the way you make people feel. They will never know what great hugs you give or how passionate you are or how psychotic you can be when you have found that THING; that thing that drives you. They won't ever get to see your kid friendly and fun holiday snacks or how good you are at organizing or how creative you can be or how, at family parties, you can be found on the floor playing checkers with the kids. They won't know about that time you stood, all 5'4'' of you, in between 40 very at risk youth and young adults who were about to start, what most likely would have been a fatal gang fight and talked them down with logic and humor and capri suns. Or that time, in order to keep your staff safe that you had to lock yourself in a room for hours with that boy who was so emotionally disturbed that you weren't sure if he would kill you, or himself first. Or the fact that you get up at 5am every morning just to 'practice' being a mom and the time it will take you to get everything done in order for everyone to have as successful of a day as possible. Or the hours you spend on your knees, in tears, in prayer over the lives of the children who did not come from your womb but who have been born of your heart.
And then I want you to imagine trying to 'RELAX' as the second hand on the clock ticks about 10,800 times while those 12 people read through that 70 pages of notes to try and make 1 decision about the lives and those several little kids and one hopeful mommy and daddy.
Yeah. I didn't think so either.
Now I want you to imagine a panel of about 12 people sitting around a table and reading through the 70 pages of notes on your life; yes, all the nitty gritty details, all the boring details, all the in between details.
Now I want you to imagine that panel of people, with that 70 pages of notes spending an hour or two determining if you were 'fit' to be a mother and not only a mother but a mother to several little babies to whom you have already knitted your soul.
Keeping in mind they have never met you. They will likely NEVER meet you. And even if your caseworker does a bang up job and even makes an adorable little scrapbook of you so that they can get a 'feel' of who you are, how could they possibly REALLY know?
They won't have access to your smile or the way you tell a story or the way you make people feel. They will never know what great hugs you give or how passionate you are or how psychotic you can be when you have found that THING; that thing that drives you. They won't ever get to see your kid friendly and fun holiday snacks or how good you are at organizing or how creative you can be or how, at family parties, you can be found on the floor playing checkers with the kids. They won't know about that time you stood, all 5'4'' of you, in between 40 very at risk youth and young adults who were about to start, what most likely would have been a fatal gang fight and talked them down with logic and humor and capri suns. Or that time, in order to keep your staff safe that you had to lock yourself in a room for hours with that boy who was so emotionally disturbed that you weren't sure if he would kill you, or himself first. Or the fact that you get up at 5am every morning just to 'practice' being a mom and the time it will take you to get everything done in order for everyone to have as successful of a day as possible. Or the hours you spend on your knees, in tears, in prayer over the lives of the children who did not come from your womb but who have been born of your heart.
And then I want you to imagine trying to 'RELAX' as the second hand on the clock ticks about 10,800 times while those 12 people read through that 70 pages of notes to try and make 1 decision about the lives and those several little kids and one hopeful mommy and daddy.
Yeah. I didn't think so either.
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