Fannie Dubois, Gone Carter

I’m Fanny Dubois now. Fanny Carter is concretely a person of the past.

I miss my bed the most, our bed, Jack’s and mine. It was the perfect bed. I have slept on firmer matresses, with down comforters and fat pillows. But it is my queen-sized, aging mattress with the hand-me-down headboard that still holds my heart. I miss the large spheres on the posts at the corners; I loved how they fit perfectly in my palm as I walked by. I’d press my palm wholly to the orb and somehow felt more grounded as a result. Over time, I rubbed away the finish with this ritual.

I loved it when the navy blue cotton sheets were clean; they were coolest at bedtime, unhindered by lint and fuzz that collected over time. But when Jack traveled, I preferred the sheets with a week’s worth of sleep on them. Jack’s pillow held his scent. It wasn’t cologne, because he never wore any. It was just the essence of him and his pomade. Actually, when we met, when we were dating, and even when we first married, I didn’t like the smell. But over time, the musk and oil became a comfort to my soul – a “mentholatum” for my stuffy heart – especially when he was gone.

I miss lying next to Jack with our white stitched quilt over us. It was barely wide enough to cover the sides of the mattress when the bed was made, let alone when we were in it. But it’s soft and bumpy texture made me happy. It was light, so we didn’t sweat, but had enough weight to hold us there together. I miss everything about that bed.

Jack died six years ago, and here I lie in a strange hotel bed with a new husband on our wedding night. Lance is wonderful, and I love him. But this bed is not ours, and I don’t yet like how he smells.

Forgiveness vs. Change

More than forgiven, I need to be changed.

It was a summer of regretted tempers. I love my kids; anyone who knows me knows how much I deeply love and cherish my kids. But these days, their childish behaviors and childlike foibles have been like pebbles stacked high, tipping the teeter-totter of my equilibrium. It has gone so far south that I have heard morning prayers for the boys escaping my lips with the tag, “…and help mommy not lose her crackers today” – a new low.

To be fair, it is not unreasonable for my temper to have been challenged. First of all, in addition to the realities of 24/7 summer parenting hours, my husband traveled more than usual in June, July and August. Solo parenting: Approximate weight in stress = fifteen pebbles. Secondly, we have had a string of unfortunate events in our household lately. The boys broke a window in their room while wrestling on the bed – an activity that previously had been prohibited in that location due to its placement next to two windows. Twenty-two pebbles. The boys broke the heavy-duty, three-foot hinge, which secured the lid onto their pine toy box, by jumping on the lid when too many toys prevented its even closure. Forty Pebbles. The boys painted their feet blue with a staining, water-based paint intended for woodworking crafts. To their credit, they were outside when they painted their feet. But then they decided to come in and show me their artistic expression, walking their blue peds all over the linoleum and carpet. We rent. EIGHTY-NINE HUNDRED PEBBLES.

My crackers erupted like a volcano after that last experience. I sought refuge in my walk-in closet, regaining composure and praying for supernatural help. Like many moms, I find myself running to make a quick connection with the Lord, vent my plate of pebbles and expect a mood-altering response of grace that includes unrealistic patience, unending kindness and a nice, steady heart rate. While I might find center for about two minutes, I spew cracker-crumb lava again as soon as the kids, who haven’t sought the same help, repeat their offenses. I need a miracle of lasting change.

In September, Tom Hughes, who is one of the pastors at my church, preached from the gospel of John, using the text that begins the day after Jesus had fed thousands of followers with a miracle multiplication of bread and fish. The crowds were clamoring for more. They embodied a host of desperate needs, and they wanted their cravings to be indulged by the magic man. “Jesus replied, I tell you the truth, you want to be with me because I fed you, not because you understood the miraculous signs. But don’t be so concerned about perishable things like food. Spend your energy seeking the eternal life that the Son of Man can give you” (John 6:26-27).

I have to compartmentalize my theology in order to apply Jesus’ words to my heart. I believe that my God cares about the nitty-gritty details of my daily struggles – that He delights to engage, pacify and intervene. Concurrently, I believe that the nitty-gritty details of my life simply do not matter in light of the greater actions of a God whose personal ultimate sacrifice results in my redemption. One belief without the other creates an opportunity either to take advantage of God’s grace, or on the other hand, to miss the beauty of a relationship with the eternal Immanuel.

More than forgiven, I need to be changed.

I wonder, though, if by retreating to an internal space that includes God and his “gimmies,” I am missing the finer points of eternal life. Forgiveness, redemption and life after death are immeasurably valuable. But if there is not a daily benefit to living for Christ while still on earth, then I am left questioning God’s intention with his creation. For this mom with three young kids, it is the need for change that outweighs my need for forgiveness in the here and now. I don’t want to make the same damaging mistakes over and over and over again. I need an eternally available source of moment-by-moment life. I need eternal life.

More than forgiven, I need to be changed.

Think of it this way: If I yell at my children, I can be forgiven when I ask for it, erasing the marks against me, removing my pebbles from the scale. I go unpunished, but not without consequence. My children bear those scars. And so my cold, inanimate, rock-hard heart screams for an exchange only Jesus can offer. I need a heart of flesh, not a refillable plate of pebbles. That is why I need the miracle maker. Not to wow me, but to transform me. Transformation takes time, attention, grace and application. That was Jesus’ point to the crowd who wanted more alluring charms. He said the signs and wonders are nothing without relationship with the source. Just like ordinary bread, the Bread of Life requires daily consumption to provide balanced nutrition. Gorging in the closet cannot provide what I need. Instead, I need to spend my energy, consciously, regularly and intentionally seeking a God who delights to engage, pacify and intervene, but most of all, a God who delights to feed.

More than forgiven, I need to be changed.

Jessie & Rick

Today Jessie resigned herself to meat pie for dinner. She was facing the fact that gourmet meals, braised, sautéed, poached or otherwise, made no good impression on her young husband. Rick was an oilman who lived in coveralls, grease-stained like his fingernails. He was a meat-and-potatoes-at-the-dinette-table kind of guy. Shepherd pie and King of the Hill of TV. A “Thanks for dinner” and a pinch-on-the-tush sweetheart.

Jessie tried to spruce up the bachelor-pad-gone-coed since their wedding, but there’s not much that can be done to improve a room whose singular piece of art was a neon beer sign. She was young – a woman on the old side of girl with glossy black hair pulled into a ponytail that was backcombed at the crown. Her cheekbones were high and pink with blush like pale roses. Ever since eighth grade, Jessie had worn Cover Girl’s “Petal Silk” because it matched the color of the roses her mother planted to celebrate her conception. Hers was the well-planned mother who owned a flag for every season and holiday, proudly displaying hearts, shamrocks, birthday cakes and snowmen at the appropriate times.

Jessie had grown-up to get married, make a home and start a family. Rick married for warm dinners, clean socks, frequent sex and dead-of-sleep cuddles. As Jessie sat at the kitchen table, she sipped lemonade, planned meals for the week and made out a grocery list. She was distracted by memories of their morning kiss when Rick pulled her close gently securing her body next to his with one strong arm embracing her back and hips. As her eyes focused again on the notepad where she had written a seven-day menu, she sighed and crossed out each entry. Where she had first written “pasta primavera” she scribbled “Hamburger Helper.” “Shrimp and vegetable ka-bobs” became “fish sticks and canned corn.” “Parmesan crusted steak with asparagus and rice” became “meat pies and canned peaches.”

Jessie held her glass of lemonade, now sweaty with condensation, and stared into the wood grains exposed by the wearing table varnish. She added “tin foil pie plate” to her list and headed for Safeway.