Gobbling up the Gratitude

Ten years of Thanksgiving at the Forster home.   My Forster home.  Oh, how my heart swells with gratitude for the man who made me a Forster and for all the blessings God has seen fit to dole out upon us along the way.

This is our tenth year of marriage and our tenth Thanksgiving meal to host together.  I didn't write down the first three, but here are the most recent six, if you're curious and you have 42 minutes to read them (though, I can't imagine that's what you want to do with your 42 minutes).  

2014
2013
 2012
2011
2010
2009

It is so very nice to look back and see what we did when -when I had energy and when I was tired; when we were traditional and when we were edgy; when I had lots of help and when I went it alone.

This year is different - they all are - but this one feels more different.  We very recently lost a dear, godly man, my step father, and so we are giving thanks in the midst of grief.  Even before this loss, we had decided to be a bit non traditional in menu this year, and now it seems even more fitting.  We will raise a glass to D, and eat good things as we give thanks to our Creator. 

To the menu: 

To my friends who have had abortions

Dearest friends, 

I love you. God loves you.  

You feel judged right now, during this flurry about abortion.  I get it.  Completely.  When the world is up in arms about something, and you see it in your past, it hurts.  It stings like lemon juice in a paper cut.  And naturally so.  I'm sure all the big game trophy hunters feel judged right now too. 

You are not being judged.  You are not being judged by me, for sure, but are you are also not being judged by the larger pro-life movement.  This movement and this moment are not about judging you.  
It feels that way, for sure. And I'm not trying to take that away from you, but I want you to grant the benefit of the doubt here and trust that I'm genuine when I say that for the vast majority of "us", you are not being judged.  

This is what is being judged:  The practice and practitioners of abortion.  Is it rare? (No).  Is it legal (Apparently not, even with our embracing of it through our laws; even they are too stringent to be followed).  Is it safe (for whom?).  And, yes, is it moral?  (No. Value attaches to human life at its beginning.)  

I sin most every day.  So does everyone around us.  God is not pleased with that sin.  I am not pleased with it in myself, my children, or anyone I know.  And likely, neither are you.  

I am puffed up with pride, I am unkind to my husband, I am impatient with my children, I am uncharitable to a myriad of folks, I fall into gossip, I am a glutton, I am lazy.  And if I list all my past and "bigger" sins, well, it wouldn't be ladylike.  But, if you want to have coffee and believe I am a real-live sinner, I'll be glad to give you a clear picture.  

But, in the end, I am forgiven.  And I am better than I was.  And so can you be.  As soon as it is asked, forgiveness is granted. This is the gospel, friends.  Jesus Christ came to die for sinners, and through Him the Father forgives all.  And abortion is no different.  It is not a good thing.  It is a baby in there, a fact admitted by even the most callous of the Planned Parenthood doctors.  "It's another boy," one practitioner said in the most recent of videos released this morning.  And killing babies is bad.  But it is far from unforgivable.  All is forgivable.  Go, find Jesus, and be free and forgiven. 

But, please hear me. I am not angry at you for having an abortion.  I have been in a situation to contemplate it myself, and I understand the darkness and fear that puts you in that position. I have loved and respected many women who have had abortions.  I am not angry at you.  And you need not confess to me. 

I am, however, angry at the folks who have lied to many women and told them that this was good.  I am angry that they are tearing apart little people and selling their pieces and parts. I am angry that our lawmakers are chickendung and won't deal with this.  I am angry at myself for not being outspoken.  I am angry at people in the prolife camp for at times acting ridiculous and sullying the name of the position.  I am angry at the Church and many myriad of institutions for failing to support women, for employing shame and judgment and apathy, rather than justice and mercy and grace and support.  I am angry at men for failing to be fathers.  So, if you hear anger from me, know where it is directed. 
It is red-hot anger at times.  But, I am not angry at you.  I promise. 

Anne Lamott, who has a way with words, tweeted today that she stands with women, with the born, with Planned Parenthood.  

Well, Anne and I have a few things in common, though I can't get my hair to do quite like that and I'll never be that cool and she keeps misspelling her first name.  But, she's got it wrong here.  Love is not avoidance of truth; and, the gospel requirements of mercy and justice don't begin with children who are wanted or who are twenty-nine weeks gestation or who have taken their first breath.  The gospel requirements of justice and mercy extend to all those created imago dei, and that means the poor, the orphan, and the person who is so small he is still living inside someone else's body. 

I stand with women.  I stand with the born.  I stand with the unborn.  I stand with those who have left the life of abortion-provider.  I stand with you.

I do not stand with Planned Parenthood, and neither should you, friend.  A mistake doesn't forever tie you to a monster.  A brief moment of culpability does not shackle you for life.  There is not scarlet letter upon your chest.  And if you feel as though there is, come visit me.  I'll be glad to make a batch of something ice cold and tell you about how wonderful it is to burn that red A in the comfort of a Savior's redemption. 

It's over.  Be free. Rest.  And, above all, be thankful. 

all my love,
Ann Lowrey

Nine Years

Wonderful people surrounded us then and surround us now, rooting us on. 

Mawiage.  Mawaige is what brings us togever today.  Mawiage  - that blessed awangement, that dweam within a dweam.  

A few years ago, I wrote a letter to the children about marriage; I posted it here.   I'd still say all of it, though, with four and half more years has come four and a half more measures of wisdom.  Just eleventy thousand measures left to gain. 

Paul and I have been married nine years today, and we are learning, daily, what it is to be married.  I imagine we'll be learning that until sixty-six years from now, when we've reached our diamond anniversary.  And then we'll die happy and not care anymore about learning how to be married.

He's been making that face at things I've asked him to do for nine whole years now.  

One principle about marriage that has struck me recently is the bravery it requires.  Father Ollie Rencher, who married us those many moons ago, preached our wedding homily on courage and bravery.  Because we were twenty-one years old and courage is an acceptable homily topic, while the stupidity of youth is not.  We were so stupid, though Ollie didn't say it or mean it.

 Marriage is bravery, though.  It is courage.  It is not the bravery and courage of knights or generals.  It is the bravery of the martyrs.

The courage of marriage is a willingness to  die daily.  I married a good man - like a shockingly good man - much better than I, and he dies to self every day.  He loves his church, his children, his cities (both the one we live in and the one for which he works), his friends, his house.  He loves me more though.  And the bravery comes when we'd rather have a different order of priorities. 

I love my children, St. Augustine School, my friends, my church, but I love Paul Forster more.  Or at least I'm called to love him more. 

Bravery is daily arranging the priorities correctly.  Why is this courageous?  Because sometimes we don't deserve that love.  We aren't loveable.  And to love someone is to be vulnerable to him.  And so, every day, whether Paul is awesome or not, loving him is putting him above all else and therefore making myself vulnerable to his non-awesomeness.  And doing that with the joy required, well, makes the knights and generals look a little bit pale and pitiful. 

We said marriage vows nine years ago today, and we meant them.  You know, like children mean promises around Christmas.  But, every day since then, we've had to mean them again.  It is only through an undeserved measure of God's grace that we can enter into the terrifying gap of the permanent reordering of our priorities.  But, it must be done. 

There have been many days in which one or both of us have chickened out.  Many, many days.  But, by and large, we have miraculously,

bravely gone where many men and women have gone before.  New every morning.   And this brave entering has returned to us a measure of happiness that no one deserves. 

Today I give thanks for a homily that rings in my ears, for a husband who looks at me as a partner in all things, and most for a Lord who has chosen to bless the idiocy of a couple of kids. 

Cheers to Paul William, the best husband in the galaxy. 

Battle Picking

As a young(er)  mother, I often heard the chorus, "You have to pick your battles."  I still hear it all the time.  I say it pretty regularly as well.  I read it on many a facebook status and as the moral of the story in quite a few essays - both in the parenting world and elsewhere. And, I've been noticing something... and thought, why not add to the conversation.  ;)

I have done some etymology hunting, and it's not really clear, but the phrase means what you'd think it means.  To do an effective job, you cannot be stretched too thin.  You have to choose which places to put up a fight, because if you choose them all, you will exhaust your resources and lose the war.  In actual warcraft, these resources are men, weapons, money, food.  In parenting, the resources are primarily emotional. 


If we fight every battle at the same time all day, we will exhaust ourselves emotionally.  We will strain our relationships with our children, and we won't have enough left in us to smile, or love our spouses, or fight the next day's battles. 

promises

The scene is 2008.  It is fall time, and Ada Brooks is four years old and in a sweet little K4 class at St. Luke's, the sweetest preschool ever there was.  I am a young mother with an old soul.  Paul and Eason are also around.  Collins is an embryo.  This is a picture from that time.  She is *little*. 

Ada Bee gets in the car one day with me and says, "May I go to a Hannah Montana concert?" 

"Probably not." 
"Why not? Kate Donahoe is going to a Hannah Montana concert." 
"Well, I don't know who Hannah Montana is, and if you're going to a concert, it will likely be someone I've heard of, and remember, we don't do everything everyone else does."
"Okay, but Kate Donahoe is cool." 
"I'm glad Kate is cool."  


Two weeks later, she got in the car again.  

"May I have my ears pierced?"
"No."
"Why not?  Kate Donahoe has her ears pierced."
"No.  Hush about Kate Donahoe."
"But Kate Donahoe is cool."
"I'm sure she is.  No earrings till you're older." 
"How old?"  

And here, friends, was the fatal mistake. 

"You can get them pierced six weeks before Easter of sixth grade.  That way you can take out your piercing studs and wear pretty, new earrings on Easter morning.  I got mine pierced six weeks before Sixth Grade graduation, but who knows if you'll have sixth grade graduation, so we'll go with Easter." 

"Okay, great.  I'll tell Kate Donahoe." 

"Okay.  Great.  Tell Kate."  



And that was the end of the Kate Donahoe coolness and of the Ears Piercing conversation.  


Fast Forward until 2013. 

"Mama - can I have my ears pierced for my tenth birthday?  Sarah's having hers pierced for her tenth birthday." 

"No.  Not yet, sweetie." 

"Okay,  I guess I'll wait another year and a half. 

"Wait wait - what?" 

"Next spring, I'll be in sixth grade and so I'll have my ears pierced on February 18, 2015."

"What now?" 

"Remember, Mama.  You said, when I was four, that I could have them pierced on Ash Wednesday of Sixth Grade.  That's February 18, 2015." 

And, so I did.  I blame Kate Donahoe's coolness.  I blame my impulsive naiveté.  I blame Ada Brooks's elephant-never-forgets brain.  But, most of all, I blame reality.  They're going to get big and leave at some point, and apparently, with pierced ears along the way.  There is an artist I like, named Shannon Curfman.  She sings a song called, 'I don't make promises I can't break.'  It's an inappropriate for this situation broken hearted love balad, but...  the sentiment rings true.  I should quit making promises I have to keep.  Lordy. 


(If you enjoy raspy, bluesy rock, you should take a listen anyway.  Shannon probably had her ears pierced when she was very young.  No way she could sing like this if she hadn't.) 

So, yesterday we all five (no Paul) traipsed out to Merle Norman (where I got my ears pierced some number of years ago).  There she sat, on February 18, 2015, and had little holes punched in her little girl earl lobes.  Except they're big girl ear lobes. 
I didn't cry. 
I actually feel myself letting go. 

Now she is this big. 

I'm glad God sent me a baby girl to ease the transition for me. 

In 2026, when Elsa Gray will be in sixth grade, Easter will again be on April 5th.  Ash Wednesday will again be on February 18th. 

And then, I might not be so stoic.