“The baby died,” Kurt said in a trembling voice.
Kyle’s eyes immediately filled with tears. “Why?” came the question with no answer. Just a few days earlier, Kyle had been making plans to play with his new sibling. Now, he was fumbling to fit the square peg of death into the round hole of life.
I suppose Kurt could have said something about God taking Todd so that He could have another baby in heaven or death being a natural part of life. But he didn’t. Todd had simply died—it happens. And it is sad. So Kurt explained that we had to love Mommy and cry together, which we did in the quiet hospital wing, now dark with sorrow.
We had encountered death before. My beloved grandma died when I was fairly young—but grandmas are supposed to die. My absentee, alcoholic father died during my senior year of high school. But we weren’t close, and I grieved less than I probably should have. Kurt’s best boyhood friend, Don, had been killed in a plane crash at age twenty-one, leaving a young wife and baby behind. And then there was Cheryl, Kurt’s thirty-something aunt, who was like a second mom to him. She knew the cancer would take her, so she asked Kurt and me to sing at her funeral. One of her favorite songs was “Someday You’ll Never Have to Say Good-Bye.” But we were saying good-bye. We wept more than we sang. Thirty-something is too young to die. So is twenty-one. So is the fifth month.
Fast-forward five years. Kurt bounced out the doors of that same hospital, this time joyously leaving the maternity ward heading to our car in the parking lot to pick up Kyle, Shaun, and three-year-old Troy so that they could see Mommy and their new little sister.
Skipping toward our car, Kurt noticed an acquaintance walking in the other direction, heading into the hospital. Remembering the man’s wife had been pregnant, Kurt flashed a big smile. “We just had a girl!” He couldn’t contain himself. “How about you?”
It was not good news. The couple had lost their baby, the little boy desperately wanted after having a girl. Kurt recognized the pain in the man’s voice from our own journey through grief over Todd. He said something about understanding what they were going through. The man gave a faint nod of appreciation before turning down the hall, away from the maternity ward.
It seems strange, but fitting, that our round hole of new life would encounter death’s square peg, forcing its way into another home. Sad for our friend but glad our grief had passed, we knew that it will surely strike our home again. It might take a friend, a parent, a spouse, or our precious little girl. It will probably come unexpectedly, perhaps cruelly, certainly unwelcome. And no matter how hard we try to be strong or try to accept death as natural, we will cry.
A child gets struck down by a drunk driver. Another starves in a war-torn third-world nation, while a third is aborted before given a shot at life.
A woman suffers the cruel deterioration of Alzheimer’s disease. Another passes away peacefully in her sleep, while a third suffocates next to her daughter in a Nazi gas chamber.
A man hacks and coughs his lungs out from cancer caused by a lifetime of smoking. Another wastes away in a nursing home, while a third dies falling from a ladder in a freak accident.
No matter how it happens, we never welcome death. So we try to avoid its terror by pretending—avoiding its truth with lies. We replace tearful silence with well-intentioned but idiotic pep talks. Humble resignation gets drowned out by defiance, denial, or blame.
Finally, in a last-ditch effort to fend off terror, we concoct the final lie: “Even when death comes, it is nothing to fear. Like childbirth, it is a natural part of life’s cycle.”
Of course, deep down, we know better.
I believe that grief and fear are proper responses precisely because death is unnatural. God is the source of life. So life reflects His nature—natural. Death doesn’t—unnatural. Certainly, everyone dies. But the fact that something bad happens to everyone doesn’t make it good. And we never become more aware of what’s wrong than when we grieve over a loved one’s death—or fear our own. Like a hand reacting to a match’s flame, our lives rightfully flinch at death’s assault.
When we went to the nursing home to pick up my mom while she was alive, we walked down a hall one would avoid if possible. Most of the residents there looked to be in the final stages of life—or the early stages of death. Only the electronic glow and competing sounds of sitcoms, game shows, and weather reports infused any illusion of activity. We felt, based upon some people’s reactions there to our noisy children, that the sound of young life seemed unwelcome in this wing, much like in the one down the hall from the maternity ward. The last thing those in death’s waiting room want to hear is children. Their hall is reserved for another kind of crying: the chronic, lonely sorrow of a lie that steals the compassion they deserve. Friends and family ignore most of them. Those who do visit shout silly pep talks about their looking good and the fun of craft class, as if nothing were seriously wrong.
But something is wrong. It is something we fear and something we grieve. As well we should.
I grieved over the loss of baby Todd, the child I never held in my arms.
I grieved over the death of my mother, the woman who once held me in hers.
Someday, I will grieve over other losses—possibly my husband, a dear friend, or even one of my precious children. If not, then they will grieve over me. One way or the other, we will encounter death. And the tears that flow will testify to the wonderful reality that we were made for life.
Not long after losing Todd, I gave birth to Troy. A few years later, Nicole arrived. We gave her the middle name Joy as a fitting reminder of what new life brings to a family.
Some look at our clan as we get out of our minivan and marvel at such a large family. In an age when the average woman has only one child, I understand the reaction. And, yes, it is a lot of work. Every child brings his own demands and challenges. Every mother, whether they have one child or ten, knows the kind of sacrifice parenting requires.
In fact, it demands a different type of death. The sort described in Paul’s letter to the Philippians.
Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus, who . . . made Himself of no reputation, taking the form of a bondservant. . . . He humbled Himself and became obedient to the point of death, even the death of the cross.
PHILIPPIANS 2:5–8, NKJV
We, like Christ, have been called to lay aside concern for reputation, become a servant, humble ourselves, and become obedient—even to the point of death. So, in what I consider one of the great ironies of motherhood, we are called to die to ourselves in order to give life to others. Be it one child, four, or a dozen—motherhood gives us the opportunity to redeem the tears of death by bringing and nurturing life.
Throughout most of history a woman often risked her life giving birth—infusing great relevance to Christ’s example. But even those of us who delivered children in the relative safety of a modern hospital are called to lay our lives down on a daily basis that through our “death” they might be given life.
Paul goes on to explain that, after Christ humbled and sacrificed himself for us, God “has highly exalted Him and given Him the name which is above every name.”
He does the same for you and me. Our willingness to “die” on behalf of our children earns us the right to wear a title above nearly every other. The life-giving name “mommy.”
* * *
Mini-Tip
DEATH TO SELF
Set aside some time in the coming week to meditate on Philippians chapter 2. Offer your life to God as one willing to follow Christ’s example of dying to self in order to give life to your family and others through service and sacrifice. Memorize the chapter in order to maintain a biblical perspective on motherhood—remembering that you have been called to love your family more than yourself.
Conclusion
For several years our family played a little game that my husband invented to occupy time and keep the kids from picking on one another during minivan drives. Kurt shouted a question about wh
ich family member possessed the most of a given characteristic. The kids then raced to shout a response, with an unspoken expectation that everyone would answer in unison. It went like this:
KURT: Who’s the tallest?
CHILDREN: Dad is!
Until recently, Dad had that one in the bag. But our oldest recently passed him by about an inch; coincidentally, the question no longer is asked. Other questions, however, are still in play.
KURT: Who’s the hockey-est?
CHILDREN: Troy is!
Although hockey-est is not an actual word, they got the point. Troy is a sports nut and star of his hockey team.
KURT: Who’s the inventor?
CHILDREN: Shaun is!
Our second son has been coming up with inventions for everything from military weapons to high-tech gadgets since he was tiny. So he always won that one.
DAD: Who’s the prettiest?
CHILDREN: Mom is!
I had no problem winning that one until Nicole came along, forcing Kurt to create a new category.
DAD: Who’s the princess?
CHILDREN: Nicole is!
For the longest time we enjoyed this little game together, covering every imaginable characteristic the members of our family possessed. At least every imaginable positive characteristic, since the intent was to reinforce a healthy sense of identity and affirm how God uniquely gifted each member of the family. That’s why it surprised me the time Kurt shouted a characteristic that seemed to violate the game’s objective.
DAD: Who’s the smartest?
Caught off guard, I turned to look at Kurt. He figured the kids would immediately shout, “Dad is!”
A split second later, our then six-year-old shouted a different response.
SHAUN: Mom is!
With a gigantic smile on my face, I peered out the corner of my eye at Kurt. He looked deeply hurt. Concealing his wounded pride while clearing his throat, Kurt looked at Shaun in the rearview mirror and asked. “Shaun, I agree that Mommy is smart. I mean, she graduated from college and was a schoolteacher and all. But I have to ask, why did you immediately say Mommy is the smartest?”
“Because,” Shaun proclaimed without hesitation, “she always knows when I have to go to the bathroom!”
My self-assured grin dropped as Kurt’s frown turned into a smile. I knew what he was thinking: Well, at least Dad is still smartest when it comes to the important stuff!
If “the important stuff” is so important, why didn’t it show up at the top of Shaun’s list? He didn’t mention Kurt’s graduate degree, stack of sophisticated books he’s written, or ability to calculate gas mileage on long trips. But then, neither did Shaun care about my college diploma, elementary education certificate, or ability to teach piano lessons. From Shaun’s vantage point, the only thing that really matters is that Mom knows and responds to his needs. And that makes me the undisputed smartest!
What would happen if we gave mothers their due recognition? In academia, those who invest the years of sacrifice and discipline necessary to master a given academic field receive letters to follow their names. Kurt, for example, has an M.A. in theology because he invested three years beyond undergraduate school studying apologetics, church history, Greek, epistemology, and the rest. Our good friend Doug invested a decade of his life earning a Ph.D. in philosophy from the University of Southern California. When Doug finished his dissertation, he could rightfully claim to be the world’s foremost authority on his specific topic. Hence, they call him Dr. Gievett.
Contrary to an increasingly common perception, those who hit the pause button on their careers to bear and raise children are not wasting their educations. Nor are they demonstrating a lack of intelligence, ability, or initiative. Like Dr. Gievett, they have committed themselves to dedicate the time and discipline needed to become the world’s foremost authority on one or more specific topics. By having my four children I enrolled myself in a very long, arduous curriculum. To earn any letters behind my name I would first need to earn a quadruple major by becoming the smartest person on the planet in the disciplines titled Kyle, Shaun, Troy, and Nicole. Unlike theology, philosophy, physics, mathematics, biology, economics, or any other field of knowledge, however, my field has no formal textbooks or academic adviser to guide me along the way. It is the most challenging form of higher education; 100 percent self-directed study. No sitting in class listening to a professor lecture. No skimming textbooks for the right answer before a quiz. Just me staring into a microscope to discover the wonder and majesty of four creative masterpieces.
So why shouldn’t I have letters behind my name, indicating a level of academic proficiency motherhood deserves? After all, years can pass in which nobody asks Kurt what he knows about the Arian Controversy. I’m certain months go by before Doug is called upon to explain the difference between an ontological and teleological argument. But not a day passes that I don’t help the kids make it to the toilet on time.
Who wants a Ph.D. when you can have A.K.A. MOM behind your name?
DAD: Who’s the smartest?
Well, when it comes to the really important stuff, Mom is.
My husband and I helped cofound a ministry called the Heritage Builders Association, in part to help those, like me, who hope to give something better to their children than they may have received themselves. We try to help parents understand the multigenerational cycle taking place in every home.
By way of definition, a heritage is the emotional, spiritual, and relational legacy that is passed from parent to child . . . good or bad. We all receive one. We all give one. The question is whether we are being intentional about keeping and passing the good we received and strengthening or replacing the bad in order to give something better to our children.
As one who did not have her spiritual, emotional, or social needs met at home, I can’t express strongly enough how important little things can be in the formation of a child’s security, confidence, and character. But doing the little things to meet my children’s spiritual, emotional, and social needs takes intentional effort. It wasn’t modeled by my parents for me when I was a child, so it doesn’t come naturally to me today. In essence, I am trying to give something I never received. But, as J. Otis Ledbetter shares in his book titled Your Heritage, that is precisely the point:
It just doesn’t seem fair, does it? Some were given a wonderful, healthy, positive heritage—a beautiful gown. Others were handed rags. There are people for whom the process of passing a solid heritage is a natural outgrowth of who they are. Others can’t even fathom the experience of positive family living. The good news is that anyone can give a positive heritage. The bad news is that the process of doing so will be much harder for some than others.
You can give what you didn’t get. But doing so requires a choice. You can elect to remain a passive victim to your past, or move on to a bright future. The former requires less effort, but more pain. The latter is hard work, but reaps great long-term rewards, for you and for future generations.*
Perhaps you are a mom trying to make the sacrifices necessary to meet the spiritual, emotional, and social needs of your children without the benefit of having had them met for you. Maybe you, like I, wonder whether it is worth the effort. Does anyone even notice? Does anyone have any idea how difficult and thankless it can be trying to meet everyone else’s needs all the time?
In truth, people probably have no idea. And they likely don’t notice. Which is why I wrote this book. I want to celebrate the hectic joys of motherhood. Hectic because they are rarely planned and often uninvited. Joys because they are always meaningful, even when obtained through the sheer grit of serving the needs of my children when I’d rather be shopping, napping, or actually finishing the cup of tea I intended to drink when I sat in front of the fireplace to read a good book. I want moms to take a few moments to reflect upon just how important they are and just how much joy they can derive from little moments—milking all the encouragement possible from a child, who can consider ev
ery person he or she knows on the planet and without hesitation unwittingly crown Mom “the smartest.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
OLIVIA BRUNER and her husband are in the middle of “the minivan years” with their own four children. As a featured author and speaker for the Heritage Builders Association, she inspires parents to celebrate the hectic joys of parenting and become intentional about giving a strong heritage to the next generation. A former sixth grade teacher, Olivia is a popular speaker for parents and educators and has been a frequent guest on the Focus on the Family broadcast. To learn more about Olivia, visit www.oliviabruner.com.
* “Healthy Dining,” The Foster Letter: Religious Market Update, Christian ministry executives newsletter, edited and published by Gary D. Foster, Van Wert, OH, July 10, 2006, p. 2. (back to text)
* “Miracle Girl,” Time, August 31, 1987. (back to text)
* John T. Trent, Bedtime Blessings, vol. 2 (Colorado Springs: Focus on the Family Publishing, 2001), p. 86. Reprinted with permission. (back to text)
* Kurt Bruner, “Birthing Narnia,” Boundless Webzine, 2005, http://www.boundless.org/2005/articles/a0001182.cfm; C. S. Lewis, On Stories and Other Essays on Literature, edited by Walter Hooper (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1982). (back to text)
* Steve Farkas, Jean Johnson, and Ann Duffett, with Leslie Wilson and Jackie Vine, A Lot Easier Said Than Done: Parents Talk about Raising Children in Today’s America (N.p.: Public Agenda, 2002). (back to text)
* J. Otis Ledbetter and Kurt Bruner, Your Heritage (Colorado Springs: Cook Communications Ministries, 1999), p. 183. (back to text)
The Minivan Years Page 11