March for Babies 2016

Saturday we walked. Our family of four, along with thousands of other people, and found their way to Norbuck Park at White Rock Lake in Dallas. And, honestly, just getting there was no small feat for us – getting everyone up early, fed, dressed, coated in sunscreen, driving almost an hour, riding the shuttle bus, finding the starting line in the sea of people and tents.

But then we started walking. It amazed me that so many people care so much about helping more babies have healthy starts in life. And I wondered how many stories of pain and grief and struggle were walking all around us in brightly colored shirts lifting up the babies born too soon.

Along our 5-mile route, there were signs in honor or in memory of the babies. I pointed out the first one to our 5-year-old, James, because I wanted him to understand why we were taking this “big walk.”

“Look, honey. Do you see that sign with the picture of the baby? That baby was born too early, but look – there’s another picture of them as a big kid. Isn’t it amazing how they grew up so strong!”

He seemed to get it. Then came another sign, this one with only a picture of a tiny baby, almost completely obscured by tubes and wires and gauze.

“What about that baby?” he asked.

“Well, that baby came too soon and went to God.” I could feel the tears prickle in my eyes. I looked at him to see if I should say anything else.

After all, it was just a week or so ago that I had talked to him about the big walk we were going to go on, to help other families who had a baby come too soon like his brother. And, there in the darkness of his room as we snuggled, sharing breath with our heads close together, eyes shining in the dim glow of his nightlight, he had asked, “My brother?”

He was confused. We’ve always been open and honest about Brennan, our baby who died, but it also doesn’t come up every day, so I understood. And it feels like a part of my calling as a mom is to keep Brennan’s memory alive –if I don’t persevere in speaking his name and remembering his life and telling his story, it will fade from all consciousness.

But that night, I just tried to answer simply, “Yes, you had another brother. He came too soon and went home to God.”

“Oh.”

We kept walking. The last time I participated in a March for Babies, James was in a stroller, and I had enjoyed chatting with another mom, who was pushing her twins along. And it hadn’t seemed like 5 miles. It passed in the blink of an eye and the retelling of birth stories.

But this past Saturday, I felt every step. I don’t think I had really noted that it was a 5. Mile. Walk. I had brought the stroller for Ethan, our 19 month old, but didn’t have anything available for James. Poor kid. He held up for the first mile, then we jostled our arrangements, pulling out of the steady stream of mothers, fathers, kids, grandparents, dogs, strollers, and wagons. We put James in the stroller, where his long legs nearly touched the ground, and tried to persuade Ethan into a carrier I could wear. He agreed to that for almost a half mile, then we had to rearrange again. So we settled into a rotation for Ethan between my arms or Andy’s shoulders or the stroller. James would get to ride in the stroller for a while, then walk for a while, and finally get a ride on daddy’s shoulders.

And in the midst of all of this, I was passing around snacks – raisins, graham crackers, squeezable fruit pouches, cereal bars – and water. I wondered if my family would ever forgive me for dragging them into this.

For all of our logistical difficulties, the day was beautiful – overcast and cool, with many sweet breezes to rustle the leaves of the big trees and propel the sailboats on the lake. My husband uses an app that tracks his speed and route for his bike rides and he had turned it on for our March. I feel like our 2.5 mile/hour pace was incredibly respectable.

James enjoyed grabbing water bottles at the pit stops and ended up watering a tree toward the end of the walk. I shook my head, while appreciating the ease of that task for boys.

We finally completed our loop, passing under a bridge and pausing for a family selfie before heading back through the March for Babies arch. There was music blaring and snacks offered. There were lots of teams enjoying hot dogs, hamburgers, or boxed lunches, but we headed straight for the shuttle buses since it was close to lunch time and we needed to get our crew home, fed, and into bed for naps.

That night, as James and I lay in his bed as a part of the night-night ritual, he started talking about our day.

“There were so many signs,” he said.

“I know. Too many babies are born too soon. We raised money to help that not happen so much,” I replied.

“We did?!”

“Yes. Do you know how much we raised?”

“No, how much?”

“We raised $401.”

“Wow! That’s a lot of money.”

“I know, baby. I’m very happy that we were able to help so much.”

I am so deeply grateful to everyone who gave toward our family’s efforts this year – Chuck Aaron, Martha Myre, Sue Dillon, Mary and Gary Wright, Patria Lopez, Jared Williams, Kay Anderson, and an anonymous donor. I know that there are a lot of asks out there and many good causes, but your choice to support this March for Babies helps our family do good in Brennan’s name. And for however long we are able to do that, he is not forgotten. The Dallas March for Babies raised $879,407 and you helped make that happen.

I am also deeply grateful for the less tangible, but no less meaningful ways that my community has supported our family – prayers, hugs, listening ears, shared tears.

One of my favorite gurus is Glennon Doyle Melton and she has a word for this – it’s brutiful. It’s brutal and beautiful all at once and wrapped together and that doesn’t mean it’s worth any less. By the grace of God, we take the broken, shattered things and transform them into means of grace and love. Glory be!

So, if you ask me how the walk went, the answer, more simply than this long recap, is this – It was brutiful. 

Are we listening?

As a preschooler’s mom, I often say, “Are you listening to me?” When my son says yes, I usually follow up with, “What did I say?” Although a logical part of my mind knows better, the busy, everyday part thinks that if my child will just listen, then he will do as I say.

Writing that makes me laugh. He is my child, and this from the woman who had a heart-to-heart with the Southern Baptist pastor who presided at the wedding to share that she was not going to say “obey” in her vows. I listen to my husband, but that doesn’t mean I obey.

Reflecting on this as a parent, I saw a Facebook post from Momastery, a blog by Glennon Melton. She wrote, “My suspicion is that we all THINK we're listening when what we're really doing is simply waiting another person out so we can say our piece. So we can bring things back to us, so we can explain why we're righter, so we can fix things and fit them to our already established schema.”

When I was training as a Stephen Minister, one of our core practices was listening. We were to receive whatever was shared with us. Most people don’t feel heard on a regular basis. But for those who are experiencing difficult transitions – divorce, loss, diagnosis – the confidence of knowing there is at least one person who is really listening is a blessing.

Have you ever known a gifted listener? I met one early on in my ministry, when I was just fumbling toward God’s calling for my life. He let me pour out my heart, never giving any indication that he may have anything else to do but hear what I was saying. Over time, I noticed that he had this gift even in crowds. He was never one to look over your head, scouting out a better networking opportunity. Instead, he was completely there, present to the moment, listening to you.

Long before we had the gift of inexpensive written words thanks to Mr. Gutenberg which led to higher literacy rates, ancient peoples told stories. Experts usually call this an oral culture, that their histories and identities were conveyed by word of mouth. But I suggest that rather than an oral culture, ancient peoples had aural cultures, based on hearing.

Early in our Scriptures, we read, “Hear therefore, O Israel, and observe them diligently, so that it may go well with you, and so that you may multiply greatly in a land flowing with milk and honey, as the Lord, the God of your ancestors, has promised you. Hear, O Israel: The Lord is our God, the Lord alone. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might. Keep these words that I am commanding you today in your heart. Recite them to your children and talk about them when you are at home and when you are away, when you lie down and when you rise. Bind them as a sign on your hand, fix them as an emblem on your forehead, and write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates” (Deuteronomy 6:3-9).

“Hear,” “observe,” “hear,” and “keep” are used before “recite,” “talk,” “bind,” “fix,” and “write.” God asks God’s people to listen first, to keep these words in their hearts, before they take any steps toward speaking, even to their children. It’s the course of wisdom, and especially convicting for this pastor who has a tendency to speak first.

Melton’s post shared some words from Mark Nepo: “To listen is to continually give up all expectation and to give our attention, completely and freshly, to what is before us, not really knowing what we will hear or what that will mean. In the practice of our days, to listen is to lean in, softly, with a willingness to be changed by what we hear.”

Imagine if we really listened that way – to God, to our families, to our friends, to our enemies, and beyond. How might we be challenged and change and grow?

So this week, I’m going to stop trying to get my son to listen to me so much and I’m going to listen to him instead. When he struggles to tell me how sad it made him when a friend wouldn’t share with him, I’ll do my best to listen patiently. I can’t wait to see how I might change by leaning in. Consider to whom you might listen. I pray it becomes an avenue of blessing.