Queen Kelley

My dear King forwarded me this link. Number 3 is the best news I’ve heard since reading that dark chocolate is good for you. And I don’t even have back pain, or any chronic pain for that matter. Even so, it’s good to know that my chocolate/sweets addiction isn’t all bad. As I sit here enjoying my soy frozen dessert (yes, you read that right; Ladybug’s tummy isn’t fond of dairy, so I have to be creative while nursing!), I can’t quite feel all my troubles melt away. But at least my taste buds are happy.

THE BIG “WHY?”
Why do little children suffer?
Perhaps of all questions this is the hardest.
The little ones of Vietnam,
Who do not know the meaning of the conflict,
But who know it all too well.
The little ones who have neither bread nor heat
And without blame suffer inside and out.
The little ones who are dreadfully sick
Who cry out in hurt and pain.
The little ones just old enough to know enough
To endure heroically, and to fight back manfully.
For adults who have shared in sin,
And here and there have failed to do
What they should have done,
And who perhaps each one carries within himself
Some reason for blame or punishment—
For them to suffer is to some degree understandable,
But why? Why, God, should wonderful, little
Innocent, helpless children suffer?
Why?
Let one who has stood beside
His own dear child and daily
Watched him endure in his body
Pain and suffering—
Let such a one talk, and
I will try to listen.
But, please, no glib answer from one
Who has not entered a child’s suffering.
Perhaps for me, this is the largest of questions.
Perhaps only God can answer this question,
Because perhaps only God knows.

—From Getting Beyond Tragedy, by James Phillips Noble (written in 1968 when Dr. Noble’s son, Scott, lost his battle with childhood leukemia)

Perhaps for me, too, this is the largest of questions. Why should children suffer? For several years now, I have kept track of numerous families whose children have either suffered and died or are still struggling with an illness/disability. Their parents, who exhibit a strength beyond my comprehension, write the children’s stories in blogs and journals, detailing events as simple as creating something from playdough or as complex as enduring a chemo treatment. For a while, the families stayed at a distance, separated from me by miles and the fact that I did not know them personally.

Then the suffering struck closer. My blogroll links to “Midgets and Moonpies,” the blog of a woman I knew in college. More than 10 years ago, she served as the assistant to my professor for a freshman experience class. Together, our class read books, then wrote about them and discussed various themes and topics. Jenny was a friendly face and an encouraging support in a world that felt new and rather frightening at times. Who knew that I’d get back in touch with Jenny long after graduation when I learned about her immense trial?

Diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor on her first birthday…her FIRST birthday…Jenny’s daughter fought courageously for more than three years before complications of necessary treatment took her life this past January. I cannot even begin to imagine the range of emotions Jenny and her husband experienced as they let go of a daughter one week and welcomed a newborn daughter the next.

Many of the children I have followed are no longer with their families. Many still fight, some experiencing treatment side effects to rival the gruesomeness of a horror film. Every now and then, for the briefest of moments, I allow myself to imagine one of my children slipping away from me. The mere thought is unbearable and causes an ache deep within me unlike anything I’ve ever felt. I’m ever mindful, especially when reading posts like Jenny’s, that many families don’t have the luxury of imagining. For them, this is real, and it is part of their everyday lives.

Yes, this has become my largest of questions regarding God’s role in the world (and on some occasions, I must admit, regarding whether God even exists). Why do little children suffer? I’m nearly convinced that there is no why. There is only the fact that our world is fallen, that sometimes horrible things happen to the best (and most innocent) of people, and that sometimes, no matter how fervently or faithfully we pray, our prayers will not be answered in the way we desire so deeply.

Recently, however, I’ve gained a different perspective. In Between the Gates, Chuck Poole writes,

Sometimes prayer changes our lives, and sometimes life changes our prayers. Sometimes prayer changes the direction in which life is going, but sometimes prayer can only keep moving in an effort to catch up to life. Sooner or later we all find ourselves in Gethsemane. We start out praying for everything to be fine, and we end up coming to terms with what we must face, accepting realities we cannot change; adjusting, adjusting, adjusting.

…All of that is clear-eyed realism, and it is all true. But there is more to life than clear-eyed realism; there is also wide-eyed hope. After all, remember what happened to Jesus after he left Gethsemane. The bitter cup he dreaded turned out to be every bit as bad as he feared. His pain was awful. His suffering was terrible. And he died. But tragedy and death did not have the last word. The last word belonged to God. When God raised Jesus from the grave, God brought unimaginable joy, goodness, and triumph from unspeakable pain, sorrow, and loss.

And ever since, whenever anything has looked like a total loss and a terrible end, people have had to adjust their thinking to make room for hope.

Hope is what I read in Jenny’s writing, even as she shares her raw grief. Where would any of us be without hope?

I have a friend who, after his father died, said he’d never hoped more that there was a heaven than he did right then. Hope. Emily Dickinson wrote that it’s a “thing with feathers.” I’ve always identified with that image.

I don’t live each day in fear that some dark shadow hangs above me and my family, just waiting to engulf us when we least expect it. That’s no way to live. But I do keep checking in with families like Jenny’s because I need to remember that these things do happen and that people manage to continue living even after enduring great suffering. It also makes me a much better mom and wife. Finally, it emphasizes the essential quality of hope.

HOPE is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
—Emily Dickinson

Since I was a young child, baby dolls have been a part of my imagination and playtime. My childhood photo album shows a picture I took of a plastic stroller full of dolls I carefully posed—some smiling, some sleeping, some with one eye opened and one eye stuck shut. I fed them, changed them, cuddled them, and took them to the “doctor.”

Twenty years later, I have two living dolls. Those imaginary motions–feeding bottles of milk that magically refilled, patting backs to produce silent burps, wiping dry mouths, changing unsoiled diapers, quieting noiseless tears–translated into the wet, loud, stinky, messy, often dirty business of caring for real, live human beings. Some of my early illusions are long lost. This is work, and although it involves play, I’m no longer playing at being a parent, and the real thing is grueling. It’s also full of magic and mystery.

The biggest impossibilty of all is that I MADE THESE CHILDREN. Miniscule parts of my husband and me, parts so small we see them clearly only with a microscope, joined. In their union, they were powerful enough to contain all the material necessary to make one like us. The thought is simply ridiculous and seems like something invented. When I look at my children, even the baby who was growing in my body a mere five months ago, it seems as though they have always been the way they are. It blows my mind to imagine them not physically existing at all until those parts united. How in the world could something as tiny as a brand-new embryo–shaped like a tube in the pictures I’ve seen–possibly hold all it takes to form the body with its intricate systems and thought processes? It’s magic and mysterious.

These little girls morph right before my eyes. A picture taken of the baby last month looks like a different person. My big girl’s vocabulary has multiplied at an almost alarming rate since the beginning of the year. Their limbs lengthen, their eyes brighten, their hands grow more dexterous. It’s fascinating to witness. It’s a miracle of the grandest sort. For me, it’s all the proof I need that a Mighty Other touches the world and our lives.

A few years ago, I found Harry Potter fan art by Marta. It’s simple, realistic artwork done mostly in pencil. I enjoy seeing someone’s ideas of the story’s characters and events. I don’t think Marta pictures the characters as young as they should look in earlier books, but I like her illustrations. This one from Deathly Hallows is a favorite, as Dobby’s death was one of the most moving scenes for me in that book, particularly the way Harry slowly, methodically, and without magic dug the elf’s grave.

As much as I long to write, I have always been fascinated by art and have dabbled in sketches for years. Maybe one day I’ll be able to take a few classes to learn proper facial structure and how to create perspective. Just a hobby I think would be relaxing.

I try hard to cherish the moments with my princesses. Ladybug has developed some probably bad habits like needing to be fast asleep before she’s put into her crib and nursing for comfort. Butterfly got up three times last night, the final time being 5:00, at which point she couldn’t go back to sleep. Being easily bored and too young to move herself to new locales, Ladybug requires lots of carrying throughout the day, and her burgeoning weight strains my arms and back. Butterfly plays well independently, but when she wants my time, she demands it right away and often degenerates into whining. I rarely have time just for me, as even spare moments go to contract work for my company.

Still, I try to cherish the moments. When Ladybug awoke last night too early to need more milk, my King went in to comfort her. For a while, it seemed she would protest until I nursed her. I entered the dark room and sat on a twin bed across from the King, who was rocking the baby in a glider. In the faint glow from the bathroom nightlight, I watched the two of them–him folded into the too-small chair, his long legs bent awkwardly to accommodate the tight space, her a white blur of footed pajamas cuddled into the crook of his arm. He kept up a rhythmic “shhhh” as he rocked her back and forth, slowly, soothingly, sweetly. Finally, he stood, still swaying, and ever so carefully carried her to her crib, where he lowered her until she rested on her belly, then patted her bottom as she settled into deep sleep. I cherish that moment, watching my husband, a strong, tall, hardworking man, hold his tiny daughter with such care.

I try to cherish the moments. When Butterfly decided she was done with sleep at 5:00 this morning, I offered to let the King sleep in for once and carried our oldest back to her bedroom. She collected a stack of recently borrowed library books, and we climbed into her full-sized bed, relaxing into the pillows next to a dozen small stuffed animals. With her nestled beside me, I read the books with as much feeling and as many varied voices as one can muster at that early hour. She laughed, cocked her head, and sat rapt with attention as I led her into other worlds about other people and animals, worlds of pure imagination. I tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture of pure love that my mother always did for me, only to have her rub the hair back into her face. Once, I paused during a sentence and glanced at her, marveling at those enormous blue eyes framed by impossibly long dark lashes. “Mommy!” she complained, and immediately I plunged back into the story. I cherish that moment, snuggling with my “big girl” and traveling to other worlds with her right by my side.

There are hundreds of such moments to cherish, and oh how I pray for many more, even as they come alongside struggles and difficulties.

Erin sent this article about infants and young children who watch TV. Until my older daughter was nearly two years old, I was adamant about never turning on the television in her presence. We spent our days listening to CDs, doing artwork, enjoying her toys, reading dozens of books, going on outings, and playing outdoors. She began saying words early and became an excellent talker, easily understandable, insightful, and adept at remembering details. Now that she’s older and more aware of TV, she watches 1-2 shows or most of 1 movie each day. I talk about the story with her and make sure she understands what she’s watching (easy with Winnie-the-Pooh or Mickey Mouse cartoons, not so easy with Beauty and the Beast). The trouble with this is that my 4-month-old has probably already seen more TV than her sister saw during her first two years. If her eye catches it, she’s drawn to it and will crane her neck every which way to keep seeing it. And there’s no way I can make sure she understands what she sees!

We can’t be perfect, can’t do it all right, can’t even act exactly the same with a second or third child as we did with our first. It may not be fair, but I’d like to think those subsequent kids handle life a bit differently because of the “early exposure” they get to things their siblings are already doing–TV, certain books, toys, art materials, and more. I still don’t keep the TV on as background noise, and I try to limit my older child’s viewing.

I’m not overly worried about the baby. If I’ve learned anything about being a mother of two, it’s that there’s no one set way to raise every single child. Their differences, plus the simple fact that with two or more a parent’s time is divided, make that impossible. What do you think? Can anyone comment on their experiences?

This article is definitely controversial. As evident from my earlier posts about Harry Potter, I tend to agree with those who find Christian themes in the books. But I know that many disagree wholeheartedly. What do you think?

When pressed to name a favorite book, film, or song, I always freeze. The pages of my mind flip through years of great entertainment and powerful lessons, and I’m loath to choose just one. Here, then, is a list of my favorites (plural!) in several categories. These titles have made me laugh and cry, reflect and rejoice, think and relax. Maybe some of them will be your favorites too, or perhaps you’ll want to read, see, or hear them for yourself.

BOOKS
Life of Pi by Yann Martel
Aside from being an immersing story about a boy lost at sea on a boat with several wild animals, this book made me think deeply about survival, imagination, and the fine line between reality and truth.
The Giver by Lois Lowry
Lowry creates a future world in which diversity, imagination, and individuality are wiped away in favor of keeping everyone “safe.” Her young hero, Jonah, is entrusted with receiving the Giver’s memories of all the pain, color, and joy of the past. The story points to the importance of our freedom to experience everything about being human.
The Lord of the Rings trilogy by J. R. R. Tolkien
This is one of the greatest stories ever created. In a way, it’s about all of us–being on a journey, feeling burdened, clinging to loyal companions, fighting for what is right, losing much in the process, but triumphing anyway.
(You’ll be surprised by this one, but…)The Harry Potter series by J. K. Rowling
Simply great entertainment, but plenty of themes about life, death, friendship, good versus evil, politics, economic class.
To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
Obviously one of the classics, it evokes a striking picture of racial issues that, unfortunately, still exist (though more subtly) in the twenty-first century. The spunky young heroine, Scout, is one of the most touching voices I’ve ever read in fiction.
The Ramona Quimby series by Beverly Cleary
I understand that Cleary was one of the first to write from the perspective of a believable child. Ramona’s take on the world, which spans several years of her life, is sure to be a classic coming-of-age story set in modern times.
Inkheart and Inkspell by Cornelia Funke (and probably the forthcoming third in the trilogy, Inkdeath)
Funke’s writing, even when translated from the original German, is beautifully poetic. Her characters are flesh and blood, real enough to touch, and her environments completely visible in my mind. I also love the idea, frightening though it is, that we could read characters into existence in the real world.
Most Dr. Seuss books, particularly Green Eggs and Ham, Hop on Pop, and How the Grinch Stole Christmas
Reading these to Butterfly and Ladybug, I thrill at the way the words feel as I say them. It’s almost like eating. Suess was a master of humor, of course, but he was also adept at using alliteration, rhyme, and rhythm.

FILMS
The Shawshank Redemption directed by Frank Darabont, screenplay by Darabont
Andy Dufresne’s story is about the triumph of the human spirit in some of the darkest of circumstances. It’s a beautiful film.
The Lord of the Rings trilogy dir. Peter Jackson, sp Fran Walsh, Philippa Boyens, and Jackson
I think these screenwriters did a superb job of capturing Tolkien’s world and beloved characters. Their arrangement of the material translated wonderfully to the big screen. The music, actors, and settings were all fantastic.
Forest Gump dir. Robert Zemeckis, sp Eric Roth
Who can forget Forest and his enduring spirit? Humor, tragedy, war, politics, love, loss–this film has it all. And that’s all I have to say about that.
Cast Away dir. Robert Zemeckis, sp William Broyles Jr.
This movie blew me away. For most of the two-hour running time, we have one man in one setting with one companion–a volleyball. Tom Hanks’s performance kept me rapt with attention to every effort he made for survival and rescue. I cried like a baby when he lost Wilson.
Finding Neverland dir. Marc Forster, sp David Magee
Aside from the fact that I’m a Johnny Depp fan, I’m drawn to watch this movie repeatedly because of the great tribute it is to imagination. I don’t know how true it stays to J. M. Barrie’s life, but in the film his character sees the world through a child’s eyes–both the fanciful aspects and the harsh realities. It’s also a movie about writing fiction, and it inspires me to create.

ARTISTS (AND SELECTED SONGS)
Harry Connick Jr., “It Had to Be You,” “I Could Write a Book,” “Lazybones”
I’ve not been a Harry fan long enough. Only in the past few years have I discovered his talent. At his big-band concert, I had a fabulous time. He clearly enjoyed every minute of the music he made with his friends and fellow musicians, often giving them the spotlight as they played solos. He is funny, energetic, and amazingly gifted. And his voice is extremely soothing.
Billy Joel, “Piano Man”
Obviously one of Billy’s biggest songs, this is one I’ve loved for many years. Billy’s skill on the piano is matched by the way he captures human nature in his lyrics.
Steven Curtis Chapman, “Fingerprints of God,” “I Will Be Here”
Steven’s written dozens and dozens of great songs, and these are two of my favorites. The first, for his daughter, focuses on true beauty found within a person. The second describes the kind of marriage I strive to maintain with my husband.
Nichole Nordeman, “Gratitude,” “I Am”
I identify with the way Nichole questions her faith. In her songs, she never claims to have everything figured out. She never makes blanket, dogmatic statements about God. Instead, she reveals her constant journey to what she realizes is a bigger and more wonderful mystery than anyone could ever explain.
Third Day, “Love Song”
These Atlanta guys know how to rock. Mac Powell’s voice is bold and powerful, and his bandmates complement him and each other in a smooth, tight sound. This song is a simple but telling presentation of what Christians believe Jesus did.