by Ashley Haupt | Jul 27, 2015
For the 50th time that day, he put his hands on his cousins.
Not wrestling exactly, not unkindly, but definitely handling them about the head, shoulders, and face. At six years old for a high-energy boy, it doesn’t get much better than visiting Disney World with your six and seven year old boy cousins and he was riding high on life. The decibels of his voice rise with his excitement so that he was talking at high volume while bouncing around as though he was an offspring of Tigger.
My husband and I were worn out from corralling him.
Ben, don’t touch Cooper.
Ben, come here with the group.
Ben, please quiet down.
No Ben, we can’t ride Space Mountain again. We had a fast pass that time and it would take 70 minutes to ride it again.
Ben, you’re walking in front of the stroller.
Ben, please sit down.
Ben, don’t grab Brady around the head; nobody likes that.
As I lay in bed that night thinking over the day, I found myself thinking something that made me feel very guilty.
The trip would have been so much easier without him.
But it was true. Of our four children, he has always been and will always be the most difficult. Least likely to understand the need to bend to the needs of a large group, he always stands out.
And the standing out frequently embarrasses me.
Not pretty, these thoughts.
But they led me like a gentle shepherd back to a truth I’ve needed before:
Accept the child you’ve been given, not the one you imagine you want.
If I had a choice, I’d turn down the volume on Ben, soften his manners, increase his pliability, and smooth out his rough edges.
But perhaps this desire is more indicative of my own rough edges. I didn’t create Ben. I carried him in my womb, but God made him the exuberant, ornery, stubborn, intelligent little boy he is today. Bringing four little babies into this world has taught me that each is different from the beginning. Yes, what I do makes a difference, but I don’t make them who they are—sweet or stubborn, strong-willed or pliant, coordinated or clumsy.
My job is to work with what I’ve been given, and I pray for wisdom to do this well, but the children I have received are from God the Father, and His sovereign choice assigned them to me. Who am I to resent the good gifts He gives?
And in the end, I wouldn’t want to turn down the volume on Ben. No matter how exasperated I get on any given day, I do love him to the moon and back. I love all his rough edges, and the ways he sands off mine. No matter where his road in life takes him, he will always find me watching and waiting for opportunities to run out and throw my arms around him.
Just as the Father has done for me.
Lord, may we give thanks to you for all the good gifts in our life and gratefully accept the children you gave us, giving them the same grace You have given to us. Amen.
by Ashley Haupt | Jul 8, 2015
The sadness in the air was as heavy as the humidity in the Women’s cancer hospital in Managua, Nicaragua.
Photo: Ashley Haupt
It felt as though the weariness of long illness was contagious and epidemic throughout the patients who barely had the energy to smile. Laying on beds with loved ones nearby, their mouths formed a welcome that didn’t quite reach their eyes. As we entered the room and began friendly rounds of greeting, one woman sank into a rocking chair, buried her face into a cloth and began silently sobbing. Later we found out that she has both six children and cancer. That day was her first away from family for an indeterminate amount of time while she received treatment.
We brought songs and smiles and art supplies to cheer them. I can’t imagine feeling so sick and enduring this heat too someone whispered to me. It felt as though we rested in a balmy bowl of rising dough, the yeast of illness all around.
Five of us slipped out the door with two translators to visit the terminal patients who rested in a cooler part of the hospital. We entered room after room, laid hands on tumorous bellies and prayed. If a translator was available, we prayed with one, but if not, we prayed anyway. The common language of the Spirit and smiles and even tears. Not one of us had dry eyes before we were done.
As I approached one bed, the person upon it was so sick it was impossible even to discern that she was a woman. I prayed for her and held her hand, but my eyes were drawn to the young girl beside her bed. She looked to be 15 or 16 years old, alone, with hopeless, glazed eyes. I knelt beside her with a translator by my side.
Sometimes when you are taking care of someone very sick, people forget to ask how you are doing. How are you doing?
Her eyes blinked, teared, and she turned away from the kindness. I’m sad, she said shortly, holding onto a thin frame of reluctance to receiving help from strangers.
Photo: Ashley Haupt
Mamas usually take care of their babies, but you must take care of your mama. That’s very difficult, so you need to make sure you also take care of yourself. With those words, the frame shuddered and gave way; she bent over and wept. I put my arms around her and cried, too.
Let the tears come, I told her. Don’t hold them back because they will wash the feelings out of your heart so you can feel better. These tears mean you have a big heart.
As I prayed for her, I prayed that every day she would find some small token of encouragement and hope and know that God sees her sacrifice, her courage, her pain. This is what we all need. And the faith to believe it’s Him.
by Ashley Haupt | Jul 6, 2015
His body was bent and contorted in ways no body should be; every joint turned the wrong way, like a broken deer on the highway. Impossible even to sit in a chair, he was draped over a beanbag chair on his tummy to accommodate the spine that curved like an “S.” Although he was technically in his teens, he wore a diaper, and inarticulate sounds emerged from his mouth.
I raised my camera but it felt like a thin place between earth and heaven and I stopped, put it down. I couldn’t bring myself to capture the full picture of his poor, damaged body, even though I knew he was not aware.
Before we entered the special needs Orphanage in Nicaragua, I had prepared myself with these words, Lean into the discomfort. Mission trips bring out the flesh and the flesh hates discomfort. I wanted to move forward when my tendency would be to hang back, to reach out when my flesh wanted to draw away. So I knelt by the beanbag chair he lay upon and stroked arms and legs, talked to him by name. Gently I removed his shoes and began rubbing his socked feet. His movements increased along with the vocalizations, but I couldn’t actually tell if he enjoyed the contact. Someone that day had taken the time to put socks and shoes on these feet that would never, ever walk.
Nearby, another team member cradled what appeared to be an infant who was actually three years old. One by one, each team member moved toward those society shuns, offering a smile, a hug, words of encouragement. When the time came for lunch, the workers handed us the bottles. Miguel, who I was helping, could barely drink his bottle without choking. Even the smallest pleasure of eating was difficult for him, and I could not stop the tears from flowing. His life was no life at all.
We spent a week in Nicaragua with Project Hope, building houses, bringing meals to those in abject poverty, visiting orphanages, hospitals, rehabilitation facilities, and prisons. The need threatens to overwhelm me with its gaping canyon-sized gulf, and a seed of doubt tries hard to germinate with that one little question: Does it even make a difference?
But I have to believe it does. When the world is shouting and taking sides, maybe it’s more important than ever to shut out the din and focus on this one hurting individual in front of you. Maybe that’s the most important time to hand Jesus your little lunch and watch Him do the quiet miracle right before your eyes. We find Jesus in the pages of Scripture right in the middle of ordinary life, bent over a cripple, kneeling before a paralytic, serving a meal, washing feet. Working by his side, we see the miracle that others miss.
When the Supreme Court made a historical decision and social media lit up in controversy, I found myself several countries away helping to build a one-room house out of wood and concrete block.
And I can’t wait to get back.
Lord, when did we see you in need and help you?
Whatever you did for the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me. Matthew 25:40
by Ashley Haupt | Jun 9, 2015
Quite accidentally, my mom brought me a journal from exactly 10 years ago, June 2005. It had been overlooked when we packed our honeymoon bags and left for the Grand Canyon, and then again when we moved to Memphis to begin our life together. So, with an eerie feeling of stepping into the past, I recently opened the journal to read my own thoughts from 10 years ago, one month before we married.
I was astonished at how much I’ve changed in this process of us becoming us. Honestly, I cringed to read my own naïve, lovesick entries, but I don’t suppose there is any way to avoid being young and foolish except to keep growing up.
Sometimes people ask how we met, and that’s the love story, I suppose. However, I like the one we are living now better, because we’re kissing outside our minivan while the kids watch, and we take turns bringing each other coffee in the mornings, so we can drag each other out of bed 30 minutes before the kids get up.
I don’t think most people hide their true selves until they are married, and then pull out all the unlovable traits like dirty clothes out of a closet. Rather, we don’t know what we are until we are fused to someone else. Until we see the one piece, we don’t truly understand the individual parts, or see them as they are. We don’t know that we walk crookedly until we are tied together at the ankle for a three legged race and find we are veering off course.
Maybe the real love story doesn’t begin until you’ve been in the marriage long enough to storm off to the boundary you yourself forged in vows, stare angrily out into the distance, the unknown other, then turn around and walk back. Choose again this person, this soul.
After 10 years, I don’t know much at all. But here is what I do know.
- I do know that it takes 10 years of squaring off to find the middle ground of compromise on some issues. And even then, in seasons of intensity, it’s still dicey.
- I do know that there are mistakes we were just going to make, and we could not have done otherwise, and it’s healing to forgive ourselves for that.
- I do know that every single thing takes years to process, and we will always understand better looking back, so we should press on to gain that mountain view. It’s beautiful up there, but the climb is tough.
- I do know that life is not fair, and some couples carry more baggage than others. No one fully understands the state of the marriage except the two inside; it’s a work of sacred secrets.
- I do know that it doesn’t help to dwell on what other couples have, but to thank God you have someone to share your life, knowing each one must carry his own load (Gal. 6:5).
- I do know that each spouse will have seasons when they need insane amounts of grace, and if we give, we will also receive when it’s our turn to be the crazy one.
- I do know that children are a blessing and a distraction, and we have to keep finding our way back to each other in order to care for them. They need our strong marriage as much as we do.
- I do know that we must fight together against our problems instead of letting them separate us. We square off together against the stresses that divide us. We pray, down on our faces at times, seeking grace in our time of need.
- I do know that each of us will take the other for granted, and each of us will be called upon to forgive and remember again how blessed we are.
- I do know that we’ve become more colorful with age, more interesting, more relaxed. I loved you then, but I like you now, and I like me, too.
To my husband, Tim: you are to me a man among men. You stand out now, and you always will. You make me proud and happy. Happy 10 years!
by Ashley Haupt | May 28, 2015
The house was freshly cleaned, vacuumed, candle lit. Seven-year-old Abby had taken Tylenol for her fever that kept us home from church and she was resting on the couch with her siblings. The kids were entranced in Voyage of the Dawn Treader. I was sitting with them, alternately watching my favorite parts and tuning out.
The movie came to the part when Lucy seeks beauty from the book of magic. She desires it so badly she rips out a page to read the spell alone later. She wants to become as beautiful as her sister, but she discovers that in doing so, she wishes herself away completely. Without her, the Pevensie family would never have visited Narnia and met Aslan, who represents Christ. All the things she values most are gone, but she has her beauty. Aslan appears beside her as she gazes into the mirror, horrified at the vision of what could be. Gently, he reprimands her.
Lucy. You have wished yourself away.
I just wanted to be beautiful like Susan.
You doubt your value, Child. You must remember who you are.
A tear slipped down my cheek. Aslan (Jesus) doesn’t assure her that she, too, is beautiful. He doesn’t tell her not to compare. He doesn’t say how foolish the pursuit of beauty is in the end.
You doubt your value, Child. Right to the heart of the matter. That wise C.S. Lewis knew the snare of women. Our hearts desire beauty and we would believe it gave value, when in fact it only dresses out what is beneath the thin veneer.
Lucy’s character is my favorite. The youngest, the most affectionate, struggling to be bold and follow Aslan sometimes against the wishes of her older siblings. But this is the first time we see her want something other than Aslan, something worldly.
And all He does is remind her of her value.
It’s the kindness of the Lord that leads us to repentance (Rom 2:4).
All the voices in our head that lie are silenced if we choose to believe we have worth.
I had shared some doubts in my own heart to a friend via email earlier in the day.
Wiping the tear away, I looked down to see her response in my inbox. “Down with that voice in your head,” she wrote. “Feed on His faithfulness.”
This I do know for sure: the voices in our head lie. Loudly.
The voice of truth tells me a different story.
Let’s write a different story today, friends.
For the 50th time that day, he put his hands on his cousins.
