Giant Feet, Micah 6:8, & The "C" Word

This might be an overly serious post. If you remember the lists of things I’m good and bad at, you’ll remember that I handle hard times/stress/problems with humor. It’s a blessing because laughter makes {most} everything better, and a curse on that rare occasion you bust out laughing at a funeral.

About the funeral – it’s only happened once. In Memphis. At a very lively, southern funeral. I would feel terrible for laughing, but it was due to the lady behind me answering her phone in the middle of the service saying (in her best Bon Qui Qui voice), “Helllo? Helllo? Giiiirrrrlll I can’t herrr you. I’m at a furrrnrel. Let me call you beck.”

I digress.

Before I get overly pensive:

Giant Feet

My friend Tara (found over yonder) and her baby Grayson (who is now 1 day past his due date…stubborn little dude) came over for craft day yesterday.

She wanted to make a yarn-wrapped letter and wreath for the hospital door when Grayson is born, and I…had no craft. I’m embarrassed to report that over the past few months I’ve made most of the crafts I had pinned on my “On the agenda…” board. It’s getting a little out of hand.

I started thinking of what supplies I had, one thing led to another, and I came up with a painting with Beckett’s hands & feet prints combined with Micah 6:8. I wanted his hands to represent “act justly”, his feet to represent “walk humbly”, and his heart to represent “love mercy”. Unfortunately for consistency’s sake, his heart was unavailable for tracing so I had to forge it. I also fabricated about 7 out of 10 fingers. Have you ever tried to unclench an 8 week old’s hands? It is very close to being physically impossible. Plus, any time I tried to put paint on his palms, he found it entertaining to grab the brush with a death-grip.

Aside from the toilet malfunction causing water to overflow EVERYWHERE, the crazy ladies at Michael’s chiming in on the conversations between ourselves, and the yarn-wrapped wreath taking approximately 83x longer than expected, craft day went swimmingly. More than swimmingly, actually. It was a blast. (Especially the part where I tried to convince Taylor that the water and towels everywhere was from Tara’s water breaking, not a toilet overflow.)

The finished product:

I promise those are not adult footprints. Just Beckett’s. We’re starting a fund to buy toddler-sized socks for him, since he can barely get 3 toes in the newborn sizes. Let me know if you’d like to donate.

The “C” Word

There’s a lot of “C” words, but one that everyone hates more than the others. Cancer. Icky. Unless you’re referring to your zodiac sign, the word “cancer” is pretty much a conversation killer.

Unfortunately for the Sparks family, it became part of our vocabulary this week.

Dad got his test results back this week, diagnosing him with prostate cancer. The super good news is that it was caught early and they are fairly confident it is contained, so treatment should be quick and successful.

No one wants cancer, but if you had to have some form of it, prostate is a “good” kind to have. (Oxymoron, much?)

I think everyone is pretty at peace with it, because it was caught early and does look contained. In Dad’s case, the prognosis is very positive.

Still – even though a lot of men have prostate cancer and most of the time are completely cured, uncertainty and diseases are scary, which of course spirals me into deep thoughts.

It’s scary that we live in a broken world where there isn’t a universal cure for cancer. And where babies die of SIDS. And where families are torn apart by addiction. And where people lose their jobs after 30 years. And where Denny’s uses macaroni and cheese as a condiment on their burgers. And where people actually buy such burgers.

There’s a lot to be anxious about in our current state.

I truly believe I would go insane if I didn’t have hope. How do people live without it? Serious question.

I constantly think about how innocent Beckett is and how, before I know it, he’ll begin to learn about all the tragedies of this world. How does a hopeless person explain death and disease to their child? How do you survive day to day if this is the only world you know – if you’ve never been told that this is not how it was intended…that cancer and SIDS and car crashes and unemployment and violence and murder is not all there is to it…that all of it has been overcome?

But, hey. I have been told that. And I want others to know. Because I’ve heard it, I can have peace in cancer scares and in suicides and in being laid off and in … well, everything.

The Sunday before Beckett was born, the person doing communion at our church asked us to turn to our neighbor and answer the question, “What does the cross mean to you?” (What is it about these type activities that make us want to hide in the bathroom like 8 year olds? Insecurity in our answer? Apathy? Who knows.) My answer was simple: it means that I don’t have to be scared to bring my baby boy into this world, because there is hope.

As I type my overly dramatic thoughts, this song by Hillsong is in the background: