Lisa Bonnema

Mom. Writer. Speaker.

An Unexpected Christmas Gift

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An outpatient clinic wasn’t where either one of us wanted to be 5 days before Christmas, but a late October flu made today’s annual appointments a necessary evil, despite all my best efforts at better timing.

As we headed into our third stop of the day, I yawned and looked at my watch. It was only 9am.

“Good morning,” the nurse said to my daughter as she transitioned out of her wheelchair and onto the exam table. “Now that you’re 12, we’d like you to fill out your own paperwork.”

It was an unexpected request; one my girl wasn’t quite sure about, at least at first. Her confused face looked at the nurse, then looked at me, and then looked back at the nurse. After a few seconds, she reluctantly reached for the stack of papers bound together with a pen, and then, without saying another word, got to work.

As the nurse left the room, I resisted the urge to help and, instead, sat back and decided to watch this moment unfold. I had no idea what my daughter was being asked on those pieces of paper—nor what she was answering—but I knew this was something she needed to do by herself, and not just because someone told her to do it.

Just 1 hour earlier, I watched yet another medical professional manually manipulate her body, testing her muscle strength and what she could and could not do. I watched my daughter try so hard to be strong, even when her body wouldn’t cooperate.

I heard the slight frustration in the therapist’s voice as she attempted to assess and measure my daughter’s abilities:

“No, kick back, not forward. No, no. Not that way. Try again.”

My girl tried again and again, each movement graded and earning a number that meant something to someone, even if it meant nothing to us.

From there, we moved on to x-ray, where a technician positioned her body several times, finally deciding that it would be best if my daughter removed her top undergarment.

“That felt weird, Mom,” she admitted to me afterwards. “I didn’t like it.”

I knelt down, gave her a quick hug, and told her how much I loved her.

All of that led to this third appointment, where a pile of papers and a pen held more power than that nurse probably realized.

With every checkmark my daughter made, I saw a confidence rising up, an ownership that felt so very right and deserved. I saw both dignity and determination in my girl’s face, and I wanted to both crumble into tears and raise my hands in praise.

To the average person, this looked like no big deal, but to this mother, it felt like a promise being answered, a sacred glimpse into the plans of a kind and faithful Father.

She’s got this. He’s got this. They’ve got this.

And me? Well, I just get to witness it.

What an absolute privilege.

As I watched my brave girl fill out those forms, I felt something shift within me—a deep knowing and a whisper in my heart that felt like the very breath of God settling my soul.

***

Truth be told, I dread these annual appointments. Having eight specialists in one place is convenient, but it makes for a very long day, filled with lots of information and often surprising news.

A simple symptom turns into another surgery. A tight muscle reveals a vastly different future. A hard decision feels like a tradeoff more than a solution.

And for whatever reason, it all seems to happen around Christmastime. Sometimes, that’s been a choice for insurance reasons; other times, it’s been a medical priority. Most years, we’ve had to be intentional about making this season light, even though so much of it felt very, very heavy.

But today, my usual weariness was met with hope. Not only for me, but for my child, and I wondered if this is what Mary felt as she treasured and pondered. Grasping the innocence of her sweet baby, I imagine she so desperately wanted to protect him from an overwhelming and uncertain future, all the while knowing that her job was to simply love and trust.

I suppose that’s the holy assignment of any mother—to love and trust. At first, it’s a hands-on job, but then slowly, over the years, God gently releases our grasp as He reveals His presence and provision, gaining our trust as we slowly let go.

He’s got this.

Maybe this is what Christmas should look like after all—God revealing hope and peace in the most unexpected places and moments.

In a dirty manger. In a shining star. In a doctor’s office. In a young soul feeling her worth.

He is Immanuel—God with me; God with my daughter; God with us all.

His presence truly is the best present, and today, my weary mama heart is rejoicing.

***

(*Shared with full permission)

Putting on Compassion

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No one could have known the weight of what I was carrying that day.

From the outside, I looked like any other expectant mother browsing the aisles of Target.

I was 18 weeks pregnant and wearing a bright yellow shirt and my favorite maternity jeans. My almost-two-year-old was wiggling in the front of the cart, playing with something I grabbed from the dollar section. We were passing the time while my oldest was in preschool, and I was clinging to a vanilla latte that was giving me some much-needed energy and comfort.

As we neared the toddler section, I saw someone I recognized. She was an employee stocking the accessory shelves, and I tried to make eye contact and offer a smile. She noticed me and quickly looked away.

At first, I was insulted.

But then I realized what I must have looked like from her perspective: a privileged stay-at-home mom who had nothing better to do than stroll through aisles full of things we probably didn’t need.

Little did she know that I was operating on zero sleep and had spent the entire night sobbing.

Little did she know that it took everything in me to get dressed that day and that the makeup I wore was a mask for my swollen eyes and broken heart.

Little did she know that less than 24 hours before, I sat in a cold, dark ultrasound room while a doctor told me and my husband that the child in my womb would likely face challenges ranging from brain damage and paralysis to secondary medical conditions and lifelong disabilities.

Little did she know I how scared I was, how inadequate I felt, or how much I needed something—anything—to reassure me that everything was going to be okay.

Of course, the woman in Target couldn’t have known all that. She couldn’t have known that my world was in a tailspin. She couldn’t have known how much her smile would have mattered.

The truth is, we don’t wear signs when something bad happens or when we are hurting. Most of the time, we wear armor built of fake smiles and makeup and clothes that make us feel good. Most of the time, we are just trying to make it through the day and clinging to anything that gives us hope.

That day in Target taught me a valuable lesson I will never forget. Every time I fall into the trap of comparing someone else’s seemingly perfect life to mine, I remind myself that I don’t know the whole story. Instead of jumping to shallow conclusions, I try to look at others with compassion in my eyes and empathy in my heart.

Only God knows the depths of someone’s story, which is probably why He doesn’t just ask us to choose compassion; He commands it.

Colossians 3:12 tells us:
“Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience.”

Like clothing, these are qualities the Lord wants us to put on every day. Not just to make us better people, but to help others who might be struggling. No one should have to earn our compassion. We should give it
freely and generously so that we can offer hope to a hurting heart that might be barely hanging on.

We are all dealing with something hard, which is exactly why we need each other—not to compare or compete against, but to cheer on and encourage.

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As believers, may we choose to put on compassion today, without judgement and without the need for explanation. May we look beyond the armor and the lattes and care because it is what we are called to do.

May we position our hearts outward and hold space for those we encounter, even when we don’t know the whole story.

And when we can, may we offer a listening ear, a hopeful word, and at the very least, kind eyes and a gentle smile.

You never know when that could be the very thing someone needed to make it through the day.

Savor

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They tell you it flies by. They tell you to savor it. But in the thick of sleepless nights and potty training and sticky floors, those words don’t register. Instead, you dream of a full-night’s rest and uninterrupted showers and just a few minutes of breathing room.

Somehow, in the time vacuum of motherhood, the days blend together and suddenly they are teenagers. Simple joys like tea parties and rounds of Candyland and trips to the park are replaced with theater club and gymnastics practice and cell phones. Your giggly little girl no longer climbs in your lap, but instead, walks around laughing with girlfriends on the other side of a screen.

No one really talks about it—the grief you carry in those middle years. Those years when you can count on one hand the number of years until they launch, and you have the sober realization that you only have them for a little while longer. Your instinct is to rewind time or create time—to hold them tighter—but their instinct is push forward and pull away. It’s a slow de-tethering that needs to happen for them and for you, but goodness, it hurts like hell.

In our minds, we know this was the goal—to release them and watch them grow and flourish. But as the process begins, our hearts want to go back to simpler times; times when the stakes didn’t feel so high. Back then, their hearts were pure and innocent and full of joy. Now, in these middle years, you see and feel the weight of their feelings. You see an adult forming. You see how the world has slowly taken their innocence, and you long for all the right words and all the wisdom you can muster just in case you didn’t do enough.

You long for lemonade stands and princess dresses and freshly picked dandelions. You only vaguely remember their sweet little voices and the way they used to mix up words in all the best ways. The warmth of their tiny hands, the sweet scent of a fresh bath, the sound of feet running to greet you in the morning—they are now just one-dimensional memories you wish you could bring to life, even for just one day.

But like all things motherhood, we carry this grief as a holy honor and we trust that our love was and always will be enough. We embrace the truth that God’s plan is always good and that He loves our grumpy and unpredictable teens more than we ever could. We lean into the natural movement of this season, and we hold tight to our Faith.

We pray for their hearts, we look for moments to connect, and then we force ourselves to watch from the sidelines. We allow them to sift through their moods, push against boundaries, and find their footing all on their own. We offer our guidance when we can, but mostly we just cheer them on with tender hearts, proud eyes, and open arms.

These middle years are tough, but they are sacred. And, yes, I’m going to say it: We need to savor them.

Because now we know—they really do fly by.

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“Start children off on the way they should go, and even when they are old they will not turn from it.”
Proverbs 22:6

The Evergreens

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When we first built our home, I remember my father-in-law strongly suggesting that we plant some evergreens around our property. It was springtime, so his idea didn’t exactly line up with my more vibrant landscaping dreams of radiant purples, pops of pink, and golden, wispy grasses.

“Why would we do that?” I remember asking him.

His reply: “Because when winter comes and everything else dies, you are going to need something with structure and color.”

I’ve thought a lot about his words of wisdom over the years, but they have felt especially poignant this past year. I can remember way back in February, after Brooklyn’s last surgery, pulling in the driveway and smiling at the evergreens greeting us. It was a dreary day; everything was bare and felt a little bleak. Those trees were a hopeful reminder that life and growth are still possible, even in the harshest seasons.

Of course, it’s only because of my father-in-law’s words that I even noticed those trees. The thing about evergreens is that they are easy to take for granted. They are pretty low maintenance and hardy, so we often neglect caring for them and we usually forget they are even there.

Sure, they have their shining moment at Christmastime, but even then, we feel the need to dress them up and make them appear more glamorous and attractive. Those reliable green branches fade into the background as they showcase the real beauty—the reflective ornaments, the twinkling lights, the elaborate ribbon.

It’s only when Christmas is over, and the decorations are put away, that we realize that evergreens can actually die without roots—or if we don’t give them enough water. Like any tree, their needles fall off, harden, and brown. They don’t actually last forever.

 

It’s interesting how we treat the steadfast things in our lives, isn’t it? We either take them for granted or pour our energy into making them more attractive or immediately satisfying, when the actual blessing is found in their consistency, their stability, their unconditional role in our lives.

How quick we are to mourn the loss of the shiny and brightly colored facets of our lives while completely glossing over the people and things that were always there—the constant reminders of love and everlasting joy right in front of our eyes. *They* provide the structure and signs of life we need when everything around us feels bare and bleak. They are the evergreens.

When all else is stripped away, what remains? What will stay standing?

Your Faith in God. Your family. Your health. Your community.

Tend to them. Water them. Honor them. Pour your energy into strengthening their roots. Thank God for them. Allow them to be your signposts of hope in the winter seasons of your life.

This isn’t just a good idea; it’s how we get through all the hard we are facing now, and all the hard we will likely face in the future. Those evergreens are there for a reason. Let’s not take them for granted.

Here’s the good news: Winter will come, and it will go. Spring will eventually burst forth new life and usher in the warmth and ease of summer. Vibrancy and fresh air will blow through our lives once again. Nothing lasts forever. These are the rhythms we can count on.

I just hope that when summer comes and life feels full and busy and lush again, we don’t forget the evergreens. I pray their roots are strong, and I pray that we remember to give them water. Odds are, they will still be there, standing tall in the warm summer sun, just waiting for someone to notice.

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“The grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of our God endures forever.”
Isaiah 40:8