Immunizations and national anthems...

September 4, 2009

Yesterday I asked Keelin to get ready so we could go out. I just wanted to leave it at that, but she asked where we were going, and I didn't have a clever enough answer.

I said, "Well, Honey, we need to get you an immunization." I thought she'd be tripped up by the hard word, maybe try to seem grown up enough to not ask what the word meant, or maybe think the word "immunization" means "puppy" or something.

Instead, she said, "Isn't that a SHOT?"

Darn it.

"Um, yes, Sweetheart (read: Miss Smartie Pants Nixon.)" There's no fooling that girl.

She hid under the bed for a few minutes, but, not blaming her one bit, I didn't push it. I just picked an outfit out for her, and talked to the cat who was sleeping on her bed. She complied eventually. She got dressed, brushed hair and teeth. Maybe it had something to do with the ice cream I promised her afterwards. Thankfully, she's wired the same as me. I'll do anything for an ice cream.

We walked into the health centre, signed her in, and she got weighed. 51 pounds! I can't believe that. (No wonder I put my back out picking her up last month!) In disbelief, I made her stand on the scale again. After a few minutes of watching the other babies and kids there to get their shots, too, the nurse called her name. She went walking calmly into the room, and sat down on my lap in the chair. The nurse was so wonderful with her, asked her a few questions, like what her favorite color was, and let her choose a sticker to go on top of the bandaid. Then Keelin pushed up her sleeve, I held her elbow, and the nurse asked Keelin to say her favorite color again really fast.

"PINK!!"

It was done. She had her shot. Not an "Ow." Not a tear. Nothing. She got her heart-stickered bandaid and that was it. So not a big deal. She got a big sticker afterwards, too. And Dairy Queen.

I remember clearly my version of the same shot when I was six. The doctor and two nurses held me down while I cried and screamed bloody murder at the top of my lungs, legs kicking, arms flailing, determined not to let that needle puncture my arm. I lost the battle. The lollipop they handed me afterwards did nothing to dry my tears or soothe the pain and the fear of that moment.

Not long after that day, we sang the national anthem at a school assembly. "O'er the land of the free... and the home of the brave...."

For most of my childhood, I thought that the US was my land, but not my home. I wasn't brave, because I cried during my shots.

That's who I thought I was, after all, that's how I acted. Was it true? Why not? That's what I chose as the basis of measurement. Not that I could ride Space Mountain. If that were the measurement, I'd be brave!

I know now what the measuring stick is--it's who God says I am, and what I am because of Him. I am God's workmanship (Ephesians 2:10) and I know I don't have to fear a thing, because He is with me wherever I go.

These days, I sing "O' Canada" quite a bit, in our house of Blue Jay, BC Lion, and Canuck games. "O' Canada, my home and native land....."

Okay, yes, Canada's my home, I live here, but I was born in the States, not my native land...

So, my struggle continues.

*sigh*

"Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous! Do not tremble or be dismayed, for the LORD your God is with you wherever you go." Joshua 1:9