A beautiful day
A beautiful life
A moment by moment place
Falling down
Getting up
Wiping the hands
Looking up
Wondering why
Asking
Angry
Shaking fist
Rubbing brow
Looking down
A sigh
A breath - deep breath
A prayer breathed
Tears
Missing how it was
Accepting how it is
Thankful for what I have
A different day
A different life
More beautiful than before
Monday, December 12, 2016
Saturday, October 15, 2016
Dirt
I walk up to the waterside
And sit down in the dirt
Coolness of grass on my fingertips
Mud squishing in my toes
I look out on the water, flatness
Disturbed by tiny ripples
Feel the coolness of the air
Kiss my hair back from my face
All my life behind me
The noise and din and swirl
Stop for these few moments
As I sit in perfect peace
Then comes a darkness, cloud of grief
As I chronicle the pain
I can't be sure how it will end
Or if it even will
Head down, eyes shut, nails digging dirt
Knees pulled up to my chest
Holding on to what I can
Which is nothing.
Nothing at all.
I weep. Bereaved. Lost and alone.
"I cannot do this, God!
A life like this? With nothing known?
Nothing to call mine?"
Eyes wet with anguish, looking up
Upon the endless grey
Feel sweet whispers on wet cheeks
"Just be still and know..."
"Be still and know that I am God"
The words sink deep, hit hard
And in the stillness...mud
Mud covered hands held high
Lips crying praise with furtive joy
Remembering He is mine
How could I forget
That I am His created one?
Being still I hear His voice
Count it all my strength
Being still, I let go
Of all my worries and my hopes
Behind me echo childish voices
Calling me back to that place
Knowing I cannot run away
From the race I have to run
I stand up from the waterside
Clasping a clump of dirt
Reminding me that I am loved
I turn my face towards home
And sit down in the dirt
Coolness of grass on my fingertips
Mud squishing in my toes
I look out on the water, flatness
Disturbed by tiny ripples
Feel the coolness of the air
Kiss my hair back from my face
All my life behind me
The noise and din and swirl
Stop for these few moments
As I sit in perfect peace
Then comes a darkness, cloud of grief
As I chronicle the pain
I can't be sure how it will end
Or if it even will
Head down, eyes shut, nails digging dirt
Knees pulled up to my chest
Holding on to what I can
Which is nothing.
Nothing at all.
I weep. Bereaved. Lost and alone.
"I cannot do this, God!
A life like this? With nothing known?
Nothing to call mine?"
Eyes wet with anguish, looking up
Upon the endless grey
Feel sweet whispers on wet cheeks
"Just be still and know..."
"Be still and know that I am God"
The words sink deep, hit hard
And in the stillness...mud
Mud covered hands held high
Lips crying praise with furtive joy
Remembering He is mine
How could I forget
That I am His created one?
Being still I hear His voice
Count it all my strength
Being still, I let go
Of all my worries and my hopes
Behind me echo childish voices
Calling me back to that place
Knowing I cannot run away
From the race I have to run
I stand up from the waterside
Clasping a clump of dirt
Reminding me that I am loved
I turn my face towards home
Sunday, September 25, 2016
For Such a Time as This
I walked into my first MOPS session in September of 2006, green with motherhood, as I held my firstborn in my arms, only 4 weeks old. I almost felt embarrassed to be there since, in my mind, I barely qualified as a mom, but someone, somewhere along the road had encouraged me that direction and I took the brave step forward. It felt right to go somewhere where I could find some camaraderie and good advice.
What I didn't know was that, two weeks later, I'd be standing in a hospital hallway watching my little one, a tiny form on a giant twin-sized gurney, blurred by my own tears, wheeled away through the double-doored path towards surgery.
"God, I don't even know this baby yet! I don't even feel like his Mommy yet!" ran through my head as the doors closed. As we waited in the waiting room, I realized that THIS was what parenting meant. It meant that I would change everything and do anything for the benefit of this little guy. It meant that my husband and I would share-sleep on one foldout chair and get up every few minutes to give him his pacifier and comfort him in his pre-surgery hunger. It meant that it no longer was just about us, but about this new, helpless little screaming life. Our little Isaac.
He'd been vomiting, vomiting, vomiting the past few days and we didn't even know, my husband and I, how small he'd become until there we were in the hospital scrolling through the pictures on our camera. We saw him every day and we didn't see the change, only the stench pile of laundry by our bed since, in the past 24 hours, we'd had to use every towel in vomit clean-up. "What?? How did we not notice?"
"A simple procedure." "The best you could ask for, if you'd ever ask for surgery on your baby." "Don't worry, Mom. He'll be fine." "Pyloric Stenosis. I had it when I was a kid. See my scar?" The medical staff gave us all the best words.
The story has a really great ending. He was fine! They sent him home with a pumpkin-shaped piece of gauze on his baby tummy, and my MOPS table delivered meals and held this Mommy's hand through my baptism-by-fire into motherhood. I couldn't help but revel, "God, you brought me to that place for such a time as this. Thank you."
Sadly, my work schedule changed and, after that first semester, I was unable to attend MOPS for a long, long time.
Fast forward five years to September, 2012. I am now a veteran mother. I had quit my job after my third child but waited a year before rejoining MOPS because I was afraid it would interfere with my home school schedule. But, here I am, a fourth on the way in December and - to heck with the home school schedule because I am so much in need of a break and I have another one coming - what am I gonna do?! A real mindset flip. I'm desperate, but at the same time I wonder if I should have signed up in the first place, if I really have the time for this.
My worries are swept to the side as, all that first semester, I come and breath deep of the wisdom of others, and eat well of all those breakfasts, and relish in my 2 1/2 hours of childlessness. Midyear, before the second semester begins, my baby arrives, the day after Christmas nonetheless (8 days late!), and we call her middle name Joy because the delivery room buzzes with it just after her birth, and my eyes meet in ecstasy with my husband's - Annika Joy. She completed a perfect boy-girl-boy-girl pattern for our family and we gleefully brought her home, excited to start life as a family of six.
Fast forward a little further to March 12th, 2013. My baby is not doing well. Two weeks earlier, at her two month check-up, the doctor labeled her Failure to Thrive. She won't nurse unless I'm laying down with her, and even then she only eats half as much as she should. She sleeps all the time. They thought it was my milk output, so for two weeks I've been popping fenugreek, pumping between feedings, and my husband even took three days off of work so that I could solely sit in a rocking chair and nurse. She's barely gained. I am bursting with milk. This is not the problem. No one knows what is. I show up at MOPS exhausted, but glad for a reprieve.
I look at the schedule and realize, with mixed emotions, that a doctor and a child life specialist are on the docket for the day. I'm filled first with frustration, then relief: not more doctors, I'm here for a break....but maybe this is perfect timing...maybe this is just what I need...maybe they can help. Up to the podium they walk bringing lots and lots of doctor advice: how to best relate with your doctor, how to list out questions so to use appointment time wisely...yes! I am a copious note taker, so I'm scribbling and am in awe of the fact that this message came to me today, of all days! But then the topic shifts to inpatient matters: what to do if your child is admitted to the hospital, how to make it less scary for your child through play, I'm still writing but my heart disconnects. This has nothing to do with me, and definitely nothing to do with any of my kids!
"What if it does?" Bang! The thought slammed my brain. I vividly remember the minute I stopped listening and panned the room which was filled with at least a hundred other women. There were so many of us!
"No, God. This isn't for me. This is for one of them. Why would this be for me? It can't be. I have no reason to need this!"
MOPS ends. Two hours later, Annika has a scheduled weight check with her pediatrician, Dr. Parker. She's still not gaining. She's lying on the exam table and he looks at her, perplexed.
"Does the left side of her chest look higher than the other to you?"
Squinting, "Yes...it does a little." I respond.
"I'm ordering a chest x-ray. Come back when it's done."
I carry Annika across the way to radiology. The machine buzzes. Even the most untrained eye can see that the entire chest cavity is filled with heart. I exclaim something to the technician about it's hugeness and the badness of that, he agrees.
What???
Across the building again and into the little room where I feel set apart, alone with my babe on one side of the room, as the doctor and nurse stand on the other, and he tells me that her heart is clearly enlarged, but we can't determine why until she sees a cardiologist and has an echocardiogram and the words sound so calm and clinical and his face is so calm, but the meaning....the meaning.... is devastation. What??? The nurse calls cardiology and they book an appointment for my little one in nine days. Nine days, can she wait that long? How will I live through the next nine days?!
I walk out of there, stunned. I call my husband, my mom, pick up my other three kids from and talk to my in-laws. I'm numb. I drive home. I google "enlarged heart," a mistake. My husband walks in the door and I'm a melted mess on the bed, laptop by my side. We're eating chicken for dinner. Doctor Parker calls. My husband answers. I'm in no shape. After we'd left our appointment earlier, the doctor had found out from the nurse about the nine day wait to see cardiology. He referred with the radiologist and they both agreed that this baby should not wait that long. Dear Doctor Parker spent the afternoon arranging for the right group of people to meet us at the ER. He called us around six instructing us to go right then. We file out the door and down the stairs, leaving the chicken on the table.
Since we are expected, Annika's tiny armbands await her.
"Oh! Is this our little CHF baby? Ooooh, how cute is she?!"
My heart drops. CHF? Congested Heart Failure? No one had used those words with us, and the nurses flung them around like she had a mere splinter. Why do we have to wait if they expect us? I'm huddled in the furthest corner of the ER next to my husband, holding my baby, cradling my baby, weeping into my baby. Clinging to her life. I turn her around, place her on my bent knees. She's awake and smiles up at me the sweetest smile. She knows me. She trusts me. She doesn't know she should be afraid and that everything's different and that this is something I can't protect her from. I look up. People are watching, wondering, pitying.
Finally, we're called back to a room. The technician arrives to perform the echo. I can't do it. I can't watch. I don't want to know. I want everything to be normal and healthy again. But, barring a miracle, I know that's not the case. I'm not ready. I need time to pray. I tell my husband that I need to go to the bathroom. "Now?" he wonders. Yes, now. In that one little square of a room, I lean against the wall, arms lifted high. "Please, God! Please, let me keep this little girl! Let me be her Mommy here on earth for many years. Oh, God. Please!"
"It's good news, Chrissy!" my husband, faithful and strong, takes my hand as I walk back into the room.
The technician explains the situation, a VSD - a hole in her heart. He tells us, "This really is the best situation for a heart condition. If you're going to have a problem with your baby's heart, this is what you want!" Once again, we got the best. The best surgery for Isaac, the best heart condition for Annika.
I wish it ended there. I wish I could tell you that they gave her medication and the hole healed and all was well from there on out. But the story of my fourth has a different ending than the story of my first. This time, the story didn't end quickly or well. In fact, things quickly fell apart.
Within minutes after the VSD diagnosis, Annika is admitted to the hospital. Over the next month, she spends twenty nights in the hospital, and five nights the following month. She regresses in her eating to the point where she needs an NG tube, a feeding tube through her nose followed, in May, by a Gtube, a feeding tube in her stomach, which is surgically placed. A whirlwind of events. She vomits 5-10 times each day. I administer eleven doses of medication each day. For a time, she doesn't tolerate her feedings and we have to keep her connected to the feeding tube on a slow continuous drip for 24 hours a day. Before the tube, she is so small, we can't allow her to cry or be cold lest she lose calories. I keep an extensive notebook of her daily weight, output and input, questions that I have and doctors' advice. We see doctors galore. She undergoes angioplasty in her heart. And remember I have three other kids to care for and I home school?
Our lives changed almost instantaneously from normal life to a medical swirl and a focus on this precious, sick child. Over the next three years, three more issues are discovered in her heart. In fact, just this last spring, the cardiologist told us that her particular grouping of heart issues is called Shone's Syndrome.
Can I tell you that I weep?
I do.
But can I also tell you that I hope? What a journey it has been. I have walked in the depths. But, God has been faithful. He has held me, my little girl, and my family. I have worked, and prayed, and striven like no other time in my life for the health and life of my daughter. Our family has walked through the shadows and survived!
On October 23rd, 2014, Annika saw her GI docter for the last time. Dr. Nanjundiah ordered us to taper off the G tube for the next week and than to stop completely! She exclaimed to me that it doesn't always happen this way! She's seen families fall apart and babies not thrive because their parents don't listen and communicate well with the doctors. She noticed we were different. My husband and I weren't fighting as other parents did, but were growing stronger. She gave me the highest honor I've ever received when she wrote on the paperwork, "Congratulations to mom-dedicated mother of 2014." On January 29th, 2015, the Gtube came out!
Unfortunately, it's not all victory. The heart condition will never leave. The shadows may grow darker. Just this year, in June, Annika had angioplasty again. She is well for a time, and than her heart overworks and I am reminded of the frailty of her life, of all life. Before angioplasty, she is tired, sweating and pale. After angioplasty, she is life renewed. I praise God for the hands and minds of these beautiful people he's created in his image who have found creative, innovative, and genius ways, medically, to save my baby's life, over and over again.
We don't know the road ahead. If I allow myself to wonder about it all, it's easy to despair. Yes, she will need surgery eventually, in fact, she'll need multiple surgeries. In my mind, though, Annika standing here today without yet having had surgery is a small miracle in itself. In January, our family stood, poised and ready, for the cardiologist, Dr. Sangodkar, to want to schedule her for surgery. But, instead, Annika's heart improved! We vouched for angioplasty, and mercifully, it has been sufficient. If I look ahead to all of the unknowns and probablys, I crumble. But today, with God's help, I can handle today. And I pray for the miracles, small and large.
Today, on this day, Annika is thriving! She runs around the grass, hopping vivaciously and riding her little pink trike as my neighbor shakes her head in wonder at what Annika was and what she is today. In December, she turns four. Four! I love to hear of her little hopes and dreams which don't move much beyond snuggling with Mommy, reading books and her imagined elephant birthday party. She wants elephant clothes, elephant decorations, and to ride an elephant. We shall see, my dear. It is the day after Christmas. Aah, my sick baby grown tall and dancing: my mommy-heart sings!
Throughout these past years, I don't even know how many times I've looked back at that MOPS session in March of 2013. Sometimes I'm laughing at the irony, sometimes I'm wondering in awe at the perfect timing of it all, and sometimes I'm sad...but I don't know why. I think I've pinpointed it. That day, those moments in sitting with my sisters, listening to that doctor, eating that meal, those were my last hours of "normal." Yes, my baby was sick, but I thought she was "normal" sick. Those were my last hours before I knew the heartsickness of truth, a loss of innocence. Those were my last hours of the old me, of my former life. A kind of last communion. I can draw up the memories in a heartbeat. I remember her, that old me, before she knew!
Together with my church family, the MOPS ladies brought the gifts of meals to the "new-me's" family for almost three months straight. I don't even know how many meals, or who brought what and when, because most of the time I wasn't there and, an open apology, I didn't keep track or write thank you notes.
What I didn't know was that, two weeks later, I'd be standing in a hospital hallway watching my little one, a tiny form on a giant twin-sized gurney, blurred by my own tears, wheeled away through the double-doored path towards surgery.
"God, I don't even know this baby yet! I don't even feel like his Mommy yet!" ran through my head as the doors closed. As we waited in the waiting room, I realized that THIS was what parenting meant. It meant that I would change everything and do anything for the benefit of this little guy. It meant that my husband and I would share-sleep on one foldout chair and get up every few minutes to give him his pacifier and comfort him in his pre-surgery hunger. It meant that it no longer was just about us, but about this new, helpless little screaming life. Our little Isaac.
He'd been vomiting, vomiting, vomiting the past few days and we didn't even know, my husband and I, how small he'd become until there we were in the hospital scrolling through the pictures on our camera. We saw him every day and we didn't see the change, only the stench pile of laundry by our bed since, in the past 24 hours, we'd had to use every towel in vomit clean-up. "What?? How did we not notice?"
"A simple procedure." "The best you could ask for, if you'd ever ask for surgery on your baby." "Don't worry, Mom. He'll be fine." "Pyloric Stenosis. I had it when I was a kid. See my scar?" The medical staff gave us all the best words.
The story has a really great ending. He was fine! They sent him home with a pumpkin-shaped piece of gauze on his baby tummy, and my MOPS table delivered meals and held this Mommy's hand through my baptism-by-fire into motherhood. I couldn't help but revel, "God, you brought me to that place for such a time as this. Thank you."
Sadly, my work schedule changed and, after that first semester, I was unable to attend MOPS for a long, long time.
Fast forward five years to September, 2012. I am now a veteran mother. I had quit my job after my third child but waited a year before rejoining MOPS because I was afraid it would interfere with my home school schedule. But, here I am, a fourth on the way in December and - to heck with the home school schedule because I am so much in need of a break and I have another one coming - what am I gonna do?! A real mindset flip. I'm desperate, but at the same time I wonder if I should have signed up in the first place, if I really have the time for this.
My worries are swept to the side as, all that first semester, I come and breath deep of the wisdom of others, and eat well of all those breakfasts, and relish in my 2 1/2 hours of childlessness. Midyear, before the second semester begins, my baby arrives, the day after Christmas nonetheless (8 days late!), and we call her middle name Joy because the delivery room buzzes with it just after her birth, and my eyes meet in ecstasy with my husband's - Annika Joy. She completed a perfect boy-girl-boy-girl pattern for our family and we gleefully brought her home, excited to start life as a family of six.
Fast forward a little further to March 12th, 2013. My baby is not doing well. Two weeks earlier, at her two month check-up, the doctor labeled her Failure to Thrive. She won't nurse unless I'm laying down with her, and even then she only eats half as much as she should. She sleeps all the time. They thought it was my milk output, so for two weeks I've been popping fenugreek, pumping between feedings, and my husband even took three days off of work so that I could solely sit in a rocking chair and nurse. She's barely gained. I am bursting with milk. This is not the problem. No one knows what is. I show up at MOPS exhausted, but glad for a reprieve.
I look at the schedule and realize, with mixed emotions, that a doctor and a child life specialist are on the docket for the day. I'm filled first with frustration, then relief: not more doctors, I'm here for a break....but maybe this is perfect timing...maybe this is just what I need...maybe they can help. Up to the podium they walk bringing lots and lots of doctor advice: how to best relate with your doctor, how to list out questions so to use appointment time wisely...yes! I am a copious note taker, so I'm scribbling and am in awe of the fact that this message came to me today, of all days! But then the topic shifts to inpatient matters: what to do if your child is admitted to the hospital, how to make it less scary for your child through play, I'm still writing but my heart disconnects. This has nothing to do with me, and definitely nothing to do with any of my kids!
"What if it does?" Bang! The thought slammed my brain. I vividly remember the minute I stopped listening and panned the room which was filled with at least a hundred other women. There were so many of us!
"No, God. This isn't for me. This is for one of them. Why would this be for me? It can't be. I have no reason to need this!"
MOPS ends. Two hours later, Annika has a scheduled weight check with her pediatrician, Dr. Parker. She's still not gaining. She's lying on the exam table and he looks at her, perplexed.
"Does the left side of her chest look higher than the other to you?"
Squinting, "Yes...it does a little." I respond.
"I'm ordering a chest x-ray. Come back when it's done."
I carry Annika across the way to radiology. The machine buzzes. Even the most untrained eye can see that the entire chest cavity is filled with heart. I exclaim something to the technician about it's hugeness and the badness of that, he agrees.
What???
Across the building again and into the little room where I feel set apart, alone with my babe on one side of the room, as the doctor and nurse stand on the other, and he tells me that her heart is clearly enlarged, but we can't determine why until she sees a cardiologist and has an echocardiogram and the words sound so calm and clinical and his face is so calm, but the meaning....the meaning.... is devastation. What??? The nurse calls cardiology and they book an appointment for my little one in nine days. Nine days, can she wait that long? How will I live through the next nine days?!
I walk out of there, stunned. I call my husband, my mom, pick up my other three kids from and talk to my in-laws. I'm numb. I drive home. I google "enlarged heart," a mistake. My husband walks in the door and I'm a melted mess on the bed, laptop by my side. We're eating chicken for dinner. Doctor Parker calls. My husband answers. I'm in no shape. After we'd left our appointment earlier, the doctor had found out from the nurse about the nine day wait to see cardiology. He referred with the radiologist and they both agreed that this baby should not wait that long. Dear Doctor Parker spent the afternoon arranging for the right group of people to meet us at the ER. He called us around six instructing us to go right then. We file out the door and down the stairs, leaving the chicken on the table.
Since we are expected, Annika's tiny armbands await her.
"Oh! Is this our little CHF baby? Ooooh, how cute is she?!"
My heart drops. CHF? Congested Heart Failure? No one had used those words with us, and the nurses flung them around like she had a mere splinter. Why do we have to wait if they expect us? I'm huddled in the furthest corner of the ER next to my husband, holding my baby, cradling my baby, weeping into my baby. Clinging to her life. I turn her around, place her on my bent knees. She's awake and smiles up at me the sweetest smile. She knows me. She trusts me. She doesn't know she should be afraid and that everything's different and that this is something I can't protect her from. I look up. People are watching, wondering, pitying.
Finally, we're called back to a room. The technician arrives to perform the echo. I can't do it. I can't watch. I don't want to know. I want everything to be normal and healthy again. But, barring a miracle, I know that's not the case. I'm not ready. I need time to pray. I tell my husband that I need to go to the bathroom. "Now?" he wonders. Yes, now. In that one little square of a room, I lean against the wall, arms lifted high. "Please, God! Please, let me keep this little girl! Let me be her Mommy here on earth for many years. Oh, God. Please!"
"It's good news, Chrissy!" my husband, faithful and strong, takes my hand as I walk back into the room.
The technician explains the situation, a VSD - a hole in her heart. He tells us, "This really is the best situation for a heart condition. If you're going to have a problem with your baby's heart, this is what you want!" Once again, we got the best. The best surgery for Isaac, the best heart condition for Annika.
I wish it ended there. I wish I could tell you that they gave her medication and the hole healed and all was well from there on out. But the story of my fourth has a different ending than the story of my first. This time, the story didn't end quickly or well. In fact, things quickly fell apart.
Within minutes after the VSD diagnosis, Annika is admitted to the hospital. Over the next month, she spends twenty nights in the hospital, and five nights the following month. She regresses in her eating to the point where she needs an NG tube, a feeding tube through her nose followed, in May, by a Gtube, a feeding tube in her stomach, which is surgically placed. A whirlwind of events. She vomits 5-10 times each day. I administer eleven doses of medication each day. For a time, she doesn't tolerate her feedings and we have to keep her connected to the feeding tube on a slow continuous drip for 24 hours a day. Before the tube, she is so small, we can't allow her to cry or be cold lest she lose calories. I keep an extensive notebook of her daily weight, output and input, questions that I have and doctors' advice. We see doctors galore. She undergoes angioplasty in her heart. And remember I have three other kids to care for and I home school?
Our lives changed almost instantaneously from normal life to a medical swirl and a focus on this precious, sick child. Over the next three years, three more issues are discovered in her heart. In fact, just this last spring, the cardiologist told us that her particular grouping of heart issues is called Shone's Syndrome.
Can I tell you that I weep?
I do.
But can I also tell you that I hope? What a journey it has been. I have walked in the depths. But, God has been faithful. He has held me, my little girl, and my family. I have worked, and prayed, and striven like no other time in my life for the health and life of my daughter. Our family has walked through the shadows and survived!
On October 23rd, 2014, Annika saw her GI docter for the last time. Dr. Nanjundiah ordered us to taper off the G tube for the next week and than to stop completely! She exclaimed to me that it doesn't always happen this way! She's seen families fall apart and babies not thrive because their parents don't listen and communicate well with the doctors. She noticed we were different. My husband and I weren't fighting as other parents did, but were growing stronger. She gave me the highest honor I've ever received when she wrote on the paperwork, "Congratulations to mom-dedicated mother of 2014." On January 29th, 2015, the Gtube came out!
Unfortunately, it's not all victory. The heart condition will never leave. The shadows may grow darker. Just this year, in June, Annika had angioplasty again. She is well for a time, and than her heart overworks and I am reminded of the frailty of her life, of all life. Before angioplasty, she is tired, sweating and pale. After angioplasty, she is life renewed. I praise God for the hands and minds of these beautiful people he's created in his image who have found creative, innovative, and genius ways, medically, to save my baby's life, over and over again.
We don't know the road ahead. If I allow myself to wonder about it all, it's easy to despair. Yes, she will need surgery eventually, in fact, she'll need multiple surgeries. In my mind, though, Annika standing here today without yet having had surgery is a small miracle in itself. In January, our family stood, poised and ready, for the cardiologist, Dr. Sangodkar, to want to schedule her for surgery. But, instead, Annika's heart improved! We vouched for angioplasty, and mercifully, it has been sufficient. If I look ahead to all of the unknowns and probablys, I crumble. But today, with God's help, I can handle today. And I pray for the miracles, small and large.
Throughout these past years, I don't even know how many times I've looked back at that MOPS session in March of 2013. Sometimes I'm laughing at the irony, sometimes I'm wondering in awe at the perfect timing of it all, and sometimes I'm sad...but I don't know why. I think I've pinpointed it. That day, those moments in sitting with my sisters, listening to that doctor, eating that meal, those were my last hours of "normal." Yes, my baby was sick, but I thought she was "normal" sick. Those were my last hours before I knew the heartsickness of truth, a loss of innocence. Those were my last hours of the old me, of my former life. A kind of last communion. I can draw up the memories in a heartbeat. I remember her, that old me, before she knew!
Together with my church family, the MOPS ladies brought the gifts of meals to the "new-me's" family for almost three months straight. I don't even know how many meals, or who brought what and when, because most of the time I wasn't there and, an open apology, I didn't keep track or write thank you notes.
Each year when I sign up for MOPS, the question of whether or not I should is no longer there. I go, year after year, because I usually need to hear whatever it is that is being discussed that day, on that day, and I need, oh how I need, to have other ladies to walk with through this tumultuous life-path. And I am grateful. I am so, so very grateful for God's provision in the midst of hardship. Lastly, and most of all, I can't help but revel, sometimes outloud, "God, you brought me to that place for such a time as that, for such a time as this. Thank you!"
Sunday, September 11, 2016
Normal Thanks
God-
Today I thank you for the normal.
Too often I focus on the burrs of the normal and am run down by normalcy. I have to do the dishes. I have to clean the bathroom. The garbage is overflowing. My van is dirty. The electric bill came, high again. It's hot outside again.
My kids. They scream and yell. They complain and push against me. They keep asking me for food.
My husband has to work late. He's stressed out again.
Thank you, God, that I have these things. May I use them as tools for you and not be pulled downward by their "call." May I find the joy in the dishes. Thank you for the beauty and creativity of the person who designed these dishes we eat on each day.
Thank you for the indoor plumbing and the shiny fixtures I am blessed with. I lived for a year with only a sink and cold water - no shower, no indoor toilet. I had less to clean, but I choose the cleaning any day over the sponge baths and middle of the night jaunts to the outhouse.
Thank you that, right outside my door, is a dumpster and for the driver of the truck which comes twice weekly to haul it away.
Thank you for a vehicle large enough to carry the whole family and for the finances to pay for upkeep and gas. It may be dirty, but that's because of a full life. Thank you, God, for that.
Thank you for electricity and light in the darkness. Thank you for the AC which keeps us from melting away. Thank you for the ways we can communicate, learn and relax through our devices and TV.
Thank you for our condo. It may not be very big, but it's sturdy and protective and provided by you. It's the place where two of our children have come home from the hospital to and it's where you have us. Here. Thank you for our neighbors.
God, thank you for the health of those lungs in my kids. Thank you for ease in which they breath in and out. Thank you for the strength and capacity. Thank you for healing Annika of pneumonia earlier this year and for clear, clear lungs.
Thank you, God, that as these little ones complain and push against me they are doing the normal. They are experimenting with their boundaries and exercising their little wills. Give me the wisdom to respond well to them, to notice them, and to teach them in your ways. Thank you for this chance, this normal - yet awesome opportunity.
Thank you, Jesus, for the food on the table. Thank you for abundance we live in and how easily we can run to the grocery store to pick up a missing item or two or three or four or twenty. Thank you that they eat. Thank you that every little part that needs to function well in their little bodies in order to get that food down, works, and works well! Thank you that we no longer have a feeding tube or chronic vomiting in the house. Thank you for six normal eaters.
Thank you for my health and the ability you've given me to do all of these things. Thank you for revealing to me ways that I fall short so that I can lay them at your feet. Thank you that you are my strength - Not that you fill in the gaps when I fall short, but that I can actually lean on you all the time. I can drive. I can teach. I can chastise and punish. I can cook. I can eat chocolate. Thank you for my normal life and the abundance of blessing that it is.
Thank you, Father, for the provision of my husband's job. It provides all of the material things already listed above as well as the wonderful health insurance we've so needed these past few years. Thank you that you know James and that you have him right where he is supposed to be right now. Thank you that, although life is sometimes stressful, he's learning and growing through it and becoming an even better husband and father because of it. Thank you that he walks with you so faithfully.
Often, when I lean against my husband, I note the strong, steady thrumming of his heart. Thank you for how much his physical heart reflects the core of his personality: hard working, unseen, steady and strong. I listen to the beat, and am in awe that such a thing continues on in us for all of our days. And I thank you, I thank you, for the five normal beating hearts in our family and I ache for the one which is not. But I am ever so much more thankful for the ones that work because of the one which doesn't.
Thank you, Father, for the doctors who have become a part of our family's normal. Thank you for the skill you have given them. Thank you for the chance at feeling normal for a time, even when it's not. Thank you for the life of our 4th child, and how we have a chance to know her because you allowed us to live now, and not a hundred years ago.
Thank you for the hope and security of future glory when all will reach beyond our terrestrial normal to a joyful, painless, glorified perfection. The more imperfections and pain I see here, the more I yearn for that time and feel so, so blessed to know it is coming.
Our sins, paid for-now. Then-our bodies, healed. Our tears, wiped away. As we forever live in perfection with you in Heaven, that place you have prepared for your people.
Thank you, God.
You have been good to us.
Amen
Today I thank you for the normal.
Too often I focus on the burrs of the normal and am run down by normalcy. I have to do the dishes. I have to clean the bathroom. The garbage is overflowing. My van is dirty. The electric bill came, high again. It's hot outside again.
My kids. They scream and yell. They complain and push against me. They keep asking me for food.
My husband has to work late. He's stressed out again.
Thank you, God, that I have these things. May I use them as tools for you and not be pulled downward by their "call." May I find the joy in the dishes. Thank you for the beauty and creativity of the person who designed these dishes we eat on each day.
Thank you for the indoor plumbing and the shiny fixtures I am blessed with. I lived for a year with only a sink and cold water - no shower, no indoor toilet. I had less to clean, but I choose the cleaning any day over the sponge baths and middle of the night jaunts to the outhouse.
Thank you that, right outside my door, is a dumpster and for the driver of the truck which comes twice weekly to haul it away.
Thank you for a vehicle large enough to carry the whole family and for the finances to pay for upkeep and gas. It may be dirty, but that's because of a full life. Thank you, God, for that.
Thank you for electricity and light in the darkness. Thank you for the AC which keeps us from melting away. Thank you for the ways we can communicate, learn and relax through our devices and TV.
Thank you for our condo. It may not be very big, but it's sturdy and protective and provided by you. It's the place where two of our children have come home from the hospital to and it's where you have us. Here. Thank you for our neighbors.
God, thank you for the health of those lungs in my kids. Thank you for ease in which they breath in and out. Thank you for the strength and capacity. Thank you for healing Annika of pneumonia earlier this year and for clear, clear lungs.
Thank you, God, that as these little ones complain and push against me they are doing the normal. They are experimenting with their boundaries and exercising their little wills. Give me the wisdom to respond well to them, to notice them, and to teach them in your ways. Thank you for this chance, this normal - yet awesome opportunity.
Thank you, Jesus, for the food on the table. Thank you for abundance we live in and how easily we can run to the grocery store to pick up a missing item or two or three or four or twenty. Thank you that they eat. Thank you that every little part that needs to function well in their little bodies in order to get that food down, works, and works well! Thank you that we no longer have a feeding tube or chronic vomiting in the house. Thank you for six normal eaters.
Thank you for my health and the ability you've given me to do all of these things. Thank you for revealing to me ways that I fall short so that I can lay them at your feet. Thank you that you are my strength - Not that you fill in the gaps when I fall short, but that I can actually lean on you all the time. I can drive. I can teach. I can chastise and punish. I can cook. I can eat chocolate. Thank you for my normal life and the abundance of blessing that it is.
Thank you, Father, for the provision of my husband's job. It provides all of the material things already listed above as well as the wonderful health insurance we've so needed these past few years. Thank you that you know James and that you have him right where he is supposed to be right now. Thank you that, although life is sometimes stressful, he's learning and growing through it and becoming an even better husband and father because of it. Thank you that he walks with you so faithfully.
Often, when I lean against my husband, I note the strong, steady thrumming of his heart. Thank you for how much his physical heart reflects the core of his personality: hard working, unseen, steady and strong. I listen to the beat, and am in awe that such a thing continues on in us for all of our days. And I thank you, I thank you, for the five normal beating hearts in our family and I ache for the one which is not. But I am ever so much more thankful for the ones that work because of the one which doesn't.
Thank you, Father, for the doctors who have become a part of our family's normal. Thank you for the skill you have given them. Thank you for the chance at feeling normal for a time, even when it's not. Thank you for the life of our 4th child, and how we have a chance to know her because you allowed us to live now, and not a hundred years ago.
Thank you for the hope and security of future glory when all will reach beyond our terrestrial normal to a joyful, painless, glorified perfection. The more imperfections and pain I see here, the more I yearn for that time and feel so, so blessed to know it is coming.
Our sins, paid for-now. Then-our bodies, healed. Our tears, wiped away. As we forever live in perfection with you in Heaven, that place you have prepared for your people.
Thank you, God.
You have been good to us.
Amen
Tuesday, August 16, 2016
Embrace
"Lord, to whom shall we go?
You have the words of eternal life." John 6:68
But just now, this moment, as I picked up my journal I realized I don't know the context of this verse. Who is asking this? What is the answer? So I flip to John 6 to discover that this is not a prayer for direction from the God who knows all and has all, but it is a declaration made by Peter. Just before these words, Jesus is being abandoned en masse by his followers because they can't accept His difficult teaching that He comes from Heaven and can give them eternal life. They just can't do it. So, Jesus turns to his twelve closest disciples and asks, "You do not want to leave too, do you?" (Jn 6:67) That's when this verse comes in. Peter cries out in response, "Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. We believe and know that you are the Holy One of God" (Jn 6:68-9).
What beauty! What joy! What single-minded purpose! Where else is there but with Jesus? Oh, simplicity! Where ever I do physically go, I am with Him and He with me.
Ten years we spent preparing to go. We thought we had so much to offer and knew so much. I don't think we would have thought that we thought that, but looking back, I'm gonna pin it. Compared to now, we were babies. Now we've lived it.
Two years of intense medical crisis. One of my first questions to the doctor after discovering Annika's heart condition was, "How long until we can go? How long until she's stable?" Ah! How foolish and naïve. The answer is we don't know and never and six months stable six months not and pay attention to your baby now! Nobody said that, but that's the answer. There's not really an answer.
Last week I slipped out of the house for the evening and found myself prostrate on the prayer chapel floor at Biola. I wrote in that journal and probably prayed the prayer. Where?!
We've stepped forward. We've been accepted to a missions organization. We've spoken to another missions organization who wants us to move forward with them. It feels like people are saying, "Yes. Go. We'll find a way."
I don't know that that's wrong. But in the small whispering times in these past months, we have heard nothing of, "Go." We have heard words more like this,
"Trust in the Lord and do good;
dwell in the land and enjoy safe pasture.
Delight yourself in the Lord
and he will give you the desires of your heart.
Commit your way to the Lord;
trust in him and he will do this:
He will make your righteousness shine like the dawn,
the justice of your cause like the noonday sun.
Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him..."
Psalm 37:3-7a
And last week on that floor, it wasn't "Go," again. It was "embrace the life I have given you." This season of suffering, what if it's not a season, but a new way?
I've known this. And I've said the words, "Thy will be done," but when rubber meets the road, when it's time to let go of my dreams and let God take the wheel, wow. What does it look like to not only allow God's will to be done, but to embrace it?
That's the difference. I think I've been passively allowing God's will these past months (as if I had any control), but what if I were to each day pray the prayer, "Here am I and I embrace Your will."? Wouldn't that look much different? To name that sadness, to grieve it - yes - but then to actively embrace it as a part of my story.
This calling is a much different "Here am I" calling than I had anticipated and hoped for, but still a calling. Run to Jesus. To whom else can we go?? He will work through us no matter where we live.
Oswald Chambers says that strength and joy and freedom comes as soon as we accept the strain. His words ring wisdom.
The song, "Find Me in the River" speaks of suffering, patience, desperation, and shows a broken, alone-feeling but still respectful sinner embracing the hardship. I like it.
You can listen to it here
********************************************************************
Find me in the river
Find me on my knees
I've walked against the water
Now I'm waiting if you please
We've longed to see the roses
But never felt the thorns
And bought our pretty crowns
But never paid the price
(refrain)
Find me in the river
Find me there
Find me on my knees
With my soul laid bare
Even though You're gone
And I'm cracked and dry
Find me in the river
I'm waiting here
Find me in the river
Find me on my knees
I've walked against the water
Now I'm waiting if you please
We didn't count on suffering
We didn't count on pain
But if the blessing's in the valley
Then in the river I will wait
**********************************************************************
Monday, June 27, 2016
Dark Days and the Beautiful Ladies Three
I have a confession.
I'm not always happy. I'm not always happy and my house gets messy. I'm not always happy, my house gets messy and I lose my temper with my kids. I'm not always happy, my house gets messy, I lose my temper with my kids and sometimes it gets really dark around here.
To give a little context, earlier last year, the flurry of hospital stays, Dr.'s appointments, therapy sessions and nurse visits came to a sudden halt. They began on February 26th, 2013 and ended on January 29th of 2015. In the span of two years we'd spent a month in the hospital, had gone to 83 various Dr.'s appointments, had about 30 feeding therapy sessions in our home, and had had the home health nurse visit maybe 15 times or so. I'd spent hours: hours working with, ordering and planning out the details of the new medical supplies our daughter relied upon; hours administering medications, measuring intake/outtake; hours caring for, fearing for, listening for and watching out for this one little one. The older three danced around the circumference.
But then it stopped. Her weight goals had been met. Her heart was not in imminent crisis. Her therapist proclaimed her a texture expert. Her tubie was pulled...removed. Nearly as quickly as it began, it ended.
And it was wonderful! We rejoiced in the answered prayers, in the health of our little one and in the hope for the future of our family. We marveled that we'd come through it with the accolades of Annika's GI Dr: "Congratulations to mom-dedicated mother of 2014." Those words are the most precious award I've ever received.
But now to real life. People asked how our family was doing and all I could describe was that we were living in an emotional aftermath. We sat in shock, surrounded by a lot of anger, some sadness, digressions in kids' behavior, the reality of James' chronic pain and a heart condition in Annika that was here to stay. I had a hypersensitivity to noises which caused me to panic and cry whenever anyone was hurt, or even if I thought they were. When the kids were playing and I heard screaming outside, I looked at my neighbors' faces to gauge if it was an emergency or not. We knew that 2015 had to be dedicated to spending quality time as a family and to try to heal from the trauma of the past two years.
That February, I started going to individual counseling. If there ever was a time in my life that I needed therapy, it was then. I felt broken and I needed an experienced Christian lady's perspective. Can I say these visits were wonderful and horrible all at once? I'd hoped to talk about the past two years, but that's not the way it works. No, it all gets threshed up. Suddenly, all the sadnesses of my life clattered through my mind.
Genuinely, I am so thankful for those months of recollection and correction. Sometimes I came home and stared at the wall. Sometimes I mulled over a given topic all week. I was awoken to my false thought patterns and was given new tools to cope with my anger, which was a huge issue at the time. For five months I went, and I anticipated Wednesday nights - a time of painful growth and beauty.
However, in May, my spirits spiraled. So many dreams lost: The health of my husband and daughter, international missions...a bleak future is all I could see, actually, I could see no future, and I felt crazy from post traumatic stress symptoms. I've been discouraged or depressed for a few days at a time before, but this time the days kept going. I woke up each day with a blankness in my heart and mind, a tastelessness for life. May turned to June. School ended for my kids and the days even more blank and void and purposeless.
"Why, my soul, are you downcast?
Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him,
my Savior and my God." Psalm 42:5
The words hit a wall. The question remained, but the hope felt hopeless. The future praise, stale. My mind knew right, my deadened heart didn't care.
James, gave me lots of space, but I know he worried when his wife wasn't snapping out of it. A walking zombie. In my peripheral vision I saw him watching me, but I only felt hopeless, lost, alone and disconnected.
One Sunday in June, a dear friend came to town. She saw and sensed that things were not well. She witnessed my screaming panic when a child was reported as injured (he turned out to be just fine). And she prayed. She had brought along her friend for the visit and she also prayed. I know my name headed their prayer lists. I thanked God for sending a prayer warrior my way who knew me so well, and another who didn't but who saw an inside glimpse of the difficult home battles James and I faced.
They left, and I was encouraged, but walked on in sadness. I knew God had brought them at the perfect moment, but saw no change. I didn't feel God. Can I say God wasn't there? No, I can't. He was there. Was he not listening to my cries? No, he was. Was my rebellious heart unwilling to listen to him? I don't know the answer. But I didn't feel anything. I knew it was a good thing and a loving God who sent a friend of 18 years from across the world to walk alongside me right when I needed her. Beautiful Lady Number One.
Two weeks later I gave up, not on God, just on joy. I remember it clearly, another Sunday, Father's Day, 2015. I pulled my body along to church with the husband and kids, but knew I was done. I couldn't fight or try any longer. I was going to settle with feeling hopeless and give up on the too difficult battle to make my heart feel any other way.
I sat through Sunday School class as usual. It ended. Time to go to church. But before we could go, she appeared, Beautiful Lady Number Two. Another friend, one I've known for maybe 6-7 years. She told me that she knew she needed to pray for me. And she did. In that classroom I stood with tears streaming down my face as she prayed for me and asked God's comfort as I mourned the loss of a dream for international missions. She knew the sting of "not now" and understood the pain. And God knew that I needed an understanding friend right at that moment. I marveled at his goodness in sending one.
Church. Misery. The songs spelt out pain. I sat in my seat with my journal during the worship songs and finally wrote out my complaint to God, every detail of my anger and frustration and loss. I don't remember the sermon. But at the end of the service, I sat with a sleeping child in my lap. We sat as we waited for everyone to leave. I stared into nothingness. Lost.
And then it happened.
Beautiful Lady Number Three. She approached me from behind with her husband.
"Hi, I'm Mel."
"Hi...." I assumed I had met her in the nursery or something, I'm so bad with faces. I waited for her to say where we'd met but...
"You don't know me, but, I can I pray for you? I recognize that look on your face, and I really feel God calling me to pray for you. Is that okay?"
Stunned. Utterly stunned. Choked up and crying. I kicked James to give her a rundown on why, perhaps, I might need prayer since I was unable to talk. He spoke of Annika's heart condition and maybe something else, I don't remember.
But she prayed. And when she prayed, hand on my shoulder, she prayed for each of those things I had just written down in my complaint to God in my own private journal on that day of resignation. She prayed as if I had been sharing my heart with her for an hour beforehand. She prayed as if she knew me. A total stranger. One who "happened" to be visiting our church that day.
And THAT is the power of a loving God. A long-time friend from across the world, a friend from home, and a total stranger - all called by God to pray for this lost girl.
God used them all, in progression, to whisper in my ear.
First,
"I love you."
Then,
"I am with you."
And lastly,
"I know you."
That message of "I know you," pulled me out. A total stranger praying exactly my heart. Only God could speak those words to me through her.
Psalm 42 describes tears, lost times, wished-for joy, condemnation, mourning, and suffering. The psalmist felt forgotten by God, swept away by God's waves and breakers. There are seasons.
"He reached down from on high and took hold of me;
he drew me out of deep waters...
he rescued me because he delighted in me."
Psalm 18:16,19b
Psalm 18 paints the story. He delighted in me enough in those darks hours to tell of his love for me, his presence with me, and his knowledge of my intimate thoughts. In his delight, he drew me out of deep waters. He took hold of me.
My only part was to see and take hold of his hand.
Wednesday, June 22, 2016
On Rest (Written in February but not posted til now....)
I've been seeking rest.
I'm a little bit on hold, "until we get past this." The problem is, there's always a new "this." Sometimes it's big, sometimes it's unnoticed-a dripping faucet-but I can't rest. I have to recover instead. Or figure out the new thing.
In the past year I've dealt with depression, a traumatic experience with an unconscious child, a month of the flu in our house, my Grandma passing and now 11 nights of RSV scariness in the hospital. Thrown in there, we've also had Annika on low-activity monitoring because she was showing more symptoms of heart failure and we were attempting to avoid "an emergency 911 situation." That was October-January. It's hard to rest when you can't let your 2 year old become too winded, ever. Those are the big stress boulders. Only slightly smaller, is the misbehavior of my other kids, and how to navigate each one's needs in the midst of the constant stress.
I know it's typical for kids to be unappreciative of their parents, but when I'm faced with: someone groaning about breakfast; someone being too overwhelmed to do schoolwork; someone yelling at me that they will not, cannot, EVER go to time out and continue to whine and whine and protest no matter what I tell them to do; when my every decision feels fought against; when someone will not put on that shirt; when they constantly tease and bicker - rest feels impossible.
I feel like I'm drowning. I can't even think clearly. The quiet evenings to ourselves don't start until 9 at the very earliest and, by that time, we're wasted. We can't put together cohesive sentences or even focus our eyes on anything. We just droop around and drool. No. Not really. But sort of.
I read this and think, "Ok, then. Get a grip on your kids. This is the real issue here." Maybe it is. But I don't think we're alone in this. I think there are seasons of THIS IS TOO HARD with our kids. There are so many times, lately especially, when I throw up my hands because I have no idea what to do!
I think because of all the "bigger" things happening, I lose sight of the "smaller" things, the ones which really matter. I wake up in the morning and throw myself into autopilot. Home school, cleaning, feeding Annika (she still requires a lot of time and assistance), cooking, cleaning, refereeing, and did I say cleaning?...getting it all done. I just go. And in my going, I sort of forget to plan and to really think! I forget that these dear little ones are my number one ministry right now. I forget that they are my calling. I forget!
I forget that, while I'm going and pushing through and hoping for that future rest, the days are flying by and they're growing up. And because I'm not quite rested, right now, I'm not quite giving them my best. In fact, sometimes it's my worst.
That's the challenge. That's the call. To rest now. To find rest now. That future calm may not come until you find yourself in Heavenly eternity with your Creator. I might not have a week of solitude, ever, but I can play my guitar and my piano every day. I can sing. I can get up early and read or write. I don't. Not often enough. But I can, and I should, because it's rest for me, and as I rest, I can give more of myself. And I can think.
I'm a little bit on hold, "until we get past this." The problem is, there's always a new "this." Sometimes it's big, sometimes it's unnoticed-a dripping faucet-but I can't rest. I have to recover instead. Or figure out the new thing.
In the past year I've dealt with depression, a traumatic experience with an unconscious child, a month of the flu in our house, my Grandma passing and now 11 nights of RSV scariness in the hospital. Thrown in there, we've also had Annika on low-activity monitoring because she was showing more symptoms of heart failure and we were attempting to avoid "an emergency 911 situation." That was October-January. It's hard to rest when you can't let your 2 year old become too winded, ever. Those are the big stress boulders. Only slightly smaller, is the misbehavior of my other kids, and how to navigate each one's needs in the midst of the constant stress.
I know it's typical for kids to be unappreciative of their parents, but when I'm faced with: someone groaning about breakfast; someone being too overwhelmed to do schoolwork; someone yelling at me that they will not, cannot, EVER go to time out and continue to whine and whine and protest no matter what I tell them to do; when my every decision feels fought against; when someone will not put on that shirt; when they constantly tease and bicker - rest feels impossible.
I feel like I'm drowning. I can't even think clearly. The quiet evenings to ourselves don't start until 9 at the very earliest and, by that time, we're wasted. We can't put together cohesive sentences or even focus our eyes on anything. We just droop around and drool. No. Not really. But sort of.
I read this and think, "Ok, then. Get a grip on your kids. This is the real issue here." Maybe it is. But I don't think we're alone in this. I think there are seasons of THIS IS TOO HARD with our kids. There are so many times, lately especially, when I throw up my hands because I have no idea what to do!
I think because of all the "bigger" things happening, I lose sight of the "smaller" things, the ones which really matter. I wake up in the morning and throw myself into autopilot. Home school, cleaning, feeding Annika (she still requires a lot of time and assistance), cooking, cleaning, refereeing, and did I say cleaning?...getting it all done. I just go. And in my going, I sort of forget to plan and to really think! I forget that these dear little ones are my number one ministry right now. I forget that they are my calling. I forget!
I forget that, while I'm going and pushing through and hoping for that future rest, the days are flying by and they're growing up. And because I'm not quite rested, right now, I'm not quite giving them my best. In fact, sometimes it's my worst.
That's the challenge. That's the call. To rest now. To find rest now. That future calm may not come until you find yourself in Heavenly eternity with your Creator. I might not have a week of solitude, ever, but I can play my guitar and my piano every day. I can sing. I can get up early and read or write. I don't. Not often enough. But I can, and I should, because it's rest for me, and as I rest, I can give more of myself. And I can think.
Friday, April 15, 2016
The Dreadful, Terrible Night
Last night I had a dreadful, terrible night. It was one of those nights that went wrong in the evening and stayed wrong when I went to bed, and so I lay there with swirling thoughts of condemnation. I felt dreadful. It was terrible.
It was one of those times when I thought so much had improved in my heart and I was flung back into the reality that I am still so very much depraved and crooked and wrong and that there is so much I cannot do to fix myself. I felt terrible. It was dreadful.
I didn't sleep until after 2 and forgot to turn off my 6:30 alarm. Soon the kids started coming like energetic waves.
I picked up my phone. My morning verse of the day read like this - Jeremiah 29:11 "'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future.'"
This verse hangs in my kitchen. It's a popular one. We like the idea of God knowing his plan for us, of God prospering us, of God protecting us, and of a future hope. I like that too. It sounds really nice and not dreadful or terrible.
But we miss a really important part. This verse is part of a whole of chapter 29. We don't read the whole story and miss the big picture. This verse is spoken by God to his people who have been carried away into exile. They have been carried away from all that they've known and loved into a new, strange land. They are prisoners. If that's not dreadful and terrible, I don't know what is.
But what does God tell them to do? He tells them to embrace the exile. What?! Embrace the exile?! He tells them to build houses, to settle down, to plant gardens, to marry, to seek peace and to pray for the city of their exile. Doesn't that sound like they're supposed to be joyful in trial and to love their enemies? What?! Moreover, they're to embrace this dreadful, terrible time, as if it's okay?
God then casually comments that after 70 years, the exile will end. 70 years. My heart sinks.
And this is when the verse comes in. He tells them this, that after 70 years "'I will come to you and fulfill my gracious promise to bring you back to this place. For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you,' declares the Lord, 'and will bring you back from captivity. I will gather you from all the nations and places where I have banished you,' declares the Lord, 'and will bring you back to the place from which I carried you into exile.'"
God doesn't simply pile promises and goodness and prosperity upon us. He wants us to look for him, to cry out for him, to pray to him...with all our hearts. And he promises to be found, to find us, to bring us back.
These last years, I've felt very much like an exile. My rug of comfort has been pulled from under my feet. I'm faced daily with my husband's chronic pain, the uncertainty of my daughter's life, a blurry future, and the plans to move overseas are on an indefinite hold.
Sometimes I feel shackled. And sometimes I have dreadful, terrible nights like last night where it all feels hopelessly impossible and I know I'm terribly inadequate. I'm stuck doing what I didn't plan to do and going nowhere, at least from a lost perspective.
How thankful I am for the hope of this morning and God's steadfast love which never ends-with new mercies each morning (Lamentations 3:22-23). I am exhausted, but I embrace the fact that God is working through all of this mess. He uses me when I am nothing and am not at all who and where I want to be. He tells me to embrace it, to live in it, to seek him with all my heart.
I'm starting to understand how it is he takes our ashes, mourning and despair and turns them to beauty, joy and praise (Isaiah 61:3). He speaks through us in the dreadful, terrible times and calls us "oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendor" (Is. 61:3). Without that, I couldn't go on.
It was one of those times when I thought so much had improved in my heart and I was flung back into the reality that I am still so very much depraved and crooked and wrong and that there is so much I cannot do to fix myself. I felt terrible. It was dreadful.
I didn't sleep until after 2 and forgot to turn off my 6:30 alarm. Soon the kids started coming like energetic waves.
I picked up my phone. My morning verse of the day read like this - Jeremiah 29:11 "'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future.'"
This verse hangs in my kitchen. It's a popular one. We like the idea of God knowing his plan for us, of God prospering us, of God protecting us, and of a future hope. I like that too. It sounds really nice and not dreadful or terrible.
But we miss a really important part. This verse is part of a whole of chapter 29. We don't read the whole story and miss the big picture. This verse is spoken by God to his people who have been carried away into exile. They have been carried away from all that they've known and loved into a new, strange land. They are prisoners. If that's not dreadful and terrible, I don't know what is.
But what does God tell them to do? He tells them to embrace the exile. What?! Embrace the exile?! He tells them to build houses, to settle down, to plant gardens, to marry, to seek peace and to pray for the city of their exile. Doesn't that sound like they're supposed to be joyful in trial and to love their enemies? What?! Moreover, they're to embrace this dreadful, terrible time, as if it's okay?
God then casually comments that after 70 years, the exile will end. 70 years. My heart sinks.
And this is when the verse comes in. He tells them this, that after 70 years "'I will come to you and fulfill my gracious promise to bring you back to this place. For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you,' declares the Lord, 'and will bring you back from captivity. I will gather you from all the nations and places where I have banished you,' declares the Lord, 'and will bring you back to the place from which I carried you into exile.'"
God doesn't simply pile promises and goodness and prosperity upon us. He wants us to look for him, to cry out for him, to pray to him...with all our hearts. And he promises to be found, to find us, to bring us back.
These last years, I've felt very much like an exile. My rug of comfort has been pulled from under my feet. I'm faced daily with my husband's chronic pain, the uncertainty of my daughter's life, a blurry future, and the plans to move overseas are on an indefinite hold.
Sometimes I feel shackled. And sometimes I have dreadful, terrible nights like last night where it all feels hopelessly impossible and I know I'm terribly inadequate. I'm stuck doing what I didn't plan to do and going nowhere, at least from a lost perspective.
How thankful I am for the hope of this morning and God's steadfast love which never ends-with new mercies each morning (Lamentations 3:22-23). I am exhausted, but I embrace the fact that God is working through all of this mess. He uses me when I am nothing and am not at all who and where I want to be. He tells me to embrace it, to live in it, to seek him with all my heart.
I'm starting to understand how it is he takes our ashes, mourning and despair and turns them to beauty, joy and praise (Isaiah 61:3). He speaks through us in the dreadful, terrible times and calls us "oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendor" (Is. 61:3). Without that, I couldn't go on.
Saturday, March 12, 2016
Dancing in Heaven
So much has happened in these last weeks, that I almost don't know where to start. But, first and foremost, I wanted to share the words that I wrote for my Grandma's funeral.
Most of you probably know that I wasn't able to go to the funeral because my youngest was in the hospital and, at that point, we didn't know if her medical situation was going to go north or south. Praise the Lord, she ended up improving! We didn't know that, though, so didn't want to risk the possibility of being caught three hours away on the other side of the mountains if there happened to be inclement weather.
My Brother, Brian, did a marvelous job reading this - and really, I might have asked him to do it anyway because I don't know that I would've been able to get through it. I was able observe the service via skype (thanks to my brother, Andrew!) with my sweet friend, Tassie, by my side (fully robed and masked since Annika was in isolation). The hospital staff was kind enough to give the space we needed, and Annika kindly slept through it all, so it was uninterrupted.
Life is sweet. So precious. So fleeting. As I read through the box of letters and mementos saved by my Grandma, I was struck by how I was reading through the precious moments and memories of a whole lifetime. A whole beautiful lifetime.
Annika, who is three, drew me a picture of Grandma dancing in Heaven. What a joy!
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Written on 1/21/16 - The day Grandma died
My grandma, Margaret Helene Larson, died today.
I am in shock and disbelief that this is really happening. Of course, I always knew the day would come, and it was expected in the end, but in spite of it all - I can’t believe she’s really and truly gone.
Just three short weeks ago I was there. I could hug her frail body and bring her hot tea and lunch. I sprayed her wild hair down and combed it so she wouldn’t worry about it looking a mess. I laid out her clothes for her to dress after her shower. When I walked into her room, it smelled like my grandma - like her houses had smelled. We sang loudly the happy birthday song to celebrate 95 years. She bemoaned the fact that her great-grandkids were only seeing her as “a crazy lady,” and told them so. I will make sure they get the story straight.
She was declining in body and forgetful as anything, but still compassionate enough to hold my hand and comfort me about my little one’s heart condition. She asked me five minutes later what I was crying about because she had forgotten but, in the moment, she understood and knew and pointed me towards Jesus. We talked of her times in North Dakota, of her horse - Peggy, whom she rode to school, how she brought potatoes and put them in the wood stove for lunch. I asked her what her favorite food was as a child and she told me there wasn’t much to be had because it was the Great Depression. She spoke of a man who worked for food and board on her family farm.
When I rubbed her back, she groaned with joy. When I told her she was beautiful and a gift and thanked her for all she had done for me, she cried.
My Grandma was a beautiful soul. We called her Marysville Grandma, Ephrata Grandma, Afraid-of Grandma, White-haired Grandma, White Grandma and More Grandma. Whatever whim of a name a grandchild would come up with, she accepted with grace and loved us in her gentle, vivacious way.
I have so many memories, from eating beef barley soup with a stack of bread and butter, to her teaching me how to play cribbage. I remember arriving early on the train, walking through Ephrata and along the windy hill next to the canal. I wandered through her orchards, ate too many cherries, and had little, practical conversations along the way.
I am one blessed granddaughter!
She impacted me in more ways that I can say. In a big way when she paid for much of my tuition to attend a Bible School in Sweden. There I met my husband and was introduced to the missions organization I later joined. We now have four beautiful kids.
Grandma also taught me a lot of sense, like the time when she told me to be sure and wear a bra all the time so “they wouldn’t hang down really low.” We were stopped at a red light in her car. A lady was crossing the crosswalk in front of us, clearly braless. I was 14, very embarrassed. I think I agreed to always do it, but didn’t make eye contact.
Grandma was a hard worker. She got up early and got things done - “Work first, then play,” I remember her saying. And she didn’t seem to forget the play. She was ready for a game or a laugh or something silly. I remember her hauling sprinklers around the orchard just as clearly as I remember the glint in her eye when she was winning at Shucks and her willingness, almost joyful determination, to proudly pose for the “swimsuit edition” of the family calendar. I think she was 78 years old at the time.
Grandma loved Jesus. She wasn’t preachy about it, but lived a quiet, faithful life. She held to the rhythm of reading her Bible, her devotional book, and writing in her journal each night.
The Grandma I saw three weeks ago was the frail, dying Grandma. She’d lived a hard, strong life and she’d pushed into the challenges. But the body gives up: weak and frail. And she was tired. She’d run her race well - her children and many grandchildren can attest to that.
I’m happy, so happy, to think of my spunky Grandma finally now released from the chains of her weak heart and bones and body. I can’t imagine how it feels to enter into glory, or what it looks like - but the thought of my Grandma standing before the throne of God as He says to her, “Well done, my good and faithful servant,” brings my heart joy and I smile amidst the tears.
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