Showing posts with label haven't I done this before?. Show all posts
Showing posts with label haven't I done this before?. Show all posts

Braiding rope

I know why the eyes are the windows of the soul. It's because all I love flows through these eyes. Images collected throughout the day are what make up the threads of the rope I'm hanging on to at the end.
Faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love. His back arches heavy over children late into the evening, after hours of wearing his lead apron at work. Love bending close to the ears of the son. His heart pushes away the frustration of living with someone like me, and instead he makes a funnel for love to pour forth.
As Christ loves the church. The egotistical, stubborn, idolatrous, broken church. As Christ loves that church. And he does, this husband. He holds onto the Word like rescue while I tread water looking for my threads, the threads of that passage that I am to be living. Ah, submit and respect. Those are my threads. For a moment, through the camera lens, I am in obedience. Every time he makes dinner while I battle demons, I obey this command - respect. Oh, how deep is this love, the circle of family, the threads of he and I and Christ surrounded now by the layers of each of our children.

You can try to keep me down
You can try to keep me under
But you'll never get my will, 
You'll never take my will to fight
'Cause I was born at the bottom of this mountain
I'm scared and I'll probably climb it ,
Climb it till the day I die

All the things I know I needed
Just keeps me going
All the things I never had
Just keeps me wanting it more
Fighting for it all

You'll never take my will to fight

I need peace of mind and a hopeful heart
To lose this rage and move out in the dark
I am looking for rainbows and shooting stars
Just some peace of mind and a hopeful heart

And a miracle for this broken soul
A little miracle for this broken soul

I need peace of mind and a gentle head
As I try to change the way I am
And hope God forgives when I can't
~From Fighting For It All and Peace of Mind, Mindy Smith~

Switching strokes

She smiled, but there was sadness in her smile; even now she felt forebodings of the coming pain, the air she breathed was heavy with the storm that was about to burst. (Honoré de Balzac, Le Père Goriot, 1835)

The keys of the piano are heavy, and my heart thrills at the tension between unplayed and played notes and all the richness of resonance and volume and cascade the old brown piano holds hidden inside herself. I run fingers through the chords flowing from my memory, chords to a song of lament. Putting music to the emotion calms me, and there is even a smile hedging it's way into the corners of my mouth.


The front room is dark, the bitter cold grayness of January's sunset casting the children's window decorations in relief. I am the frozen observer, and the only activity about my body is trapped inside the mind.

I had a false hope that the ocean of pain held in my story would eventually soak into the ground, disappear into the bedrock under my feet. As with all false hopes, the destruction of this idea undid me. Six months I've walked on water, with joy insurmountable. Someone suggested I turn my mind from the ocean, forget it's there. For just a second I looked down at the ocean, contemplating. Could I leave this behind? Instead, the hems of my pants were suddenly wet as I felt myself sinking back in. Escape from pain? Possible for some. Impossible for many.

My counselor's voice is a soothing melody over the phone lines. She tells me to swim through it. There's no ignoring the ocean. Now you must swim.

I do, stroke after stroke, those moments coming every now and then when I breathe in a wave of water and panic that I can't make this swim. Oxygen-starved brain cells create a firestorm of anxiety. But instead of trucking on with my poor stroke and my mouth filled with water, I will flip on my back and float for a while. I feel every teardrop that made up this ocean of pain. Still beneath me. But I'm looking up at the sky, and the deeps aren't so terrifying.

Maybe this is how you escape madness: to switch strokes in the middle of the swim, and stare at the clouds moving across the azure. I'm no less sodden, no less in the middle of the ocean. But at least I'm looking up. And up there is the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation nor shadow of turning. (James 1:17)


*Photos from Amelia's play camera


When things are just too much

A thundercloud mounts a towering anvil of peach grandeur against the backdrop of the torrents of gray rain falling on one side of the horizon and the pink sun just kissing the hilltops on the other. We are driving home from a baseball game, rag dolls bouncing along in the humid air with OneRepublic blaring from the iPhone to keep Amy content. 

The kids and I cleaned house today, trying to progress ever closer to our goal of organized and simple (and mostly failing dismally). We basked in the hot sun together. Smelled wildflowers. Cuddled kittens. 

Being in grieving, for any reason, is like walking on a road full of mud puddles. If the road were dry, you'd spot every pot hole. But with standing water everywhere, it looks deceptively flat. You're so excited to go dance in the puddles, and you never know when one will take you by surprise and land you on your butt in the mud because it is deeper than it looks.


And so the alien landscape that you find yourself suddenly plunged into when something goes drastically wrong in your family. Amelia was complaining of pain when walking together, and walking stiffly. I laid her in my lap like a wee babe, and felt her legs, then, with more trepidation, her groin. Sure enough, 8 or 9 new hard lumps on both sides that weren't there the day before.

I was in the middle of loading the dishwasher. Ants were threatening to carry away the children's morning cereal bowls. The cats on the porch yowled for cream. Rosy wanted her hair braided, Caleb a new game on the iPhone, Katy just some time to visit. But I put it all down. All of it. And I went to my bed, and I held my baby girl.


I stroked her hair, her hair that defies description, the multi-faceted gold of it like some kind of miraculous weaving, the stubborn way it curls in the back and is wavy in the front, the flip on each side like a little Dutch girl painting. I stroke her hair and the tears stream down my face.

I cannot face losing that beautiful hair.

And so I picked up my phone and I called a friend while I held my girl - the kind of friend who's been in a well of grief so much deeper than any you've known that she never questions, belittles, or tries to understand your grief. The kind of friend who knows it's you when you can't even stutter out your name because all of your air is being held hostage by the sobbing. The kind of friend who doesn't say it will be fine, or tell you of course it's not cancer. She is just sorry - she doesn't know yet what she's sorry for but for now she's sorry that Amy has lumps and that I am afraid and that is enough. And when we say our goodbyes, she says this is just too much.



And it is. It is just too much. Too much for me, too much for doctors, too much for preachers, and too much for faith. These are the times when Christ holds me, Christ seeks me, Christ comforts me. I am not the active participant in this part of the faith journey, walking with him on the garden paths. I am prostrate on the floor in a puddle of tears and sobs and no words, and He is simply there with me. And He says, too, this is just too much. The only difference is that He adds an ending to that sentence: and so I have overcome.

While I cannot squelch or ignore or decide not to grieve over Amy - Amy's hair, Amy's health, all this fear that we have to grapple with suddenly - I also must remember that there is no loss so deep that He cannot catch her.

I say it again, to reassure myself, that when my faith runs out, His grace will overflow...

There is no loss so deep He cannot catch me.

Please post this blog button all over the internet and rally prayer for my daughter as we face the uncertainty, grief and fear of the coming weeks.


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Rays of hopes, fragments of fear

Amelia saw a doctor today (small miracle). The doctor was thorough, concerned, and helpful. Amelia has two lumps, not one, one about 2 centimeters and one about 1 centimeter, both on the same side of her neck. A wait and see approach was briefly discussed. However, blood work showed a few concerning things - although there is no blatant lymphoma or leukemia signs, for which we are so thankful. It is still possible that the lumps are due to an infection, not cancer.

When a doctor starts a discussion with you with cancer and odds being the first things out of their mouth, terror strikes. Amelia is scheduled to go to Mayo-Rochester for a more complete work-up in their pediatric department there, and potentially a needle biopsy of the lumps if that is warranted. This should take place in the next few days.

So for now, no, she does not have cancer. But yes, she could have it. We are still waiting for more answers. More prayers needed to flood the Throne on behalf of this precious girl. Please keep your prayers coming, and I will do my best to continue to update as we have more news.

God graces me with glimpses of His majesty in these difficult days. A moonscape of epic proportions flowing through blankets of clouds on my sleepless night. A deer bounding full tilt in all her tawny ballerina form through the green field across the way. Caleb chirping, "Mama, there's a BUTTERFLY in the house!" Amelia in her straw cowboy hat charming the medical staff today with her Amy-isms. Yet, the devil cracks the door ever farther open when fear provides an inch for him to slither in - nightmares and flashbacks like I haven't experienced in many months leave me confused and disoriented and seeking for UP and LIGHT. On the grand stage of suffering, I see the battleground clearly, God's army of angels lined up to protect us on one side of the green killing fields, and all the darkness Satan can muster in row after row on the other side. We descend into Narnia, and pray for a glimpse of Aslan as we prepare ourselves for battle.


Please post this blog button all over the internet and rally prayer for my daughter as we face the terror of the coming weeks.


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Please, God, say it's not cancer

It is 1:30 in the morning and I am writing to beg you to pray for my dear, embattled third daughter, Amelia Irene.

It is 1:30 a.m. and worry has my mind whirling. Trials never seem to come to us one at a time. They never seem small, trivial. Our life like living in Africa, long seasons of beautiful sun followed by monsoons that shut all of life down for long periods of time. This week a visit to the cardiologist revealed that I have new complications - a heart murmur, swelling, distention in some of my major veins and arteries. Surgery may be in the near future. A mechanical valve replacement, putting more stress on an organ that has always been my weak point. A long recovery. An uncertain outcome.


But this pales as I cuddle the warm body of my Amelia in bed with me tonight. Her curls like a crown on the crisp sheets in the cool night air. The way she hugs the web of my hand in her fingers. The suckling sounds on her Nuk, reminiscent of our nursing days. A month ago, on May 5th, I noticed a visible lump on her neck. We thought it was a swollen lymph node, gave it a cursory look and feel, and dismissed it from our thoughts. Her health was far from our conscious at the beach in South Carolina. But as the weeks passed, the lump remained, firmer now, fixed, growing larger. She is tired all the time, cold all the time, refuses to eat. The busyness of life should be no excuse for why we haven't had her in to see a doctor yet...but so is life.

Trivial things, like a filling that fell out of one of my teeth. Swelling in my legs that seemed pretty important. A counseling appointment I didn't want to skip because they are so hard to reschedule. T-ball games and coach pitch games and slip and slides. My broken tail bone. A pet dying. A trip for graduation. A friend moving into our house, and the necessary cleaning, reorganizing and welcoming. Homeschooling. Doing the dishes. Scattering Grandpa and Grandma's ashes this weekend, meeting up with family, getting to know new cousins. 

A trip to the splash pad where she huddled in a towel, too cold in the 80 degree heat, begging heat as she shivered close against my sun-warmed body.


A swing by Cedar Lake, where I spent summers as a child. A new straw cowboy hat salvaged from her great-great aunt Charlotte's farm in rural South Dakota.


A creek to clamber through, looking for turtles. Pieces of red granite to pick up. Slogging through "quick sand" mud and adventuring with her brother and sisters.
Why do you see the speck that is in your eye, but do not notice the log that is in your daughters? (Matthew 7:3, altered)
And so it is 1:30 a.m. on a Sunday night, and my mind is racing, making a list of the doctors and surgeons to call, trying to find a way through the medical maze to get to the quickest answer. I'm a nurse - now a doctor of nursing, an odd twist of title that is confusing even to me - and I already know what Google will say. I know that a firm, fixed lump isn't usually a lymph node, or an infection, or a benign tumor. I know it's the hallmark of lymphoma, the third most common type of childhood cancer. I know that the lump, coupled with her symptoms of fatigue, poor appetite, unexplained itching, and weight loss, is a scary, scary thing.

I don't want to be in this place. In this place knowing only God has the answers, only God knows the outcome, and only God can direct our steps as we deal with this crisis in our crisis-ridden third daughter. This daughter, made ever so much more dear to us when we nearly lost her twice just after her 3rd birthday. This daughter whom I feared would die from the seizures at night for a whole year, sleeping with a baby monitor turned up on high and whistling night after night as I trained ears to hear her choking on her vomit. This daughter, who runs into things and hits her head all the time, who runs pell mell through life with greatest joy and so much difficulty. How can I think of approaching the alter again with the child who was delivered to me? How can I walk again with Hannah, begging for my Samuel, and giving my Samuel back to the Lord? How can I climb the mountain with Abraham, with no sacrifice accompanying me but my own child?

I beg for your prayers for my Amelia Irene. I beg You, Yahweh, Jehovah Jireh, my Provider, deliver this child to us again. I pray this is not cancer. I pray she lives a full life to the awesome glory of Moshai', God the Deliverer. Tsa'aq, Jehovah Shammah, the One who is here with us!

Please post this blog button all over the internet and rally prayer for my daughter as we face the terror of the coming weeks.


Amelia-blog-button

Slaying dragons


Sun don't go down
purple and scarlet and blue
let me pause here
these precious moments are few


When the moon has taken the sky's throne
and turned all the land to shadow
that's when I dream of the little girl
who once was me.


Twirl me around,
and hold me tight,
tell bedtime stories
and kiss me goodnight
then I'd return to the child I've been
The princess who once was me.


High heels, lace veils,
dresses too long and too loose.
In games I was grown up,
a little bit taller than you.
Now that I'm taller, I long to be smaller,
like the gangly, brown-eyed girl
who once was me.


A tattered shoebox
houses my little girl things
Bits of writing,
pearls, fake diamonds, and rings.
A rose that my Mama once gave to me
A picture of Papa by the sea - 
I open it sometimes to have a peak
at the girl that once was me.


Sometimes I go back to simpler days
before the innocence faded away...
how did she escape me, the child I was?
The princess who once was me.

I've asked forgiveness a thousand times if I've asked it once. Still it is on my lips...death dripping, dead deeds rising like bile up from a throat that has long sung the lament and cannot find notes for the joyful song.
How like a widow is she, She who was queen among the provinces has now become a slave. Bitterly she weeps at night, tears are upon her cheeks. Among all her lovers there is none to comfort her. All her friends have betrayed her; they have become her enemies...she finds no resting place. All who pursue her have overtaken her in the midst of her distress. The roads to Zion mourn, for no one comes to her appointed feasts. All her gateways are desolate, her priests groan, her maidens grieve, and she is in bitter anguish. Joy is gone from our hearts; our dancing has turned to mourning. The crown has fallen from our head. Woe to us, for we have sinned! Because of this our hearts are faint, because of these things our eyes grow dim for Mount Zion, which lies desolate, with jackals prowling over it. You, O LORD, reign forever; your throne endures from generation to generation. Why do you always forget us? Why do you forsake us so long? Restore us to yourself, O LORD, that we may return; renew our days as of old unless you have utterly rejected us and are angry with us beyond measure. (Lamentations 1 and 5)
I hear it like the drum beat of my own heart throbbing for sins I cannot repay. I feel it like the taboo of words of confession long on my lips but never sufficing. But He interrupts me in my mutterings of confession, and a simple image crushes my confessing lips until they are bruised with anguish. For He has bled, drop by drop, for this sin I cannot forgive myself for. He has shed every tear, sweat blood in Gethsemane, and hung naked on the tree to cleanse this sin from the book of my life.  Erased! Erased! Erased! He calls, as I linger on in self-torment. Does my blood mean nothing to you? Would you shed your own, the sinful river of blood running through human veins that cannot repay, when the perfect Lamb has already been slain for this sin you call unforgivable? Would you spend your days in torment in a prison you've built yourself, when everything I own, I, King of Glory, I would give you freely? Joy unspeakable, cup running over, and you trade it for bitter hyssop and a cup full of vinegar and days full of tears?

And as He whispers, deep in the silent night as I sit on the porch steps and watch the storm clouds rolling in, my house asleep, and my sleep destroyed by nightmares. He whispers something of a princess whose crown was ruined long ago. He whispers He doesn't care; He sings of rescue. Something about a castle where that princess was captive. Something about throwing out curses and drawing lines in the sand, and gathering the stones into piles that would have been hurled my way (John 8). Restoring crowns, and redeeming all of us, sinners, scandalous, scorched and scourged.
Your throne, O God, will last for ever and ever; a scepter of justice will be the scepter of your kingdom.You love righteousness and hate wickedness; therefore God, your God, has set you above your companions by anointing you with the oil of joy. Daughters of kings are among your honored women; at your right hand is the royal bride in gold of Ophir. Listen, O daughter, consider and give ear: Forget your people and your house of old. The king is enthralled by your beauty; honor him, for he is your lord. All glorious is the princess within [her chamber]; her gown is interwoven with gold. In embroidered garments she is led to the king; led in with joy and gladness to enter the palace of the king. (from Psalm 45)