Buckets

As I’ve considered the things I’d really like to do before my illness progresses enough to eliminate possibilities, I’ve kept kind of a bucket list of sorts in my mind of things I hope to get to do. At the top of the list was going to the beach with my family again. As time has slipped away though that has seemed out of reach, so when I discovered we essentially have a beach and sand dunes just a few hours from us by Lake Michigan, I jumped all over making it happen.

For months I saved up the earnings from my Etsy store so I could pay for us to rent a campsite and a comfortable RV that could power all the medical equipment that has to trail along behind me. I managed to snatch one of the last groups of days left for the popular camp spots at Indiana Dunes State Park, and started harping on my family to black out the days and make sure their bosses knew they wouldn’t be working. When one of my kids got pushback from their boss about taking the days off I even composed a carefully written letter about how important this was to our family, and praise Jesus he consented to approving the vacation days.

We planned for months… meal planning, gathering up our boogie boards, kites, and buckets for the beach, and rounding up sleds we could use to fly down the nearby sand dunes. Lists of medicine and machines I needed to have with me. I found an amazing RV nearby for us to rent, and got everything settled. I was so excited and looking forward to this time for all of us to escape our busyness and make memories together.

I don’t know if it’s sad humor or irony or what, but a few days before our trip I landed in the hospital as the result of a mistake made by the healthcare professionals. It was serious, and my hopes for a quick prescription and release were dashed as I was admitted and prepped for surgery the same night. Buckets of tears later I had begged and pleaded with each doctor, explaining the significance of the trip, urging them to let me go. It was not to be.

Father’s Day morning (and also my son’s birthday) was the day we were set to leave. The rest of my clan packed up the RV and came to the hospital to have a makeshift celebration with me before they hit the road for our vacation. There were to be no refunds for what we had paid, and by then there were no other days available to rent camp spots, so it made the most sense for them to go ahead without me.

The disappointment mixed with excitement in my hospital room that morning was palpable, and I felt genuinely joyful they were still getting to go, while at the same time deeply disappointed I would have to stay behind. There was a flurry of hugs and kisses as I sent them on their way, demanding many photos.

In the stillness of a familiar hospital room my frustration burned hot rivers down my cheeks. All the things I have lost to this disease, Lord, why did this trip have to be one of them too? The whole point was for it to possibly be one of my “lasts.”

In the painful silence of a room that overlooked a brick wall, I remembered the story of Nehemiah. A man who had worked so hard for something, and then had seen it come crumbling down. He says he sat down on the ground and cried. He mourned for several days and refused to eat. Then he got up and dusted himself off. He thanked God for keeping His promises, and he prayed for restoration. This is the heart posture I desire to have.

Charles Stanley said, “Taking time to lament what we have lost can be an act of worship. Nehemiah allowed his distress to lead him into deeper communion with God. Offer your tears as devotion to Him.”

I pray that through the many disappointments and missing outs of this disease that I will learn more and more to press into Jesus through my frustration and discouragement. I know He sees far beyond what I am able to, and I trust that He knows how to write more good into my story.