There has been so much staring at ceilings lately, and so much I want to say, need to say, yet perhaps for the first time in, I don’t know,
-ever?- I am finding myself at such a deep loss I don’t know how to begin. The words start to come, gently… bravely, and then a swipe of fear and anger sends the letters swirling again into a meaningless pile. Perhaps I need one of those, what are they named? Where you hand them your disarray of crumpled papers, scribbled on napkins, and mismatched words and they turn it into a beautiful slice of neatly bound literature. Yes, perhaps I must find myself one of those. In the meantime, it’s coming. These emotions I am learning to put words to are braving the sticky ink and the foreboding pages, and they are gaining strength with the hope that someday they could be the mantra to someone else’s impossible. Someday they will be someone’s cherished slice of remembering, so I had best get to writing.
Chances are many of you have already read this, but I’m going to re-post this here so that I may reference it in the near future with a pretty important post I have forthcoming. This was originally an essay I wrote for one of my nursing pre-req classes for school. The assignment was pretty vague; it simply had to be about a learning experience. Many of my friends and family stood witness to the deep shades of gray circles that took up residence beneath my eyes as I battled life, death, and sleepless nights, all for the right to trade my EMT patch in for one that says Paramedic. My learning is never done, but here are some of the initial boot-shaking things I learned about that sparkle patch in my earliest days.
I will never forget the very first call I went on as an EMT Basic student. Only a portion of the way through the semester, that first ride-along was to give me a taste of what I was working toward, and put me to the test to see if I had what it took. There I was, sitting in the back of the ambulance, my pockets stuffed with all the equipment and cheat sheets I thought I would need in order to save lives that day. A quiet voice crackled across the radio, and my life would never be the same. Adrenaline surged through my veins as we flew, sirens screaming, toward the victims of a car accident that had called for help. It was in that moment, trying to reign in my fear and excitement, that I knew this was where I wanted to be. That first call turned out to be a simple scenario that would come to be routine for me in the months and years ahead. but it was the steps in between that changed me and shaped me into the Paramedic I am today.
Becoming a Paramedic seemed a noble feat, a position that was cut and dry; you call for help, I come save your life, we all go home at night. Those tinted glasses of naivety blinded me from some harsh realities and some amazing truths those first few months, but time and experience cleared the lenses, revealing the gray that washes between the black and white. Within a week of testing out of EMT Basic class and receiving my license to practice, I got my first major trauma call. It was the Fourth of July and I was hanging out at the fire station with a bunch of fellow members that were barbecuing and enjoying the holiday. When the tones went out, I was hustled out to one of the responding vehicles and wished enthusiastic “good lucks!” My own pulse thumped louder than the sirens as I went through every mental checklist I could think of, certain I was going to have this one covered.
I took in a sharp breath as we pulled on scene and I took in the horrific sight strewn across the road. First glance told us all this was a bad one, but two things changed me that afternoon. The first was as I walked up behind the car that was being cut apart to free the mangled driver. On the shattered glass of the rear window was a faded Star of Life sticker, clinging to the broken shards. That was when reality whispered that it could happen to anyone, even those you know and love.
The second sight that sent my thoughts reeling was the driver of the other car, standing unscathed on the side of the road, frantically pulling empty beer bottles from his floorboard and smashing them on the side of the road, trying to cover up what he had done. Is this real life? Innocent people crushed by the weight of others’ deliberate poor decisions? Why is it the bad guy makes it out ok, and our young friend is left clinging to life? This was not the heroic glory I was expecting to feel.
As my career progressed, my eyes were opened to the other truths that had been so buried in the myths I believed as a child. My parents taught my siblings and I the value of 911. We learned the dire situations that would require you to dial that number, and held sacred the seriousness of that action. Bleary-eyed and hungry after marathon dashes from call to call though, I learned a surprising practice that was all too common in the real world. 911 was a convenience, not a privilege. People called for us for scraped knees, for cracked calluses, and for feeling anxious. They met us in their driveways with suitcases packed, standing next to the family car that seemed in perfect working order, even in the ER waiting room where they felt the wait was taking too long. We raced through red lights, risking our lives and the others around us to arrive to find patients who had run out of medication and would like a ride to the emergency room; but don’t worry, your tax money will pay for it. This was shocking to me, but as much as we all hate it, there are enough loopholes in the system that this will continue to happen day after day. And we thought it was about saving lives…
In spite of the grueling demands on my body and mind, I continued to further my knowledge by moving on to pursue my EMT Intermediate license, and eventually my ultimate goal of becoming a Paramedic. Years of class and hundreds of hours of clinical time later, I reached the top. My patch sparkled with the golden threads that signified my new standing, and my mind was packed with the maximum ability to perform all the skills and give all the medications I possibly could. This is it I thought. Now I can really help people. That’s what we believe; we learn as children that when there’s an emergency, the firemen and policemen and paramedics come and fix everything for us. That is where the harshest reality brought me to my knees. I was educated and rehearsed to handle every situation. I could perform every life-saving skill in the book. What I had forgotten was that it’s not always up to me. The limp body of a two-year-old boy was hurriedly lifted onto my stretcher. As my ambulance went lurching and squealing off to the hospital, my hands took over as my mind calmed into the rhythmic muscle memory I had practiced so many times . I stabilized, supported, breathed, and provided everything I possibly could for this young life. My prayers surrounded each breath I pumped into his tiny lungs as he clung to life. I watched each miracle flutter of his heart struggling inside his sunken chest, and kept on begging for one more beat, one more beat. Later I stood at his bedside next to his parents, tears blurring the features of the cheesy grin that gleamed back at me from a photo of him taped to the headboard above his breathing tube. He held on for a week, and then he was gone. All the fancy treatments in the world couldn’t save him. I cried. I cried because he was innocent. I cried because the faces of his family were etched deep into my memory. I cried because I, the Paramedic, was supposed to have saved him, and at the pinnacle of my experience and knowledge, there was nothing I could have done.
My road to Paramedic was long and not as straight as I had imagined. It was disappointing on numerous occasions and heartbreaking on more days than I can count. I have learned that there are only few things that are black and white, and people aren’t who they pretend to be. I have learned that innately good people sometimes die, and people hellbent on being hellbent sometimes live. I have learned that no matter how capable I am, there are times when nothing I can do will help. Most importantly, I have learned that where I am willing to change, I will grow. Being weak will make me strong, being wrong will show me right, and being willing to change and learn will keep me from growing hard. There will be call after call that leaves me scowling, but in the midst of them, there will be times when I really do make a difference. And that, my dear friends, is what will keep me coming back for more.
PLEASE LEAVE ME A COMMENT, IT LETS ME KNOW YOU’RE LISTENING!
Ok, I’m a little late over here… my blog is having epic crashes trying to keep up, and it hasn’t wanted to let me put up my Christmas post! Changes coming soon! Anyway…Christmas…
We knew we weren’t going to be able to plan much ahead of time this Christmas, so we didn’t commit to any travel or any visitors or activities. Sounded kind of bland to me, but it turned out to be just the best. It was a quiet and very low-key, snow-dusted day with just my closest people at home. It was a day of playing and resting and soaking up the sounds of the bookend brothers and the middle sisters giggling and singing and thoroughly enjoying making magnificent memories.
We all long to have some confirmation in our lives that what we are doing matters, and that we are on the path we are meant to be on. I am a facts girl, better at analyzing what’s in front of me rather than assuming things based on feelings or expectations. This often finds me in tension, wanting that sure-fire sign that I’m headed in the right direction. I don’t always find the evlidence that I’ve been headed the right way, but here’s a little story that gave me one of those goosebump, teary-eyed, heart-twisting, wide-smile grins that in this great big world of decisions and directions, I was standing right where I should be.
Our journey into foster care and desire for adoption has had some twists and turns that weren’t part of our plan, so as we wait we have continued to look for ways we can make a difference in the lives of the fatherless. About a year and a half ago, we decided we wanted to sponsor a child who needed it. There are several organizations that provide the opportunity where you can choose a child who is orphaned or just living with their family in poverty, and you can help with their food/shelter/education/medical expenses and expectantly make their hardship a little less crushing. Because of our sweet Ellie, we are always looking for ways to be involved with children with special needs, so when we found Morning Star Foundation, an organization who specifically cares for orphaned or impoverished children with serious medical conditions, we knew that was where we wanted to help.
Morning Star’s website has a list of all the children they are caring for that are need of sponsorship. You can read a little biography about each of them and choose a child who you would like your financial support to go to. You are helping pay to feed and clothe them, as well as help them get the medical intervention that all of them are needing. I looked over the list, overwhelmed at the precious small faces of each of these young ones, each with a hard, hard story at such a young age. As I searched through the faces and the stories, there was one tiny face that quickly grabbed my heartstrings. When I stared at her innocent eyes and her delicate, girly features, my heart pulsed with the memories of my own dark-haired little girl. I scanned through the rest of the bios, and while I ached to make a difference for each one of them, none of them captured my attention quite like the little baby named Kate.
I decided not to tell Mark who I picked, and instead just handed him the list pulled up, and told him to look through it and see who he thought we should choose. A few minutes later he said, “This one. She reminds me of Ellie.” He was pointing at the picture of little Kate. “Aha” moment… yes, she’s definitely the one then. So began our relationship with this tiny little miracle a couple of oceans away. We got to help provide for her, and support her through her second open-heart surgery. We enjoyed shopping for her, and sewing a soft blanket that would be the closest we would come to wrapping our arms around her. We were sent frequent updates on how she was doing, and photos of her adorable smile as she grew and thrived.
As much as we would have loved to bring this little sweetling home forever, we were thankful to get to be a part of her story however we could. Not long ago, we received news that she had been matched with an adoptive family. Bittersweet in a way, but overjoyed to know that she would have a home and a family forever to love on her and walk her through the rest of her story.
I opened my last email update about our Kate, a little sad that it would be our last, and wondering what the rest of her journey would hold. I smiled at the picture of her held by her new, forever family, and as I scrolled down, there was that final evidence that she was exactly the little one we were meant to intercede for. There, her new name chosen by her adoptive family: Ellie Kate. Goosebump, teary-eyed, heart-twisting, smile. Yep. Right where we were supposed to be.
Don’t you love it when that happens? So much of the time we are seeking, and using our best judgement, and hoping we are doing the right thing; it’s just so good when you feel that hand on your shoulder, that peace in your soul, confirmation that yes, I can use you, and you are part of a big, big story. Once baby Kate was off to her new adventure, we scanned the list again for a new little life we could be a part of. I’m not even kidding… bright eyes, dark pigtails, meet Ellie Hope.
PLEASE LEAVE ME A COMMENT, IT LETS ME KNOW YOU’RE LISTENING!
Well, the last of the “first day of ___ grade” pictures have ticked through the scrolls of social media. As the breezes begin to carry a slightly cooler tune, the mamas and papas have slipped (slammed?) back into the routines of sack lunches and earlier bedtimes. The tears have been shed over the waving goodbye to all the babies eagerly walking into dorm rooms, bravely walking into high school, timidly walking into first days of kindergarten and middle school. Ready or not, the sun tanned and flip-flopped feet have scooted into the fresh darkness of scuff-less school shoes.
After months of making big decisions and gathering records and researching and weighing options, we were all ready to set sail on a new adventure as each of the kids started at brand new schools. New neighborhood, new district, new schedules, new friends, new parents, new opportunities. After such a process, I found myself mildly unamused when I received a notification from one of the kids’ old schools, informing me that my child had been marked absent for one or more class periods that day. I was quick to see to it that the confusion was corrected, admittedly with an eye roll. It wasn’t until later that the seemingly insignificant miscommunication sunk in.
The beginning of this school year finds me with one starting high school, one starting middle school, and one at an elementary school without an older sibling there for the first time. (Enter, “How did I get so old? How did THEY get so old? Enjoy them while you have them. The days are long and the years are short….etc.”) Yep, a lot of land marks for us this year. Oh, and the one starting kindergarten. That’s a big one. The very first time away from mama for more than a few hours. The very first lunch box. The picking out of the very first school outfit ever. The practicing of writing her name, and pronouncing her teacher’s. Choosing between pigtails or braids for that first day, and learning what number the little hand has to get to before mama will be waiting out front with a big smile and open arms. That is what got forgotten though; I didn’t get a phone call about her missing class. Because nobody missed her.
The words whipped the air right out of my chest, and my eyes stung fierce. That lone elementary student of mine? She shouldn’t be alone; she should be the older sibling this time, holding that nervous little 5 year old’s hand as they walk into school together. But just like the rush of cars in the drop-off line quickly dwindles to silence, the rest of the world has moved on. Her teacher still stands in front of the class and introduces herself with a welcoming smile, and her friends still dash pink-cheeked around the playground looking for one more to join their game of tag, but her teacher will never know she is absent from class, and her friends will not know they are missing her brown pigtails and her easy smile.
There will always be these breathtaking moments in the ebb and flow of grief I suppose; some familiar, some untraveled, and all of them needing to be stared in the face and acknowledged and felt. Each of these hashes on the blank timeline of my life brings the juxtaposition of experiencing wonderful new adventures coupled with wrenching absences that cannot be called in and excused. Never will hurt obscure my ability to seize the joy in these life moments, nor will the presence of great excitement mean that the potency of my empty spaces has diminished. Because I have chosen to open my heart to love, it has also been lain bare to the things which scar. These moments which steal breath and threaten to break souls may leave me grasping for words and understanding, but the dark will always be at my back at I turn my face up to wait for the sun that always comes. Always.
PLEASE LEAVE ME A COMMENT, IT LETS ME KNOW YOU ARE LISTENING!!
There is this moment when you first look upon the fresh, new face of your newborn and you instantly know that you would do absolutely anything to protect them, to keep them well and happy. Honestly, in that moment it is hard to believe anything bad could happen to them.
When Jacob was a toddler, he was very sick. We were young first time parents sitting in the children’s hospital in a city far from home, watching the sunken eyes of parents shuffling in and out with fragile, bald children, and we were terrified. As we checked off each appointment and treatment though, we grew confident in what could be done for our son. We knew that the hours spent watching him be poked dozens of times, and the flow of medicine that left him cranky and sick was serving a bigger purpose. We knew that the pain he was going through was helping him, and so we pushed through it to get to healing.
I never imagined there coming a day when we wouldn’t know what to do for him, or that there might not be an option to help him get better. Parenting is a scary venture, but I think to some extent we always believe that with God’s grace there will never be anything we can’t find hope in. We believe there will always be some kind of answer, something we can do to protect our children and help them heal. Until there isn’t.
I am standing in this hard place, wondering what it is that God wants me to understand through what seems an endless season of uphill battles. I’m looking at myself and wondering if I will still see Him as good if we don’t get the answers we are asking for. It’s a painful thing as a parent to offer empty hands, to stand knowing that there is nothing you can do to fix this, that this pain they are enduring might be a path to healing, but this time, it might not be. We might endure this agony and still not get the outcome we pray for.
I can keep praying for the situation to change, and I may be crushed by the answer. Or I can pray for God’s nearness, whatever the answer may be.
Please add your prayers to ours; we will never stop praying for healing, but most importantly let’s pray that pain would not be wasted, that the story of grace would triumph in our hard, and we would be gentle and gracious as we are changed.
PLEASE LEAVE ME A COMMENT, IT LETS ME KNOW YOU’RE LISTENING!!
“When you think you’ve hit the bottom, then the bottom gives way… when you fall into a darkness no words can explain… you don’t know how you’ll make it out alive… Jesus will meet you there.”
The words to this song by Steven Curtis Chapman are the groanings of my heart right now. I fight, claw my way to the light to grasp hope, and still sometimes in the struggle I let my ear be bent that it is hopeless, that the shuddering gape of pain is stronger than the will I have to fight for more. It is rare that I don’t have words to illustrate my soul, but somehow, that’s where I’m finding myself right now; speechless, burning, afloat in a sea that renders me flailing, gasping, waiting for rescue.
We are facing things I never dared to imagine. We get like that, don’t we? Confident in ourselves that certain things will never touch us. Thanks for the dose of reality…
How would our hearts even know what to pray? Mine doesn’t, and people don’t want to hear that. I am in one day at a time mode; focusing on the next thing, and then the next thing. There are promises I am clinging to; I know I won’t be left here in this valley alone. I know He will meet me there, but the waiting is tough.
Please, dear community, pray us through this. We know in our hearts that beauty comes from ashes, but we have a hard fire to battle first.
This morning we sat in the plastic folding chairs of our Life Group, which felt suddenly hard and uncomfortable in the ear-splitting silence that had come over the packed room of people. I tucked my chin to disguise my tears, and the entire frame of my eyesight grew crowded with the feet of the people surrounding our two chairs. In that moment, my emotions were confusing. Frustration, embarrassment, and because no other word could describe it, resentment. Not at the people around me, but I felt so discouraged at being the chair in the middle. Once again, hands were laid upon us as we stood in the middle of tragedy; broken, weary, with the arms of our community holding us up. I am tired of being the one that needs holding up. It feels like season after season after season of hard has kept us on the defensive, treading deep waters and relying on the people around us to carry us. I am ready to be the one who gets to give instead of always being on the receiving end. It feels selfish, uncomfortable, and humbling.
Humbling…maybe that’s the buzzword. It’s not comfortable to be vulnerable, no one likes to be needy. On the flip-side, isn’t that what we are created for? Community? Yes, I’m sure of it; we weren’t intended to carry our burdens with our own strength.
Perhaps in this long season, God is waiting for me to learn to surrender to being vulnerable, to gracefully accept the help that He provides. One would think that sitting back and letting others tend to your needs would be the easy part, but we groom ourselves to be independent, self-sufficient, mighty in what we can handle. It takes grace and humility to learn to receive with open hands. This is something I first learned from Kara… she implored us all to work at letting people help, at tending to their hearts by letting them do something for us. Still, it’s easier said than done.
We are immeasurably blessed to be surrounded by all the feet in that room. Right from barely knowing us, this body of believers has jumped in with both feet to love us, pray for us, and fill the gaps that we have needed filled. They are the gospel in human form, who am I to let my stubbornness stand in the way of letting community be exactly what it is created to be?
For now, my seat is in the middle. I am weak and struggling and needing the strength and prayers of my people to carry me through. I am confident that one day I will get to stand in that outer circle. I will get to be part of the army that reaches out to link arms with a wounded soul and helps to carry them out of the valley. While I’m waiting, I’m learning to sit, to breathe deep in the compassion that is poured over us, to accept with a humble and thankful heart the many blessings that have been extended, undeserving, to see us to the other side of this dark storm.
How does it make you feel to be the one needing help? Who are the people that are there for you when you’re going through something hard? What stands in the way of you opening your hands to the help of those who offer?
Please leave me a comment, it lets me know you’re listening!!!
Yesterday I fought the urge to pick up the phone and cancel, and the afternoon sun found me shuffling across the cement, a small toddler hand tucked into mine to face the day. The sky burned a brilliant blue, but my legs were heavy, my heart clouded. We passed an older gentleman and his wife leaving the building, and his eyes immediately met mine as a broad smile flashed across his face. In that instant, a small pool of tears suddenly spilled across my cheeks. Maybe it was exhaustion, maybe hormones or pain, or maybe it was that this world has felt mighty heavy lately. Maybe it was anticipating that today we would say our final goodbyes to a man of strong character; a father, a husband, a son… a friend, a brother whose life was senselessly cut short by the suffocating theme of violence and hate that peppers our daily headlines.
Whatever it was, it was a moment of humanity; a reminder that we are all just trying to make it, that we all leave our homes with a swallow of uncertainty in our hearts, and we long for safety, for compassion, for love.
This world isn’t going to change. In fact, it is going to get worse, but when you put on your shoes and your big brave face to confront the moments ahead of you, remember the impact a simple kindness can bring. Remember that we are all travelers here, facing the fears that lie on the horizon, and longing for our forever home. I will still drop my kids at school whispering prayers in my thoughts, telling them if I don’t see them later I will meet them in Heaven, because frankly these days are dark and uncertain, but I know in the middle of the things going down that something as simple as a well directed smile can bring a warmth to a cloudy soul, a promise of hope and of enduring love.
PLEASE LEAVE ME A COMMENT, IT LETS ME KNOW YOU’RE LISTENING!
In high school, I kept a journal of sorts; mostly because I enjoyed decorating the cover. I had been deeply hurt by someone close to me in my younger years when they discovered a journal in which I had scrawled my deepest thoughts and frustrations. I was humiliated and disgraced for having written those things down, so after that I didn’t write down much of what I was thinking. I took time to write inspiring quotes I came across, Bible verses I wanted to remember, hilarious things my friends’ said, but the one thing I regularly took time to write was a list of goals. I would draw out columns and write my goal, how I planned to accomplish it, and then a blank column to write about my success of the goal. They related to grades, friendships, sports… nothing life-altering, but kept me on track. I am a list girl, and there is something so satisfying to me about making check marks. Like seriously, yes, I add extra things to my list that I’ve already done, just to cross them off.
One day, sitting in science class, another teacher happened to see me doodling in my journal, and asked if he could take a look at what I was doing. After flipping through the pages, he said something that has stuck with me into adulthood. He told me to always keep writing down my goals; that people who write their goals are the people who achieve them,
In a life of keeping up with kids, jobs, extracurricular activities, a home, church, writing, and a medical conditional of the energy-sucking, strength-gobbling, painful, discouraging variety, it is easy to find myself caught in a tumble-dry cycle of surviving the day to day ordinary that must be done to keep the wheel turning. I remember in the aftershock of losing Ellie, thinking I never again wanted to rush my children to bed, turn down a request to read them a book, or make them wait to tell me something. I never wanted to miss a moment and risk having regret… but then, at that time I didn’t know life would continue to throw big, life-changing waves in my course. I didn’t know I would face days of having nothing left to give.
In these days of new and refining challenges, I am finding it more important than ever to intentionally create moments that etch lasting, joyful memories in the hearts of my little people… in a way, a “list of goals,” to make sure I am taking the time to stop and pause these instants that are but a breath, and yet, such a lifetime.
This summer we decided to starts making a bucket list for each season. There are always a number of things that we eagerly look forward to with the changing of the weather, and so we sit and brainstorm a mess of ideas, our hearts pounding and our mouths racing as we blurt out all the “must-do’s” that we can dream into being, and somehow plop them into an organized guide to help us remember to slip these extraordinary moments into our ordinary days.
Summer Bucket 2015
Were there days I messed it up? Days I was too tired or too weak or too scheduled to follow through with what we thought our day would look like? You bet. But we didn’t quit. We kept pecking away at that list, even to the very hems of the Autumn weather, and eventually each idea that sprayed across excited lips became a time and a place, a memory that took shape and engraved all sights and smells and emotions across the planks of our remembrance.
Let’s remember to be intentional. Make a list, set a goal! Don’t wait until tragedy to start living like you mean it. Make moments, make memories, make an impact. Even something as simple as chasing down the ice cream truck is taking back space in a heart that needs it. Take back those spaces, push out the fear, and the struggle, and the pain, and replace it with a moment of delight. Those memories? They’re forever.
And now… a little photo dump of our summer….
My biggest, picking from the garden!
Sunscreen all around!
Egg Yolk Tattoos
PJ’s all day! Which may have been…. staying in bed all day?
Camp out!
Beach face?
Homemade pizza!
Ok, hugging a wookie wasn’t exactly on the list, but you have to admit that’s one for the books 😉
Next up….FALL!!!!! What’s on your bucket list?!
Please leave me a comment, it lets me know you’re listening!
Choosing Hope 
