Wordless Wednesday
Tag: family
July Fourteenth
13 years ago we had to say goodbye to a piece of our heart and soul. Even though I had a peace about her returning to her Father’s arms, there was still a part of me that felt like she had been ripped from our arms. I wondered how we would ever be ok. How we would face each day with the crushing weight of having watched our youngest, beautiful daughter be laid deep in the ground.
Tracing back over the time that has passed since her death it is clear that even when I have lost myself in indescribable grief, I have always been held by the One I can never lose.
When I have thought I cannot go on He gives me incredibly meaningful reasons to keep showing up.
When I have thought the pain is too intense, He has given me important distractions to take my eyes off of my own pain.
This day will always hold some painful memories remembering the events of losing our girl, but it will also hold the hope of our reunion with her someday, and the remembrance of how God has carried us each and every step of the way.
Sharpie Stones & the Questions They Bring
“Why do we even believe in God if He doesn’t help us?” The words sliced through the sweltering afternoon air with razor intensity as hot tears dropped dark shapes onto my 11 year old’s gray T-shirt. He had just finished lying a sharpie-labeled headstone over the dented ground in a shade-protected corner of our yard where he had buried a tiny baby bunny for the second time that day.
“God could have saved that bunny. I prayed so hard for that. If He can do whatever He wants to, why didn’t He save him? Why doesn’t He make you well? Why does He let bad things happen to the best people?”
I sucked in a breath as my chest squeezed with the painful questions that seemed to bounce back off the canopy of leaves above us, unanswered. I was watching my boy reckon with one of the deepest struggles we all wrestle with at times; the ones that can strengthen your faith immeasurably, or send it crumbling into nothingness with the verdict that God can’t be trusted.
As strange as it might sound, these are some of the most sacred moments in parenting. Moments so heart-wrenching, yet so utterly priceless you can almost feel God’s hands on your shoulders as you tenderly walk your children through despair and into hope, reminding them the thing you need so desperately to remember yourself; this life is just a blink, and tomorrow has been promised to none of us. This day is a gift, and if it is full of suffering, it is because God loves us too much to let us waste our lives on earth’s pitiful indulgences. He wants to give us astonishing abundance that lasts forever—and suffering is often the means by which He gives it.
I don’t know if I would have become a parent if someone had told me that I would have to watch my children suffer immeasurable pain that I could do nothing about. I don’t like that; I’m a fixer. But even today I am still learning that the only way through is a repeated opening of my hands and surrendering my children to the Only One who can make good of their pain. He promises not to waste it, so I trust that somehow each of these hurts will be used for good.
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.
Making Lemonade
Ever the entrepreneur, my boy is an experienced lemonade slinger. His delicious recipe and adorable smile keep people stopping , and most days he turns an impressive profit for a 11 year old.
As he started gearing up for the first sales of the season he said, “hey mom, you know how I was going to save up my lemonade money and buy a motor bike? Is it possible for me to save up all my money and use it for a cure for your sickness? Utterly humbled by his compassion and thoughtfulness, I did my best to explain that there is no cure; it’s just doing things to try to make my body as comfortable as it can be.
Flash forward to today- he was setting up his lemonade stand, and he paused to come talk to me. “You know how you said there is no cure for your sickness? Is it ok if I use my lemonade money to pay for the next few medicines you need?
There are few things in life that prepare your heart to be absolutely melted and shattered and hugged and twisted all at once like that. I’m so thankful for the empathy and gentleness that my boy is learning, even in the midst of such heartache.
Wordless Wednesday
Mother’s Day Rewritten
There is not much I feel like saying about Mother’s Day this year, and that makes me feel like it’s more important than ever to say it.
Mothering, as well as having relationships with our mothers can be really hard. Yes, there are blissful moments, like when that baby is first placed in your arms, when they say their first “I wuv you,” and when they run inside from school desperate to find you for that unforgettable hug.
There are memories of mom being the smiling face in the crowd at all of your performances, the one you could come home and spill all of your emotions to while she quietly listened, the late night back rubs, early morning hair braids, and the countless times she came to your rescue when you forgot your homework, said something you regretted to your best friend, or really weren’t sick but she knew you just needed a day home from school.
There are also a whole lot of hurts wrapped up in being a mom, having a mom, or wanting a mom. There are empty wombs and empty cribs. There are sleepless nights and bone-tired days you don’t know how to push through. There are arguments because you just wish she could see things the way you do, and there are painful gaps where you needed a mom and didn’t have one there. There is pain and fear over children who have walked away and you don’t know if they are coming back.
This Mother’s Day, close to my heart are thoughts of my sister trying to balance the joy of the homemade cards from her littles with the deep grief of feeling the sharp edge of her first Mother’s Day without one of her cherished sons with her earth-side. How does one fully celebrate the gift of motherhood after watching one of her children draw their final breath? Just like a house of cards needs at least 8 cards to stand, does not one child missing make a mother struggle to build herself back to who she once was?
Heavy in my thoughts are the lives of my own littles. Two at the edge, ready to fly from the nest they’ve always shared with me. Each one of my birdies fighting hard battles that this broken world has thrown in their path, and myself, sitting practically on the sidelines, crippled and nearly motionless from the ravages of a rare disease that steals many of our moments together.
So yes, this Mother’s Day I am having trouble hyping myself up, but I think that’s ok. There are seasons for jumping up and down with excitement, and seasons for quiet reflection, and I’m sure each one of us is at a different place on that continuum. Wherever you are, I’d like to meet you there; in your joyous celebration, or in your silent weeping.
Tomorrow we will wake on a day meant for mothers. I will be thankful for my own mom, and for the women that have filled spaces I’ve needed filled along the way. I will celebrate and smooch on the children I have here with me, and I will take time to think upon each of my treasures in Heaven, and how they furthered me in who I am as a mom. I will rejoice with those who rejoice, and I will grieve with those who grieve, and somehow through it all I hope the littles who made me a mama will feel my love and appreciation for them, and see the reality and okay-ness of taking each day from right where you’re standing. Of being real and kind and tender and aware of those around you, and able to ride these ever-changing waves with grace and enthusiasm.
Happy Mother’s Day!
The Shoes She Wears
She walked to her closet, thoughtful with each step. She had an opportunity tonight to be herself; to kick back and laugh and feel light and free and enjoy herself. She wanted to make sure she wore just the right outfit for the occasion.
She chose a brightly colored dress that made her look mature, yet young. The hem swished and danced with her steps as she walked. A softly knitted bright shawl wrapped her arms in warmth, and she tamed her frazzled hair into waves that bounced around her shoulders and framed her face.
When she leaned to study her face in the mirror a brief frown twisted across as she noticed how dark and tired her eyes were, and the dark shapes even deeper in her eyes that whispered of something heavier. She blinked it away though, and set about finding eye shadow that lifted her eyes, and selected a lip gloss that shimmered with glee and sparkled even brighter against the white of her smile.
“Almost ready!” she called to the footsteps pacing in the front hall. “I just need to grab my shoes.
Throwing open the closet door again she surveyed the shoes she took joy in gathering. They sat in matched sets, each with memories of a lighthearted dance, a day exploring at the park, or the sidewalk chalk scuffs of skipping through the backyard. Tonight was special, she wanted to look her finest. She reached for a glistening pair of high heels. Their sequins shined bright, and shiny new straps crossed daintily across the ankles. She reached for them, and in doing so knocked another shoe from its place. It tumbled across the others and lay in front of her, ready to step into. “Oh yes,” she mumbled. “How could I forget.” She put the other pairs of shoes away; the shiny conversational heels, the flirty strappy slides, and the tippy toe shoes that clicked the hard floor for attention as she walked.
She slid her feet into the muted pair that had fallen out. She didn’t even have to look down to get them on; they slipped into place with such familiarity. The soles were flat and worn from pacing. They cupped all her bony angles gently, an impression made from being worn many times. There was a scuff or two along the edge, and for a brief moment she remembered her conversation shouting at the heavens for a bargain, pleading for the life of her child. The worn material at the toes bore a few slight stains; likely the strong salt water of tears that could not be diluted.
Both feet comfortably in these familiar shoes, she sighed. There was no changing the shoes she wore now. They were forever a reflection of her. A grieving mama; a soul tormented by the agony she had walked through. But she knew how to wear these. Walk, run, sleep, pace a divet into the floor, these were the shoes that represented her day in and day out as she clamored through her painful story and prayed that it would be reconciled.
She grabbed her purse and headed for the front hallway, ready to meet whatever the world had for her today. She slipped her tiny hand in her true love’s large one, and he gave a squeeze as he took her in from head to toe. He knew whatever dreams she wanted, these would always still be the shoes she knew so well, and for now they carried her. They gave her the grace to excuse herself, the joy of a blessed memory, and they gave her the kinship of understanding another mama in recognizable shoes. So she stood tall and proud after all she’d been through, and she wore the shoes that wore her heart.
**For my sisters, who bravely put on their shoes every day.**
Worth It
As my baby sis and I chatted back and forth today on what would have been my nephew Angel’s 11th earthly birthday, my sister said something so incredibly true and equivocally profound that I am left pondering over it hours later.
“You know what’s amazing?” she said. “Angel refused to believe he was a burden (and he wasn’t). But by society’s standards, he was. He couldn’t move a single muscle other than his eyes. He was 100% dependent on others for literally everything–life, health, engagement, communication…all of it. Yet he never apologized for taking up space. He had high expectations for how he was to be treated and honored and considered and included and he didn’t tolerate those who saw him as worth less than anyone else. He KNEW his worth. He knew it so deeply. And I can’t say that for myself. I at times feel overwhelmingly guilty just for existing and have since childhood. But not Angel. He. Knew. His. Worth. No matter what. And that is really, really powerful.”
This struck me to my core, because I at times get caught up in how much of a burden I must be, and how I wish I didn’t have to depend so much on other people. But Angel never felt sorry for himself like that. He knew he was a treasure; a child of royalty, and he did not accept being treated as anything less.
While a lot of that came from being just the incredible little boy that he was, there is also loads to be said about the fierce way my sister and brother-in-law fought for Angel’s worth. He knew he was valued because he was constantly treated as valuable, and he was shown that what he brought to the table mattered. He was fought for, given a voice, listened to, applauded, and all of those things only cemented his knowledge that he was worth it.
As Angel’s 11th birthday winds to a close my heart is so tender, but so grateful that for a boy who could have felt less-than, he always knew right where he belonged, and now in Heaven, he has claimed his true worth, his royalty; the crown he fought so hard for and was bestowed by his King. And I can’t imagine a bigger smile than on the boy who always knew- I am worthy.
Happy birthday, sweet Angel. You are loved.
Christmas Every Hour
”For to us a child is born, to us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulders, and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of the increase of his government and of peace there will be no end, on the throne of David and over his kingdom, to establish it and to uphold it with justice and with righteousness from this time forth and forevermore. The zeal of the Lord of hosts will do this.“
Isaiah 9:6-7 ESV
Choosing Hope 