On Cancer and Hope

Six years ago, cancer made me grimace a bit. Say, "I'm sorry." Certainly feel sympathy for the person unfortunate enough the receive such a life altering diagnosis.

Then, for two years, I cried.

I cried as my daddy walked me down the aisle and gave me a big hug, then smiled as I married the man of my dreams.

I cried when my mom called to tell me my successful, intelligent father was unable to compose an email, was dizzy when running as he trained for a marathon, was confessing to her that he was worried that something was not right.

I cried on a Friday evening in Holy Family ER as we received the news we'd expected; we'd feared. A brain tumor.

I cried the following week as he underwent surgery, praying that as the skilled surgeon removed a portion of his left temporal lobe, he would not be forever changed.

I cried as we received word that the surgery was successful, the tumor was removed, and he was in recovery.

I cried later, home in Loren's arms, at the doctor's words to us in a secluded room. Glioblastoma Multiforme. An incredibly aggressive brain cancer with a life expectancy of one to two years.

I cried, alone, in the parking garage of the Sacred Heart doctor's building, after the bumps and clangs of the MRI machine battered my heart, and the appointments following told us the inevitable, that the tumor had grown, that there was a new tumor, that there was not much time.

I cried as the smallest, most meaningless things were taken. The ability to walk. The ability to talk. Sleeping in his own bed, in his own room. Each indignity brought fresh tears in the solitude of my car, my childhood bedroom, my home.

I cried when I heard the news that his pastor, Chris Merkling, came and preached the gospel to him, quoting Romans 10, and my dad, with his limited speech, professed Christ.

And I cried that last weekend, as the two men I loved most in the world, my daddy and my husband, sat on the deck in the cool October air and smoked one last cigar together. Inside, Jaime and I held each other, and she wept, "I'm going to miss grandpa." Me too, baby.

And finally, I cried as he miraculously overcame the insidious tumor long enough to awaken, squeeze my hand, look me and his youngest grandbaby at the time, Abby, in the eyes, and say, "I sure love you guys." His last words.

And so tonight, I cry again for a man who does not know my name, who I have never met. Matt Chandler is an amazing pastor in Texas who I've linked a few videos to. He was diagnosed with a brain tumor, and from the pathology report, it appears to be the same aggressive form that my dad died from. I cry for his wife, for his small children, for a church whose hearts must be breaking as the news continues to get worse for him. I cry that words like chemo wafers, gamma knife, and astrocytoma will become routine.

And I cry from the hope of his message, recorded before he went into surgery, that I just summoned the courage to watch tonight, after prodding from Loren and other friends. It's the hope we cling to, even in the midst of an impossibly aggressive brain cancer with no cure, very little treatment, and unfortunately, no hope.

But even as I cry, this is NOT where our hope is. My dad's hope was not in his physical body before cancer, and it wasn't after. Our hope is in Christ. I pray that you will take four minutes to watch the video of a man staring in the face of a death sentence. And that you, too, will find hope in something much, much bigger than yourself.


http://fm.thevillagechurch.net/blog/pastors/?p=363

Thankfulness

There are few things as ruthless and refreshing as Montana air in the winter. Here, somewhere between Butte and nowhere, time and space lose their traditional definitions. Today is thanksgiving and I am thankful.

Loren. My best friend. The one who I wanted to play cards with and go on hikes with and sing loudly in the car with seven years ago, when you were the quirky guy who somehow seemed to see me as I saw me. Not an object, not a conquest, but the goofy girl from Seven Mile who grew up making mud slides and riding horses. I love that we can still play dumb made up games and fall asleep holding hands. When I read to the girls of prince charmings and happily ever afters, it's you who have made me believe in them.

Jaime. My unexpected firstborn. You taught me how to love someone more than I thought possible as the days stretched into weeks in a sticky hospital bed. You taught me how to make a three pound infant breathe again. You made me appreciate the smallest of blessings, as I held you days after you entered the world, carefully maneuvering your wires and tubes and holding my breath as I prayed for your breathing to continue. Each year you are with us is a little victory. Every cartwheel at gymnastics, report card, and conversation late at night in the stillness of the sleeping house is a gift that, after nearly eleven years, I still dare not expect. Your very presence in my life is evidence of God's grace.

Emily. I was speechless when you entered the world, and nothing has changed in nine years. You fulfilled every girlhood dream of motherhood. The day you entered my life remains my perfect day. From the sweet pain of your birth, to the feel of your moist warmth in my arms seconds later, to taking you home the very next day, you gave me everything I grieved for the first time I gave birth. My sweetest memory of you remains the minutes when everyone left our bedside, and the two of us were alone for the first time. I lay there and marveled at your impossibly small fingernails, your scarlet lips, and fell deeper in love than I thought possible. You teach me to expect the unexpected, to dream dreams and hope hopes. You are quickly becoming not just a daughter, but a friend. I love singing off key to worship songs on the long drives to and from school and talking about Jesus with you.

Abigail. When I became pregnant with you, everything was new again. You were a great adventure undertaken by two people dumb and in love. I ran screaming down the stairs when I first learned of the life growing inside me, and everything with you has continued to be exciting. You entered this world and clung to us. Your first night home, you slept on your daddy's chest, nestled in the comfort of his arms. Five years with you have taught me tenderness, of the joy of burned toast and lukewarm tea and limp flowers. I love being able to say "Remember when..." and knowing your daddy will remember, from day one. I hold you tightly, in my arms and in my heart, loving that I don't have to let you go.

Tirzah. Our longed for fourth daughter. Before church one Sunday, we found out of your life inside me, and we wept and thanked God and first prayed for you. I clung tightly to your little life, with ultrasound pictures on the refrigerator and the sound of your heartbeat on the doppler sweeter than the most gifted orchestra. When we chose your name, it was a beautiful marriage of a girl blessed with a second chance in the Bible, as well as a girl given a second chance in my favorite novel. You were to be our Christmas gift, born only two days before we celebrated the birth of our Savior. The morning I did not feel you move, my "worst" was a preterm birth like your big sister. God used the agony of bringing you into the world, holding your still form, of playing with toes and stroking your hair and saying goodbye, to show me that even my darkest, scariest imaginings are not beyond the scope of His love and comfort. There will always be an empty place at our table. I will always pause when someone asks how many children I have. And heaven will forever be sweeter with the hope of the reunion that awaits one day.

Lily Elianah. Our answered prayer. Every day, every minute of your pregnancy, I worked to give you back to God. I held you loosely and chose to be thankful for each day your heart quickened inside of me. I cried when the test results were bad. I cried harder when they were good. Week after week I fought for you with nonstress tests and ultrasounds, closing my eyes and taking comfort in soft movements and God's sovereignty. When you came into the world, blue and silent, I once again gave you over to your Heavenly Father. Those first cries, so hard fought, were bells. Every day with you is an adventure. I hope I never get used to your little pink pajamas, the way you call me "mommy." After nearly three years, we still call you our baby, and even as you grow, I still see you as the baby I never thought I'd get to hold, the one to complete our family. You remind me that even in the pain of this life, there are ribbons and butterflies and little girl kisses.

The past. Thanksgivings spent at Hill's Resort with the Currer family, skiing out our cabin door and falling into a deep sleep beside Stacy, thinking we would all live forever. The bittersweet holiday, years later, when we knew that it would be our last as a nuclear family as my dad's brain was slowly overcome by the cancer that ravaged it. Staying at Loren's apartment our first Thanksgiving, talking nonstop across the miles that separated us as he spent Thanksgiving in Montana with his family. Bringing Jaime and Emily there to meet them weeks later as he prepared to ask me to spend the rest of our lives together. Hours spent in my childhood kitchen, working alongside my mom to prepare food, learning about cooking and service and Biblical womanhood from the woman that remains who I aspire to be as a mother.

The present. God's provision. The amazing kids and volunteers at Youth For Christ that make us laugh and cry and ultimately look more like Jesus. Carpooling five kids to and from school and watching two two-year-olds besides and reminding myself of the years I yearned to do just that. Tim and Summer and Sara and Travis and Karen and Steve and Ben and Brenda and Doug and Heather and Steve and Wayne and Jaymie and Bianca and Brian and Holly and Trish and Carey and Jim and Sara and all of the other beautiful friends God has brought into my life. My stepdad Larry and Cheryl and Irene and Mark and Mason, and the cord that somehow seemed to draw us together as a family again. My EMT certification, a second chance and a balm to the wounds left from cancer and stillbirth and the inability to save.

And finally, to my Maker, who has given me more than this page could ever contain. To Him belongs the praise for the family laughing inside, for the family gathering without us in Havre and Spokane, for the 29 years blood has coursed through my veins and He has worked in my life. Looking out at the snow capped mountains in the distance, my heart is full in my chest. I am thankful.

My Story

Note: After originally writing this, it was pointed out to me that I never resolved the story with my ex-husband. While I deliberately omitted the negative details of our marriage, I did him a huge disservice by not finishing his story. After divorcing, he married an amazing woman, Erika, who has loved our children as her own in a way that humbles me and makes me see God's grace all the more clearly. They've been together for about eight years now, and while co-parenting is never easy, their flexibility and generosity and acceptance make it as glorifying as I can imagine. They continuously challenge us to be better parents in their love and devotion to the girls. So Mike and Erika, I apologize for not finishing YOUR story. For just as mine didn't end when we divorced, Mike, neither did yours...

On November 4th, I spoke at Young Lives, a local ministry to teen moms in Spokane that I am involved with. Here is my own story of teen pregnancy, broken dreams, hope, and a future...

Seven years ago this week, I celebrated my 22nd birthday and was given this ring. A promise ring, promising sexual purity until marriage, coupled with a mother’s ring. A strange combination, admittedly. To understand, let me back up a few years.

At seventeen years old, I met my prince charming. I was living with relatives due to my dad’s unpredictable behavior and alcoholism. I pretty much did as I pleased, coming home only when my friends had all reached their curfews. It was not a big surprise to find, at the end of my junior year of high school, that I was pregnant.

Things from that point forward were fairly predictable. Fifth in my class in high school didn’t mean much when I dropped out early into my senior year. One week after my 18th birthday, I married the father of the child, a 21-year-old I’d met on a camping trip. Two months later, my first child was born.

Teen pregnancy is an unusual place to be. On one hand, just because you suddenly find two lines on a stick does not make you grow up the way one would expect. I still wanted to play games with my friends, talk about boys, and listen to music. None of that had changed. Unfortunately, I was entering a stage of life my friends were not. They weren’t excited about maternity clothes and baby names. They weren’t going to OB appointments. They didn’t understand the changes happening to me.

And frankly, I didn’t understand them. One minute, I wanted everyone to sympathize with me and how my fragile world had just been rocked, again. I wanted to be grownups and discuss colors for my new home and show them ultrasound pictures. Then, the next, I just wanted to be a teenager, and why couldn’t they let me forget for just one second everything that had happened?

On top of that, there were the hormonal changes that only intensified my already strong feelings. I felt intense guilt for everyone I let down. My parents, my teachers, my friends. All I could see was how my future had suddenly changed. College applications were left unfinished.

Worse were all the things I chose to believe about myself. I was a high school dropout, a teen mother, an unfortunate statistic. I’d willing chosen to trade in a future for a husband I barely knew with a job that would barely support us and a baby I didn’t know the first thing about caring for. There was no “I’m sorry” that would get me out of it. The future was dark, scary, and nothing like what I’d pictured my life being.

And, I believed in addition to letting down everyone in my life, I’d let down God, too. I knew enough about the Bible to know what it said about sex outside of marriage, and I figured that I’d blown it. Maybe by the world’s standards I was doing the “right thing” by getting married, but in God’s eyes, I’d sinned, and the result of that would be with me the rest of my life. I stopped going to church. I stopped reading my Bible. The idea of going to youth group pregnant was laughable. I made plans for a wedding, plans for a baby, and tried to not think too hard about the plans that I’d had only weeks prior.

So there I was. 18 years old. Married. A mother. Seven months after my first daughter Jaime was born, I became pregnant again, and soon I was caring for two small daughters. We separated two and a half years into the marriage. I was now a 20-year-old single mother of two.

I managed to get a good job at a local hospital, and custody arrangements were worked out. When I had my kids, I devoted myself to them. We fed ducks at Manito Park. I bought a sandbox and teeter-totter for my backyard. I put together a barbecue with only a butter knife, which is still probably the single accomplishment that I am most proud of. On the outside, it looked like I had adjusted and was doing well.

Inside, though, I felt worse than ever. I foolishly believed that if I’d only been skinnier, prettier, a harder worker, my marriage would not have failed. I self medicated the pain with alcohol and late nights with coworkers at bars, more often than not going home with one of them. I was the one in control, and I found myself hurting and rejecting guy after guy, as though I’d reach some point where I would finally feel good about myself.

And for awhile, it worked and I believed all the lies I was telling myself. Until May of 2002, when I lay in my bed, alone, miscarrying the baby of a guy I barely knew. Finally, after four years of burying all of the pain and disappointment and rejection, everything came to the surface. I wept and cried out to the God that I had believed I had no right to approach.

And amazingly, to my disbelief, He answered. As I lay there, broken physically and emotionally, I became a new creation in Christ. Romans 10:9 says that “if you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.” Finally, four years after first becoming pregnant, I was ready to admit that I was alone, I was scared, I needed help, and what I was doing wasn’t working. “Sin” may seem like an old fashioned word, but it basically means rebelling against God. The guilt that I had carried with me was guilt over deliberately disobeying what I knew to be right. And try as I may, there was no way I could ever obey. I’d proved I couldn’t. I saw, finally, that my life didn’t end when I got pregnant. I was born a sinner, it was who I was. It’s who we all are. And the beautiful thing about it is that Jesus came and died in our place, that everyone who believes on Him would be saved. Everyone. Even single, divorced moms who thought their lives were over. Finally, unimaginably, I had hope.

The next few months were not easy. None of my friends understood the change in me, why I no longer wanted to go out drinking or have another in a long line of boyfriends. They called me holier than thou, a fanatic, and made fun of me both behind my back and to my face. In their place, I developed two strong friendships with two other very new believers, two boys named Dan and Loren. The three of us would get together several evenings a week to go bowling, hike, study the Bible, and watch Veggie Tales, and would attend church together on Sunday mornings. With friends at my side, it was easier to field the inevitable questions that came from people about my kids and relationship status. I learned, along the way, that most of the Christians I met didn’t judge me for the decisions I made but honestly wanted to get to know us and help where they could.

Which brings me back to the ring. November 6th, 2002, I received one small box from my parents, containing a white gold ring with the birthstones of Jaime, Emily, and myself. Inside was inscribed Jeremiah 29:11, which says, “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.” It was my promise to God, to give him my little family, my heart, and my body, and a promise from Him, that He still had plans for my life, good plans, to give me a hope and a future.

One week later, Loren sat me down and told me of his feelings for me, and his desire to pursue marriage. We were baptized together the following March, and we were married two months later. That day he came with three rings, one for me and each of my girls, promising to love each of us as God has loved Him. Six years later, he placed another ring on my finger, with a stone for each of our five daughters, four here on earth and one up in heaven. The same verse is inscribed on the inside, a reminder even now that God is faithful and His plans are good.

And so tonight, I have to ask, do you have that hope? Do you believe that there is a God that has good plans for you, that you have hope in the future? Or like me, have you decided to believe instead that any future you may have had is now over, that your life is now limited to the consequences of being a teen mom? I know how hopeless the future can seem, how worthless you can feel, how overwhelming life can appear. But the last 11 years have shown me there IS hope, and that hope is found in Jesus. If you don’t have that hope, would you pray with me?

Dear Jesus, every single one of us here has rebelled against you. Some of our lives hide it better, but every one of us is a sinner, and we all need you. Please forgive me for all of the times I’ve messed up and chosen to do things my own way. I want to do things Your way. I want the hope and future that you promise. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

On Social Awkwardness With Five Year Olds

"So, being affectionately desirous of you, we were ready to share with you not only the gospel of God but also our own selves, because you had become very dear to us." 1 Thessalonians 2:8

This week, I'm volunteering with Vacation Bible School. With five year olds. Those of you who know me well are laughing right now. To say that it's not the age group I prefer is a pretty big understatement. Yet I've been unexpectedly blessed, not just by the children (who have turned out to be pretty awesome), but also by the leaders. One in particular is Carey, the pastor in charge of the week. His joking around and playing games with the kids seems so natural, and he always has a smile on his face. Somehow I can't picture him rushing home afterwards and throwing himself on his bed like I do.

Yet, honestly, that's not a huge surprise to me. I knew, signing up, it would be work. I'm socially awkward around five year olds. I don't really know what to say ("So...how's your day?") or how to relate to them, even though I have one. The best I can do is be schooled at playground games (I suck at throwing a frisbee) and try to smile and laugh instead of standing awkwardly against the wall.

But here's the point. Today, after sleeping off the exhaustion of the morning, I called Loren and asked about having a few of the YFC boys over tonight. It's been a stressful week and I thought it would be fun to hang out. It was only after confirming plans that I realized, essentially, what I would be doing tonight was more "ministry." I look around my house and see countless signs of high school kids. The camera they used to make a school project, and the fun it was to witness taking pictures of oil and vinegar and hairspray on fire in our driveway. The homemade bass that one of the boys gave Loren. The variety of sodas that are continuously stocked, waiting for spontaneous game nights. The stack of board games on the hutch that represent hours of missed sleep, mockery, and countless YouTube songs to entertain us between turns.

God reminded me today of those verses from 1 Thessalonians. That these youth have become very, very dear to us, to the point of being ready to share with them our own selves. Other versions translate the verse "our very lives." In the years of doing youth ministry, much of it has ceased to become ministry, and rather, our very lives. These kids break our hearts with their bad decisions, never fail to ruin a long awaited date night, and more often than not are the subjects of the prayers that bring me to tears. But they also have given me countless laughs (many at my own expense), immeasurable joy at celebrating the victories of driver's licenses, passed classes, and decisions to follow Jesus, and love and affection more than I thought possible.

So tonight I'll stay up too late playing Ticket to Ride with teenagers, eating quesadillas and being endlessly mocked. And tomorrow I'll get up early and gird myself up for three more hours of five year olds, knowing that while I may not be able to understand the inner workings of young children, I still have the amazing privilege of being a part of the sharing of the gospel of God and our own selves. And that, no matter where you are called, is the unbelievable blessing of ministry.

Dear Tirzah

Dear Tirzah,
Today is Memorial Day, which I'm pretty sure originated as a day to honor fallen soldiers, but today I have been filled with thoughts of you. Funny, during the mundane days of paying bills, packing lunches, and chauffeuring kids to and from school, the pain lessens to only a dull ache. It's during holidays, vacations, and family times that I notice the empty place at our table, the extra seat in the van, the missing place in our family. It's then that the pain rises up, reminding me that our family will forever be incomplete, that there will always be an empty chair at our table, no matter how full.

And yet, I find peace in remembering. I'm thankful for times with your dad, and sometimes close friends, who allow me to talk about you, to tell your story. I can vividly remember your nurses, their names and faces, can walk down that hallway in the corridors of my mind. I can recall the moist warmth of you through your gown and blanket, can fool my brain into feeling the weight of you in my arms, the silkiness of your hair, the softness of your hand in mine, can see that dim, peaceful, agonizing hospital room.

After three years, though, I have stopped avoiding little girls your age. I can drive past the cemetery without my breath catching. And now, memories of you can sometimes make me smile, not just weep. I've always known that you aren't "an angel," but now I also know that you shouldn't "be here," "be three years old," etc. You taught me more about God's sovereignty than all of the books I've read, all the sermons I've listened to, all the discussions I've had. Ever so slowly, He is revealing His purpose for your life, however short.

And through other losses this week, I'm marveling anew at the beauty of the Cross and the hope of heaven. It's an amazing thing, that you, precious girl, who we prayed for and longed for and gave birth to, are now seeing fully what the rest of us are still longing for. You, my love, make heaven that much sweeter, knowing that one day I will not only see Jesus face to face, but also see you.

Until then, the familiar ache of your absence will continued to be felt in our family. Your sisters will continue to talk about you, your picture, blanket and gown will remain in the hutch with your sisters' things, and you'll forever be our fourth daughter. And that, my beloved child, is what I remember today.

Love,
Your Mom

On Biblical Community

Lately, I've been thinking about tattooing my forehead.

Here's my reasoning: I think, if we all walked around with our needs tattooed on our foreheads, we'd be much more apt to reach out to one another. Think about it. Downstairs in fellowship after church, you greet the acquaintance you chat with every Sunday. Instead of the standard, "Fine, thanks," you can see that what she needs is $50 to pay rent. Or babysitting so she can go on a date with her husband. Or even just a nap. We could, in a very straightforward manner, find needs we were able to meet and fill them.

Unfortunately, not too many of us would sign on to the tattoo idea. So what is the answer? I have a few ideas. First, prayerfully looking for areas to help. My mother is amazing in this area. In the last week, she's given Loren and I a date night, taken Abby shopping to get her out of the house and give me a break, cleaned out my fridge in the midst of my bouts with nausea. Amazing. Knowing exactly what I need without me saying a word.

Secondly, we need to be in Biblical community. Frankly, if we never get beyond the superficial questions and answers that seem to fill our conversations, we will never feel safe enough with one another to have the transparency necessary to not only ask for help, but know when to offer it as well. Our family has met once a week with the same group of people for about six months now. In that time, we've studied Scripture, shared our struggles with sin, laughed and cried about difficulties in marriage and parenting, and fostered friendships that I pray will last long after our group decides to go our separate ways.

Which is why today had me thinking a lot about the book of Acts. A dear, amazing brother in Christ from our group showed up with bag after bag of groceries for us. As far as I know, his family had no idea that a few days ago my grocery trip was rapidly aborted as I rushed home, throwing up, and lay crying on the couch, unable to even get the few groceries I'd managed to buy upstairs due to the migraine I've been fighting for weeks now. Yet here he stood on my doorstep, blessing me beyond words.

Biblical community. It's what we are called to, far beyond simply sitting in a pew on Sunday mornings. It is where we find the relationships that sustain us in the valleys, rejoice with us in the victories, and pray for us whether we think we need it or not. Which, I concede, makes much more sense than tattoos.

An Encounter With Grace

Today was bad, by most people's standards. It started at 6:30 this morning, taking the cats in for shots, microchips, and getting "fixed", rushing to get home before Loren left for Oregon for three days. It only went downhill from there, as we got more bad news from the mechanic, to the tune of over $400. Lily screamed and defied. I went through the juggling act of potty training, babysitting, and trying to medicate myself through the cycle of migraines I've been fighting for weeks, fielding phone calls from my doctor trying to schedule a neurologist referral. By the time I was on the way back from the vet, following yet-another tantrum from the two year old, I was queen of my own pity party, bemoaning finances, toddlers, and full time ministry. My prayer was simple: "Lord, redeem this day."

The answer was unexpected. As I pulled into McDonald's for my cop-out-dad's-out-of-town-dinner, a homeless man stumbled trying to step up onto the sidewalk, and lay sprawled on the frigid concrete. The first car whizzed by, oblivious to this invisible man. I pulled alongside him, compelled to stop. I was able to get out, help him up, and start to talk to him. He said he was okay, that I should just take care of my car, and that he didn't want to go to Union Gospel Mission. I asked a couple times if I could buy him dinner; reluctantly, he agreed.

I rushed through the drive through line, scouring my car for anything more I could offer him than a couple of Big Macs. My search turned up two hand warmers, a card for the mission, and five dollars in cash. I couldn't help but think of the loaves and the fishes.

Loot in hand, I made my way back to where he waited. Approaching him, I offered my pathetic gift and asked if I could pray for him. He told me his name was "Henry," said conversationally that he prayed all the time but I was welcome to pray for him too. I put my arm around his dirty frame and asked God to fill him with peace, comfort, and a saving knowledge of Him. Afterward, I reminded him of Christ's love (which he affirmed that some days was all he had), told him to take care of himself, and left the parking lot. As I pulled back into traffic, I burst into tears. This same street, traveled only a few minutes before, seemed so different. I drove a warm car, dressed in warm clothes, with my (relative) health and the family that loves me.

It's easy to pray for comfort. "Lord, bless my marriage." "Lord, help with our finances." "Lord, restore my health." I pray, though, that each of you would have your eyes opened afresh to not only how incredibly, obscenely blessed each of us already is, but also to how little those around us have. May we never be a People that reduce our Christian call to going to church on Sundays, patting those brave enough to venture out into the world on the back and labeling them missionaries. And perhaps, in doing so, we would not need to have the Henrys of the world fall in our path in the midst of our pity parties, but that instead we would seek them out, anxious to share our time, our resources, and the love of Christ.

Humbled and Broken at His Extravagant Grace,
Megan

Messes, Large and Small

This originally was just an email to Loren, but thought a lot of you moms out there could probably relate...

The house is quiet as I finish lunch. Empty bowl in hand, I pick my way across the minefield that is our dining room. Toys, dolls, an empty water cup litter the floor. Instead of the frustration that usually eats at me, I suddenly see our house with new eyes. The headband on the stairs makes me remember dreaming about being a mother, getting to do little girls' hair. The towels that spill from the dryer remind me of warm, wet little bodies, all pink and cuddly from their baths. And the ever-present chaos of toys, books, pillows, diapers, dishes, and DVDs that somehow seem to leave their homes as though repelled by magnetic force...well, they are a part of us, too. A part that goes well beyond the trite, "Count your blessings you have toys to play with." It's a mess. Our house, in its natural state, is a complete and utter mess. But today, as I survey the carnage, wondering where to begin, I think of the six of us that call this home. I picture Lily toddling across the living room with the bin of Playmobil pieces pressed against her chubby belly. I think of Abby running the length of the house, over and over, "esser-cizing." I think of Jaime and Emily, in intense concentration at the kitchen table, working on whatever craft their creative minds have dreamed up. And suddenly, picking it all up isn't such a priority. I see the mess, of course, but I also see the beautiful people whose lives are reflected in it. And it gives me a glimpse of how God, too, can see the mess, the utter chaos that is ME, and still love. At times, the mess does define us. In other seasons, my kids will learn to pick up, they'll understand the value of a wet towel on a towel bar, and they won't be so apt to scatter toys across any and every horizontal surface. But for now, in this season, I love them in spite of these things. And I pray, as I begin the endless task of picking up, that God would be merciful to continue helping me with the chaos in my own heart, trusting that as I too learn and grow, things won't always be quite this messy.

An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination

Loren heard the author of the book, An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination, on the radio and ordered the book as a surprise for me. It is written by a woman whose first child was stillborn. I read it in two days. It was excellent, although not written from a Christian perspective. While pregnant, they jokingly named the baby Pudding, waiting to decide on a name until his birth. When he died, they thought it would seem odd to choose a name in death, so his death certificate actually has his name as "Pudding." Here's a few of my favorite excerpts from it:

"Every day as I love this baby in my lap, I think of my other baby. Poor older brother, poor missing one. I see the infant before me, the glory of the soles of the feet, the lips fattened and glossy with nursing, the nose whose future Edward and I try to predict daily. The love for the first magnifies the love for the second, and vice versa. Now what I think that woman in Florida meant is: lighter things will happen to you, birds will steal your husband's sandwich on the beach, and your child will still be dead, and your husband's shock will still be funny, and you will spend your life trying to resolve this."

"That is one of the strangest side effects of the whole story. I am that thing worse than a cautionary tale: I am a horror story, an example of something terrible going wrong when you least expect it, and for no good reason, a story to be kept from pregnant women, a story so grim and lessonless it's better not to think of it at all."

"Pregnant with Pudding, I wanted things simple, easy, low intervention. For my second child I would have agreed to anything, a simultaneous caesarean/induction/being-pounded-on-the-back-like-a-ketchup-bottle/forceps/extra-drugs/extra-pain delivery."

"Of course it occurs to me that Pudding might have lived if I'd stuck with either Dr. Bergerac or Dr. Baltimore. It's a low-decibel wistfulness; I can barely hear it over the roar of later, louder regrets. This kind is not so bad, the If I Did One Thing Differently, Then Maybe Everything Would Also Be Different sort, a vague, philosophical itch: yes, if life were different, then life would be different. Such thinking feels like science fiction, stepping on a bug in 20,000 BC and altering the course of history.

Other memories are more troublesome. Here's a length of time, my brain says, and then it stares, it sees an actual length of time suspended in the air, which then breaks into panels, as in a comic book. Here I am in one panel. I am in the line of danger, but I don't know it, I am living in the past: the past being defined by the fact that Pudding is alive, but not for long. In the next panel, seconds later, something is supposed to intervene. Superman swooping in, to - what? Deliver the baby? X-ray vision and superhearing are nothing special, every doctor's office comes equipped. Superman is supposed to come is all I know, so Pudding will persist.

But Superman never shows. I can see it so clearly. In one panel we are safe and stupid. In the next we're only stupid.

Those moments come later, toward the end of pregnancy."

For those of you who have been touched by the same sort of grief, I highly recommend it, if only to put the tangle of feelings into words. It's dark, but then again, it's a book about a child's death. Let me know if you read it.