Replacement child. . . .what does that mean? How is that even possible? I can replace those black shoes that were ruined in the rain or the book that the dog ate. . . .I can even replicate photographs and journal entries holding precious memories. . . but a child? How does one replace a child? A child. . .more than just DNA, more than just hair color and freckles, more than intellect and personality. . . more even than a being taking up space in a car or a bedroom or at the kitchen table.
A life, an image of God, a laugh, a hope, a prayer, and a devastation when it's all gone. But, it can never be replaced. A child is a one-of-a-kind creation filled with all the hopes, dreams, and indescribable love of parents. Other children may come into their space filled with their own uniqueness, their own immensely precious selves, their own smiles, hurts, joys, loves, and disappointments. None can ever be replaced.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Happy Birthday
Today is Allison's 25th birthday. Twenty-five years ago today, about 5:00 pm, amidst tears and cries of pain, a beautiful baby girl was helped out of my body. She always had a mind of her own, a trait I should have recognized in the way she chose to be born. As he placed her in my arms, the doctor explained why the delievery was so painful and long. . . Allison wanted to suck her thumb through the birth process. I wasn't just pushing a little head out. . . I was pushing out a head, arm, and elbow!
My friend, Leigh, (www.livingonsaturday.blogspot.com) recently posted a blog about her great desire to recognize her son and see his sweet smile again. Me too, Leigh. I want to see my little girl again, hear her laugh and listen to her squeaky little voice.
One day. But, until then, happy birthday, Allison. I love you and miss you.
My friend, Leigh, (www.livingonsaturday.blogspot.com) recently posted a blog about her great desire to recognize her son and see his sweet smile again. Me too, Leigh. I want to see my little girl again, hear her laugh and listen to her squeaky little voice.
One day. But, until then, happy birthday, Allison. I love you and miss you.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Redeemed
When Allison was diagnosed with leukemia, we were in a children's hospital in Norfolk, Virginia. We spent many days, nights, and weeks there, discovering a wonderful playroom, excellent staff, and one very annoying mom. This particular mom was a regular on the 3rd floor, as her daughter had asthma and was frequently hospitalized for treatments. We met in the playroom, discovered we were both Christians; she was comfortable there, knew most of the staff by name, and was generally a very happy, cheerful person. I was not. I soon nicknamed my new friend, "Platitude Pam", because she seemed to be an endless fountain of scripture, cliches, and trite remarks. Her favorite was Romans 8:28. . . "all things work together for good, Joni!" I hated that verse. I couldn't see anything good in what was happening to my daughter.
Many years have passed since those unhappy days, and there still seems to be something about that verse that just rubs me a little wrong. Of course, it probably has nothing to do with the verse; and everything to do with how it's used by well-meaning people, including me. I've really tried to like it. . .it doesn't actually say all things that happen to us are good, and it doesn't actually say that I have to be happy about the things that are happening to me. But, it just seems too simplistic.
Psalm 106:10 says "from the hand of the enemy, He redeemed them." "You, Lord, took up my case; You redeemed my life." (Lam. 3:58). Redeemed. Now, that's a word with some real depth to it. . .I like that word. We sing about it frequently in church, use it to describe our new life in Christ, and read about it in countless books in the church library. And, this past week, I read about it in a book by Philip Yancey. In talking about Joni Eareckson Tada, he said "pain redeemed impresses me more than pain removed." And then he quoted Dallas Willard: "nothing irredeemable has happened or can happen to us on our way to our destiny in God's full world." Redeemed . . . synonyms include 'buy back', 'recover', 'regain possession of', and 'exchange'. Exchange? As in 'redeeming currency' or 'redeeming a savings bond'? I know I'm a little slow sometimes, but what if Romans 8:28 is actually about redemption? All things (pain, grief, sickness, death) can be redeemed . . . can be exchanged . . . for a new awareness of how temporary this life is and how very much our Savior loves us. "I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God's love. Neither death nor life. . . neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow. . . indeed, nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord." (Rom. 8:38-39) Even the grief I continue to live with is redeemable as it reminds me of His promise that one day "we will be with the Lord forever"! (1Thess. 4:17)
I've decided that Romans 8:28 is one of my favorite verses.
Many years have passed since those unhappy days, and there still seems to be something about that verse that just rubs me a little wrong. Of course, it probably has nothing to do with the verse; and everything to do with how it's used by well-meaning people, including me. I've really tried to like it. . .it doesn't actually say all things that happen to us are good, and it doesn't actually say that I have to be happy about the things that are happening to me. But, it just seems too simplistic.
Psalm 106:10 says "from the hand of the enemy, He redeemed them." "You, Lord, took up my case; You redeemed my life." (Lam. 3:58). Redeemed. Now, that's a word with some real depth to it. . .I like that word. We sing about it frequently in church, use it to describe our new life in Christ, and read about it in countless books in the church library. And, this past week, I read about it in a book by Philip Yancey. In talking about Joni Eareckson Tada, he said "pain redeemed impresses me more than pain removed." And then he quoted Dallas Willard: "nothing irredeemable has happened or can happen to us on our way to our destiny in God's full world." Redeemed . . . synonyms include 'buy back', 'recover', 'regain possession of', and 'exchange'. Exchange? As in 'redeeming currency' or 'redeeming a savings bond'? I know I'm a little slow sometimes, but what if Romans 8:28 is actually about redemption? All things (pain, grief, sickness, death) can be redeemed . . . can be exchanged . . . for a new awareness of how temporary this life is and how very much our Savior loves us. "I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God's love. Neither death nor life. . . neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow. . . indeed, nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord." (Rom. 8:38-39) Even the grief I continue to live with is redeemable as it reminds me of His promise that one day "we will be with the Lord forever"! (1Thess. 4:17)
I've decided that Romans 8:28 is one of my favorite verses.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Welcome to my party!
Death was the first guest to arrive, followed closely by his good friends, Sadness, Anger, and Shock. Despair tried to sneak in behind them, but he was turned away at the door. There seemed to be some kind of problem with his ID or invitation, which was a relief to me, because he was horribly scary. Confusion arrived just a few minutes later with an entrance that sent the entire party into a tizzy! He must have turned up the volume on the speakers, because suddenly the noise level in the room became intense and overwhelming. I think someone said something about some kind of scam, it's just hearsay and we shouldn't believe it; it's all lies, one guest said, but I wasn't sure what they were talking about. The noise level was increasing, and my head was pounding. I found myself hoping and praying that this whole crazy party was just a horrible nightmare. . . surely I would wake up soon to my pleasant, quiet, dependable life. Please let me wake up soon, I begged!
But as the night wore on, the party seemed to escalate and I even noticed a few of the guests in a physical altercation in one of the back rooms. "Stop!", I finally shouted! "Didn't you read your invitations? They were printed with clear instructions to arrive at designated times specifically designed to prevent this ghastly revelry! Now, get out, get out!" There was just a brief moment of silence following my verbal outburst, then the laughter started. . .horrible, shrill, demeaning laughter. My legs buckled under me, and I fell to the floor, weeping.
Days, weeks, months passed. I lost all track of time. The guests were still there. But, as I walked through the house one morning, I began to notice new faces in the crowd, some with vaguely familiar features. Feeling somewhat adventurous, I started down a darkened hallway and heard a curious noise behind a closed door. This was still my house, and I had a right to know who was there, so I boldly pushed open the door and stared, unbelieving at the sight before me. Sunshine poured through the windows and Joy and Hope were laughing and dancing around the room. "Where did you come from? How long have you been here? What are you doing?" The questions poured out of me, but my guests just grabbed me by the hands and pulled me into their blissful waltz. Time seemed to slow as precious memories of happier days filled my head, but the calm repose didn't last long as voices from the hallway began shouting and sobbing once again. My time in the sunroom with these old friends had been so precious . . . I was desperate to grab a few more minutes with them, but other guests were once again demanding my attention. Will this party ever end, I screamed out to no-one. And there was no answer.
But as the night wore on, the party seemed to escalate and I even noticed a few of the guests in a physical altercation in one of the back rooms. "Stop!", I finally shouted! "Didn't you read your invitations? They were printed with clear instructions to arrive at designated times specifically designed to prevent this ghastly revelry! Now, get out, get out!" There was just a brief moment of silence following my verbal outburst, then the laughter started. . .horrible, shrill, demeaning laughter. My legs buckled under me, and I fell to the floor, weeping.
Days, weeks, months passed. I lost all track of time. The guests were still there. But, as I walked through the house one morning, I began to notice new faces in the crowd, some with vaguely familiar features. Feeling somewhat adventurous, I started down a darkened hallway and heard a curious noise behind a closed door. This was still my house, and I had a right to know who was there, so I boldly pushed open the door and stared, unbelieving at the sight before me. Sunshine poured through the windows and Joy and Hope were laughing and dancing around the room. "Where did you come from? How long have you been here? What are you doing?" The questions poured out of me, but my guests just grabbed me by the hands and pulled me into their blissful waltz. Time seemed to slow as precious memories of happier days filled my head, but the calm repose didn't last long as voices from the hallway began shouting and sobbing once again. My time in the sunroom with these old friends had been so precious . . . I was desperate to grab a few more minutes with them, but other guests were once again demanding my attention. Will this party ever end, I screamed out to no-one. And there was no answer.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
I'm Sorry
When Allison died, Jim was working with a man who had also buried a little girl. I knew just a few details of her death. . . she was three and had died about 10 years earlier in a traffic accident. We had a somewhat casual relationship with this couple; outside of Jim's office, we only saw them occasionally at chapel or at military social functions. But, after Allison's death, I expected all that to change. I anticipated that the wife would choose to walk alongside me, to comfort me, and to share her words of wisdom with me. Obviously, she had survived those years since her daughter had died, a feat I could not personally even conceive of doing, and I longed for her to teach me how to live again. I wanted her to speak words of peace and comfort, bring encouragement to my wounded spirit, and answer my questions about simply making it through each day.
I was wrong.
Actually, I don't know if Jim had any heartfelt conversations on grief with the husband, but I never had any with the wife. We continued to see each other socially, shared polite and courteous exchanges, and I gradually grew more and more resentful. And, the resentment evolved into a deep anger that uncomfortably leaked out during those required, but brief, social interchanges.
I'm sorry. Now, twenty years later, I finally realize what you knew then. . . .there are no magic words of comfort, there's no 'how to' guide filled with all the right things to say and do, and nothing takes away the raw intense pain of new grief. I realize now the struggle you were going through as the death of my little girl must have brought new waves of sadness and loss into your own life. I'm so sorry that I didn't see the anguish my presence must have brought you. I'm so sorry for expecting the impossible from you.
As the years have passed, I have become the woman who grieved and survived. I have become the one who persevered through unspeakable loss. And I have become the one who has let others grieve silently, wondering 'why isn't she here? why isn't she walking alongside me?' I could give lots of reasons . . fear, too busy, selfish . . but, in the end, I have no excuse. Yes, I've buried a child, and I've learned so much in the years since. . . but, faced with another's grief, I still don't know what to say or do to ease the pain.
But, maybe that's the point. . . it's not about 'saying' or 'doing'. . .it's about being.
I was wrong.
Actually, I don't know if Jim had any heartfelt conversations on grief with the husband, but I never had any with the wife. We continued to see each other socially, shared polite and courteous exchanges, and I gradually grew more and more resentful. And, the resentment evolved into a deep anger that uncomfortably leaked out during those required, but brief, social interchanges.
I'm sorry. Now, twenty years later, I finally realize what you knew then. . . .there are no magic words of comfort, there's no 'how to' guide filled with all the right things to say and do, and nothing takes away the raw intense pain of new grief. I realize now the struggle you were going through as the death of my little girl must have brought new waves of sadness and loss into your own life. I'm so sorry that I didn't see the anguish my presence must have brought you. I'm so sorry for expecting the impossible from you.
As the years have passed, I have become the woman who grieved and survived. I have become the one who persevered through unspeakable loss. And I have become the one who has let others grieve silently, wondering 'why isn't she here? why isn't she walking alongside me?' I could give lots of reasons . . fear, too busy, selfish . . but, in the end, I have no excuse. Yes, I've buried a child, and I've learned so much in the years since. . . but, faced with another's grief, I still don't know what to say or do to ease the pain.
But, maybe that's the point. . . it's not about 'saying' or 'doing'. . .it's about being.
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Lost
I hate getting lost. I have to admit that I've been in that state so often over the years that you would think I would be used to it, but there's just something so terrifying about being lost to a person with absolutely no sense of direction.
This morning, my job was to take Jim to the Reagan National Airport. That part was easy. . . nice, straight drive up Highway 1, turn right at the sign pointing to the airport. Of course, it also doesn't hurt to have the man with the most perfect sense of direction sitting in the front passenger seat. Quick kiss good-by, move out of the busy drop-off lane, and follow the sign that says 'Airport Exit'. Now, wouldn't you assume that's the correct way to leave an airport? Unfortunately, I didn't notice the small print under the exit sign that said 'North' until it was too late. And there's just no feeling quite like the feeling of finding yourself lost in Washington D.C.
Jim's a good husband - back in the days before GPS, he always made sure I had a map in my car. What he didn't understand, though, is that a map is not very helpful to a person without the ability to know where she is. But, this is the 21st century and some wonderful people have since invented maps on little tablets with blinking blue dots that show you precisely where you are in this world! And, they even highlight in blue the route you should take to get to your desired destination! How absolutely wonderful! Except. . . when there's no internet service.
So, there I was, praying, crying, willing the iPad to work, and watching the Washington monument get closer and closer. But you already know the end of the story, because here I am, safe at home, journaling on this blog.
Philip Yancey's book, Sole Survivor, introduced me to Frederick Buechner who describes faith as an act of discovery, of hearing God speak, not through the miraculous or supernatural, but through the everyday, ordinary, waking up, going to work, and getting lost moments of life. "Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery it is. . . because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace". Grace. I can't think of any more beautiful word. Yes, I know I'll get lost again, I'll grieve again, I'll cry again. But, at the beginning, the end, and every little blinking blue dot of every painful, joyful, terrifying moment, there's grace.
So what do poor little lost girls do when they finally end up in familiar territory? Why, stop at Krispy Kreme of course! I feel much better now.
This morning, my job was to take Jim to the Reagan National Airport. That part was easy. . . nice, straight drive up Highway 1, turn right at the sign pointing to the airport. Of course, it also doesn't hurt to have the man with the most perfect sense of direction sitting in the front passenger seat. Quick kiss good-by, move out of the busy drop-off lane, and follow the sign that says 'Airport Exit'. Now, wouldn't you assume that's the correct way to leave an airport? Unfortunately, I didn't notice the small print under the exit sign that said 'North' until it was too late. And there's just no feeling quite like the feeling of finding yourself lost in Washington D.C.
Jim's a good husband - back in the days before GPS, he always made sure I had a map in my car. What he didn't understand, though, is that a map is not very helpful to a person without the ability to know where she is. But, this is the 21st century and some wonderful people have since invented maps on little tablets with blinking blue dots that show you precisely where you are in this world! And, they even highlight in blue the route you should take to get to your desired destination! How absolutely wonderful! Except. . . when there's no internet service.
So, there I was, praying, crying, willing the iPad to work, and watching the Washington monument get closer and closer. But you already know the end of the story, because here I am, safe at home, journaling on this blog.
Philip Yancey's book, Sole Survivor, introduced me to Frederick Buechner who describes faith as an act of discovery, of hearing God speak, not through the miraculous or supernatural, but through the everyday, ordinary, waking up, going to work, and getting lost moments of life. "Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery it is. . . because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace". Grace. I can't think of any more beautiful word. Yes, I know I'll get lost again, I'll grieve again, I'll cry again. But, at the beginning, the end, and every little blinking blue dot of every painful, joyful, terrifying moment, there's grace.
So what do poor little lost girls do when they finally end up in familiar territory? Why, stop at Krispy Kreme of course! I feel much better now.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Grace and Truth
Recently, I participated in a Bible study entitled "Grace and Truth" based on the verse from John 1:14 - "The Word became flesh and took up residence among us. We observed His glory, the glory as the One and Only Son of the Father, full of grace and truth." Jesus represents total 'grace', the sacrificial, forgiving love and endless mercy of the Father, as well as 'truth', the impossibly high standards of the law: "be ye perfect, therefore, as your Heavenly Father is perfect" (Matthew 5:48).
Wow! What a huge chasm separates these 2 concepts! At times, I can feel myself scaling the cliffs of grace; other times, I'm drowning in the deep waters of truth.
This past year, Jim and I have been running together several times a week and working on memorizing Scriptures while we run. Of course, I'm the one that struggles with actually putting one foot in front of the other instead of just passing out on the trail! So, we came up with the great idea of memorizing verses about running (surely it couldn't hurt!). Currently, we're working on Hebrews 12:1-2, "let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfector of our faith." The more we talked and thought about that verse, the more it felt like a lifeboat in those floodwaters of truth! Yes, I am called to a high standard that I continually fail to reach, but my Savior, full of grace and truth, is not only the origin of my faith but, also, the One who promises to bring it to full maturity! Unfortunately, though, just like the Apostle Peter, I have a hard time keeping my 'eyes fixed on Jesus', especially when the giant waves of life are surging over me. . . but, I can just imagine Him reaching down His hand, like a father reaching for his little child, and gently pulling me back to His boat of grace!
As I continue to ponder these verses, I'm struck again with the need for honesty. If I'm not honest in my own reflections of myself, my sins, and my constant failure to be 'perfect' or 'sweet' or 'good' or any other self-affirming adjective you might choose, where is the need for grace? And, if I'm not aware of my own desperate need for grace, how can I manifest grace to others who are just as desperate? How do I sit with others, screaming at God in pain and grief, and offer love and grace? How do I, without judgment, listen to a friend's struggle with doubt and fear? Growing up in the Bible Belt, I was comfortable with the blacks and whites of right and wrong. Now, I'm not so sure. . . I'm a flawed, broken crayon living in a box filled with countless broken colors desperate for a touch from the Great Physician. And, if God is glorified when we "accept each other just as Christ has accepted you" (Romans 15:7), then who am I to argue? Thank God, for grace and truth!
This past year, Jim and I have been running together several times a week and working on memorizing Scriptures while we run. Of course, I'm the one that struggles with actually putting one foot in front of the other instead of just passing out on the trail! So, we came up with the great idea of memorizing verses about running (surely it couldn't hurt!). Currently, we're working on Hebrews 12:1-2, "let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfector of our faith." The more we talked and thought about that verse, the more it felt like a lifeboat in those floodwaters of truth! Yes, I am called to a high standard that I continually fail to reach, but my Savior, full of grace and truth, is not only the origin of my faith but, also, the One who promises to bring it to full maturity! Unfortunately, though, just like the Apostle Peter, I have a hard time keeping my 'eyes fixed on Jesus', especially when the giant waves of life are surging over me. . . but, I can just imagine Him reaching down His hand, like a father reaching for his little child, and gently pulling me back to His boat of grace!
As I continue to ponder these verses, I'm struck again with the need for honesty. If I'm not honest in my own reflections of myself, my sins, and my constant failure to be 'perfect' or 'sweet' or 'good' or any other self-affirming adjective you might choose, where is the need for grace? And, if I'm not aware of my own desperate need for grace, how can I manifest grace to others who are just as desperate? How do I sit with others, screaming at God in pain and grief, and offer love and grace? How do I, without judgment, listen to a friend's struggle with doubt and fear? Growing up in the Bible Belt, I was comfortable with the blacks and whites of right and wrong. Now, I'm not so sure. . . I'm a flawed, broken crayon living in a box filled with countless broken colors desperate for a touch from the Great Physician. And, if God is glorified when we "accept each other just as Christ has accepted you" (Romans 15:7), then who am I to argue? Thank God, for grace and truth!
Friday, May 25, 2012
Faces
I've been thinking a lot about honesty lately . . . maybe because I'm realizing that I'm not very good at it. Growing up, the adjective I remember most often used to describe me was "sweet". Yes, I was that "sweet" girl . . . smile nicely, be polite, follow the rules, help others . . . in public.
I grew up, got married, had beautiful children, watched as one suffered with leukemia, and then buried my little girl. And, I still tried to put on my sweet face before marching out into the world. The drive home alone in my car was when the sobs and screams at God would force their way out from my soul. And, the shower before bedtime was a great place for silent tears.
Two years later, I had a miscarriage and lost my much-wanted baby. The sweet face got lost in the anger. Rather than reveal the monster hiding within, though, I withdrew from life, rarely went to church, wouldn't answer the door, and threw unread Helen Steiner Rice cards in the trash. When I was forced to leave the house, I found a different mask to wear . . .maybe it was a little like the Phantom of the Opera . . . one that would stoically conceal the gruesomely scarred and bleeding tissue underneath. Even with my mask on, though, people would see me coming and would turn away to avoid catching a glimpse of my pain. Finally, every week, Tuesday would come, and I drove to our Compassionate Friends bereavement group. I sat down with about twenty other people, and we all took our masks off, enjoying the feel of cool, fresh honesty against our damaged spirits. Slowly, gradually, the healing came.
Sometimes, I wonder how much quicker my grief could have diminished if I had learned the value of honesty sooner. Has my family suffered unduly because I was not willing to let the horror and intensity of my pain be exposed? I chose hiding and suffering silently over being real with my doubts, depression, and fear, and I lost the opportunity to be genuine before my children, my family, and my church. "Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known" (1 Cor. 13:12). I'm old now, tired of trying on different faces, ready to start knowing and being fully known. Better late than never?
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Questions, questions, . . .
"And how many children do you have?" Simple, innocent question . . . unless you've buried a child. Then, what do you say?
The first time after Allison died that I heard that question, I was stunned and speechless. I have two kids; I have two beautiful daughters . . .so, I finally said "two". And, of course, people who ask that question don't really know you, so the next question is, "Oh, that's nice. How old are they?" Now, it's really tricky. "Well, my daughter, Bethany, is seven, and my other daughter died recently and is in heaven." Next come the embarrassed, pained expressions accompanied by apologies . . . and I end up reassuring the questioner that it's okay (even though I'm not)!
After experiencing several similar exchanges, I came up with a planned response. I would never imply that Allison hadn't existed; I could never say that I only had one child, but sharing the loss of my precious child with someone who couldn't handle it felt a little like "casting my pearls before swine". So, if the questioner was someone with whom I expected to have a friendship or working relationship, I would tell her that I had two children and then share a little of Allison's story; otherwise, I would simply reply, "I have a seven year old daughter." Now, over 20 years later, I easily respond with a little about my beautiful daughter and her precious family and my talented son, but Allison is never far from my mind.
"How do you do it?" Now, that's a question I'll never understand, seeing as how I didn't exactly have a choice. What's the only alternative to surviving, because that's about all I managed to do for a few years after Allison died? Now, I can testify to the grace of God and patience of family and friends, but when the pain of loss was fresh, I had no answer to that question.
"How are you?'" "Why do we always answer 'fine' to that question? We lie because we don't want to burden people; then, in the quiet of the night, we sob," a dear friend texted me last night. I don't have an answer for that one, either. But, I do know that we need at least one person in this life that can truly walk with us and hear all the pain, confusion, anger, and grief jumbled inside (and I highly recommend good grief support groups)!
What kind of questions do you struggle with?
The first time after Allison died that I heard that question, I was stunned and speechless. I have two kids; I have two beautiful daughters . . .so, I finally said "two". And, of course, people who ask that question don't really know you, so the next question is, "Oh, that's nice. How old are they?" Now, it's really tricky. "Well, my daughter, Bethany, is seven, and my other daughter died recently and is in heaven." Next come the embarrassed, pained expressions accompanied by apologies . . . and I end up reassuring the questioner that it's okay (even though I'm not)!
After experiencing several similar exchanges, I came up with a planned response. I would never imply that Allison hadn't existed; I could never say that I only had one child, but sharing the loss of my precious child with someone who couldn't handle it felt a little like "casting my pearls before swine". So, if the questioner was someone with whom I expected to have a friendship or working relationship, I would tell her that I had two children and then share a little of Allison's story; otherwise, I would simply reply, "I have a seven year old daughter." Now, over 20 years later, I easily respond with a little about my beautiful daughter and her precious family and my talented son, but Allison is never far from my mind.
"How do you do it?" Now, that's a question I'll never understand, seeing as how I didn't exactly have a choice. What's the only alternative to surviving, because that's about all I managed to do for a few years after Allison died? Now, I can testify to the grace of God and patience of family and friends, but when the pain of loss was fresh, I had no answer to that question.
"How are you?'" "Why do we always answer 'fine' to that question? We lie because we don't want to burden people; then, in the quiet of the night, we sob," a dear friend texted me last night. I don't have an answer for that one, either. But, I do know that we need at least one person in this life that can truly walk with us and hear all the pain, confusion, anger, and grief jumbled inside (and I highly recommend good grief support groups)!
What kind of questions do you struggle with?
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Living in a daycare kinda world
My son likes to tell me, "Mom, you're such a preschool teacher!". Usually, it's because I've done or said something goofy, but I don't mind. . .I love being a preschool teacher! And I love spending time with children, learning from them, listening to them. Recently, I was struck by some of the things Jesus said about children: "unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven" (Matt. 18:3), and I started thinking about what 'being like little children' means.
One of the characteristics of very young children is 'object permanence', the idea that objects and people continue to exist even when they cannot be seen. Jim was in his last year of college and I was working full-time when Bethany was born. It broke my heart to see her little tears when I had to leave her in the daycare. Despite my assurances that I would return and take her home to her loving family, she continued to cry, not able to comprehend the truth of my words.
Is that the way God is with us? He sent Jesus to show us the true Kingdom and to remind us, "Child, don't let your heart be troubled. I'm returning for you, and I'm taking you home to your loving family." But I get so wrapped up in my grief, in my busyness, in my life, that I forget or maybe I just can't comprehend. In The Jesus I Never Knew, Philip Yancey says, "Jesus' first coming did not solve the problems of planet earth, rather it presented a vision of God's Kingdom to help break the earthly spell of delusion."
So, I'm here, living in this daycare kinda world, working hard, trying to do the right thing, trying to keep my eyes and my hope fixed on Jesus. And, my little Allison has already been picked up and is living in the reality of Heaven! So glad that I'll be seeing her again!
One of the characteristics of very young children is 'object permanence', the idea that objects and people continue to exist even when they cannot be seen. Jim was in his last year of college and I was working full-time when Bethany was born. It broke my heart to see her little tears when I had to leave her in the daycare. Despite my assurances that I would return and take her home to her loving family, she continued to cry, not able to comprehend the truth of my words.
Is that the way God is with us? He sent Jesus to show us the true Kingdom and to remind us, "Child, don't let your heart be troubled. I'm returning for you, and I'm taking you home to your loving family." But I get so wrapped up in my grief, in my busyness, in my life, that I forget or maybe I just can't comprehend. In The Jesus I Never Knew, Philip Yancey says, "Jesus' first coming did not solve the problems of planet earth, rather it presented a vision of God's Kingdom to help break the earthly spell of delusion."
So, I'm here, living in this daycare kinda world, working hard, trying to do the right thing, trying to keep my eyes and my hope fixed on Jesus. And, my little Allison has already been picked up and is living in the reality of Heaven! So glad that I'll be seeing her again!
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Why?
A dear friend has buried 4 family members in the past 6 months. Another friend just buried his twenty year old son, a handsome young college student who loved the Lord. A precious young mother delivered a beautiful baby boy one day and buried him the next. Why, God? Why do these horrible things happen?
Like many Christians searching for answers, I turned to the book of Job shortly after Allison was diagnosed with leukemia. I was determined to find some explanation, some great reason, some purpose, some meaning for all the tears, all the pain. When God finally appeared and spoke to Job in chapter 38, I read each word carefully, desperate for answers. God is right in front of Job, speaking to him; surely now he will confront Him with his questions. . .but Job's words are simply, "My ears had heard of you but now my eyes have seen you. Therefore, I despise myself and repent in dust and ashes." (Job 42:5-6)
No explanation, but there was an answer: "Be still and know that I am God." (Psalm 46:10)
And there were blessings for a man who dared to be angry with God for the hard times life had given him, and rebukes for the self-righteous friends who presumed it was their place to explain the mind and the actions of God. Many years ago, I heard James Dobson tell a young girl with cystic fibrosis that he wished he could tell her why she was suffering. I screamed at the radio, No! This child's suffering must be too big for even you to understand, Dr. Dobson! I don't want anyone less than the God of the universe to understand why my child suffered and died. And, like Job, when I stand before Him, the question, "Why?", will be the farthest thing from my mind.
Like many Christians searching for answers, I turned to the book of Job shortly after Allison was diagnosed with leukemia. I was determined to find some explanation, some great reason, some purpose, some meaning for all the tears, all the pain. When God finally appeared and spoke to Job in chapter 38, I read each word carefully, desperate for answers. God is right in front of Job, speaking to him; surely now he will confront Him with his questions. . .but Job's words are simply, "My ears had heard of you but now my eyes have seen you. Therefore, I despise myself and repent in dust and ashes." (Job 42:5-6)
No explanation, but there was an answer: "Be still and know that I am God." (Psalm 46:10)
And there were blessings for a man who dared to be angry with God for the hard times life had given him, and rebukes for the self-righteous friends who presumed it was their place to explain the mind and the actions of God. Many years ago, I heard James Dobson tell a young girl with cystic fibrosis that he wished he could tell her why she was suffering. I screamed at the radio, No! This child's suffering must be too big for even you to understand, Dr. Dobson! I don't want anyone less than the God of the universe to understand why my child suffered and died. And, like Job, when I stand before Him, the question, "Why?", will be the farthest thing from my mind.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
The Beginning, Part 3
Within an hour of her admittance to Vanderbilt, Allison was sent to ICU where she was intubated and I was ushered into the waiting area. I still felt confident that this was just going to be another difficult, sleepless, stressful time, but that we would soon be home again. I called my friend, Ginny, from the waiting room phone, and she assured me that she would care for Bethany as long as necessary. She asked if I wanted her to call anyone for me, and I told her that we appreciated prayers, but that I was okay and didn't want anyone to make that long drive to Nashville on a Thursday night.
The rest of the night is a little fuzzy in my mind. I remember the phone on the wall started ringing. Someone answered it and then called out my name. Surprised, I took the phone and started talking to our rear detachment commander, offering his help and support. The phone kept ringing, each time for me. . .Fort Campbell people expressing their prayers and concern, seeking ways to help. Each time, I assured them that we were okay. A short time later, our off-post pastor, Rev. Walker, walked into the room. He sat with me, and we talked and prayed. About midnight, the nurse came in to tell us that Allison's blood pressure had dropped, and she was having some complications that required her to stay in ICU for the night. Anticipating a very long night, I encouraged Rev. Walker to go home, but he told me firmly that he was going to stay. Over the next hour, Allison's two special oncology nurses arrived as well as four more friends from Fort Campbell - my dear friend, Reva; our installation chaplain and his wife, and the Fort Campbell hospital chaplain. Again, I was stunned that people were coming to be with me! I hadn't asked anyone to come! The nurses found us a private waiting room, and they became blessed messengers for us, traveling in and out of ICU with bits of news and hope. About 4:30, we were told that Allison was stable! We were rejoicing at the thought of "joy in the morning", and said good-bye to one of the nurses and the oncologist. Just thirty minutes later, the other oncology nurse, Ann, rushed in to tell me that she had taken another turn for the worse. I'm not sure why, but I quietly told her that if Allison was dying, I needed to be in there with her. Unbelieving, I stood in the hall as Ann ran into the ICU. . .seconds later, she was running back to me, telling me that if I wanted to be with her when she died, I needed to come now. I almost fell to the floor with the shock, but Ann grabbed me and she and another nurse supported me as we rushed into ICU. Nothing could possibly have prepared me for what I saw. . . my beautiful little girl was bloated, cold, and unmoving. Air was being forced into her little lungs and compressions were rhythmically moving her chest. I pleaded with them to keep trying, don't give up. . .I reminded Allison that her favorite waffles were in the freezer at home waiting for her. . .keep breathing. . .keep living. . . please don't stop. On October 26, 1990, Friday morning at 5:00, my Allison died.
The rest of the night is a little fuzzy in my mind. I remember the phone on the wall started ringing. Someone answered it and then called out my name. Surprised, I took the phone and started talking to our rear detachment commander, offering his help and support. The phone kept ringing, each time for me. . .Fort Campbell people expressing their prayers and concern, seeking ways to help. Each time, I assured them that we were okay. A short time later, our off-post pastor, Rev. Walker, walked into the room. He sat with me, and we talked and prayed. About midnight, the nurse came in to tell us that Allison's blood pressure had dropped, and she was having some complications that required her to stay in ICU for the night. Anticipating a very long night, I encouraged Rev. Walker to go home, but he told me firmly that he was going to stay. Over the next hour, Allison's two special oncology nurses arrived as well as four more friends from Fort Campbell - my dear friend, Reva; our installation chaplain and his wife, and the Fort Campbell hospital chaplain. Again, I was stunned that people were coming to be with me! I hadn't asked anyone to come! The nurses found us a private waiting room, and they became blessed messengers for us, traveling in and out of ICU with bits of news and hope. About 4:30, we were told that Allison was stable! We were rejoicing at the thought of "joy in the morning", and said good-bye to one of the nurses and the oncologist. Just thirty minutes later, the other oncology nurse, Ann, rushed in to tell me that she had taken another turn for the worse. I'm not sure why, but I quietly told her that if Allison was dying, I needed to be in there with her. Unbelieving, I stood in the hall as Ann ran into the ICU. . .seconds later, she was running back to me, telling me that if I wanted to be with her when she died, I needed to come now. I almost fell to the floor with the shock, but Ann grabbed me and she and another nurse supported me as we rushed into ICU. Nothing could possibly have prepared me for what I saw. . . my beautiful little girl was bloated, cold, and unmoving. Air was being forced into her little lungs and compressions were rhythmically moving her chest. I pleaded with them to keep trying, don't give up. . .I reminded Allison that her favorite waffles were in the freezer at home waiting for her. . .keep breathing. . .keep living. . . please don't stop. On October 26, 1990, Friday morning at 5:00, my Allison died.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Easter Reflections
"A man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief." Isaiah 53:3
Jesus said to them, "My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. . .If it is possible, let this cup of suffering be taken away from me." Matthew 26:38-39
Jesus cried out in a loud voice, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" Matthew 27:46
In the days and weeks following Allison's death, I felt abandoned by God. I prayed, screamed, cried out, but heard nothing in return. C.S. Lewis expressed that same feeling in A Grief Observed: "Where is God? When you are happy . . .and turn to Him with gratitude and praise, you will be, or so it feels, welcomed with open arms. But go to Him when your need is desperate, when all other help is vain, and what do you find? A door slammed in your face. . .Why is He so present a commander in our time of prosperity and so very absent a help in time of trouble?"
As the months and years passed, though, I began to realize that my wounded heart had gone into a spiritual hibernation. In the same way that a wounded animal can awake from hibernation healed, my heart began once again to sense the love and presence of God. Four years after Allison died, I wrote the following in my journal: " Thank you, Lord, for feeding me. You've been my sustenance for the last few years, but now you're drawing me out of this dark hibernation. And, it's time to start eating and growing again. Thank you for being my 'bread of life'."
Jesus, too, pleaded with God to take away the pain and suffering. I can't begin to imagine the magnitude of His pain, but, since we know the 'rest of the story', we know that God never truly abandoned Him, but was accomplishing His purpose for the salvation of the world. What a precious example! When I feel alone or forsaken by God, it's okay to scream and cry out to Him, to feel all the horrible feelings that come with grief and loss, and yet know, as time passes, that He is always there.
Jesus said to them, "My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. . .If it is possible, let this cup of suffering be taken away from me." Matthew 26:38-39
Jesus cried out in a loud voice, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" Matthew 27:46
In the days and weeks following Allison's death, I felt abandoned by God. I prayed, screamed, cried out, but heard nothing in return. C.S. Lewis expressed that same feeling in A Grief Observed: "Where is God? When you are happy . . .and turn to Him with gratitude and praise, you will be, or so it feels, welcomed with open arms. But go to Him when your need is desperate, when all other help is vain, and what do you find? A door slammed in your face. . .Why is He so present a commander in our time of prosperity and so very absent a help in time of trouble?"
As the months and years passed, though, I began to realize that my wounded heart had gone into a spiritual hibernation. In the same way that a wounded animal can awake from hibernation healed, my heart began once again to sense the love and presence of God. Four years after Allison died, I wrote the following in my journal: " Thank you, Lord, for feeding me. You've been my sustenance for the last few years, but now you're drawing me out of this dark hibernation. And, it's time to start eating and growing again. Thank you for being my 'bread of life'."
Jesus, too, pleaded with God to take away the pain and suffering. I can't begin to imagine the magnitude of His pain, but, since we know the 'rest of the story', we know that God never truly abandoned Him, but was accomplishing His purpose for the salvation of the world. What a precious example! When I feel alone or forsaken by God, it's okay to scream and cry out to Him, to feel all the horrible feelings that come with grief and loss, and yet know, as time passes, that He is always there.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
The Beginning, Part 2
In August 1990, Jim received word that his infantry battalion would be deploying soon as part of Desert Shield. The commander was a Christian who cared deeply about all of his troops, and he suggested that Jim stay back with the rear detachment because of Allison's health. After much prayer and discussion, we agreed to thank the commander for his concern, but assure him that Allison was greatly improved. Jim needed to be with his soldiers, and they deployed together in early September. It was a frightening time for all of us, but I fell right into the role of Mrs. Chaplain's wife. . .I started calling and visiting the other wives, trying to encourage them if I could. The Chaplain's wives started meeting together weekly to pray and share concerns. The fear that our husbands might not come home was the main subject one day, and I remember sharing that I really didn't have that fear. During Allison's diagnosis and illness, I felt that I had been to "hell and back", and I wasn't afraid of anything else life could throw at me. I wonder now how I could have been so foolish and arrogant.
One Saturday night in late October, Allison got sick again. My parents kept Bethany while I took Allison to the emergency room at Vanderbilt with a fever. She was checked out by a doctor on call and we were sent home. She started to feel worse, though, and we went back the following Tuesday. She was diagnosed with pneumonia, and we were sent home again with antibiotics. Wednesday morning, she seemed to feel better, and my parents went home, but on Thursday morning, she was vomiting and very weak. I took Bethany to a friend's house and drove Allison to Blanchfield Hospital on Fort Campbell where she was diagnosed with dehydration and hooked up to fluids immediately. Just a short time later, she was sitting up in her bed, eating gummy bears, watching cartoons, and laughing. The doctor had sent some of her blood to the lab to be checked which was routine whenever she ran a fever, and the slip came back that her white blood cell count was about 300. Since normal is between 6000 and 10000, the doctor assumed a mistake had been made, and had it rechecked. It came back even lower. I didn't understand. . .she looked wonderful, but we were loaded into an ambulance and sent to Vanderbilt immediately.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
The Beginning, Part 1
Well, now that I'm on my 3rd post, I suppose I should go back to the beginning and tell my own story. Our daughter, Allison, was diagnosed with leukemia when she was 22 months old. We were spending the summer with Jim's parents in Portsmouth, Virginia, waiting for our first military assignment. Those first few weeks were a nightmare. . .I remember asking the doctor if she would survive, and she answered honestly that she didn't know. Allison's age and very high white cell count were 2 major strikes against her. After what seemed like endless transfusions, surgeries, and chemo, we celebrated the day of remission! Allison came home to Grandma's house with us and we began a new "normal" of flushing tubes, changing the dressing over her catheter, administering medications, and going back to the hospital for chemo.
Then, during Labor Day weekend, we drove to Fort Campbell, Kentucky, where Jim would begin his career as an active duty Army Chaplain. The very next day, Allison and I were at Vanderbilt, meeting the new pediatric oncology team that would keep her alive. She and I both quickly fell in love with those amazing, caring people, as well as with the other pediatric patients and their families. Most of us had nothing in common except that our kids had cancer - it felt like joint membership in an exclusive club - we needed each other and we all spoke the same language.
Our beautiful, extroverted little girl quickly made friends wherever she went . . .she had no problem speaking her mind to whoever would listen! On many occasions, we heard her say, "I'm not a boy! I'm a girl!" when unknowing strangers would look at her little bald head and comment about how cute our boy was! And she loved chapel! As the music played, she would hold her little New Testament so that she could sing from her 'hymnal' just like we sang from ours.
In January, Allison got sick. We thought she might have chicken pox, so she was admitted to Vanderbilt for IV treatment. She continued to worsen, started having trouble breathing, and after two lung biopsies, was diagnosed with interstitial pneumonia. Her doctor moved her to intensive care where she was sedated and intubated; he confessed that he believed she was dying and he didn't know how to stop the progression of the lung infection. Finally, our doctor came to us one morning with good news - all of the cancer doctors in the hospital had met to discuss Allison, and one had shared that he had seen a similar response in a much older patient receiving very high doses of a particular chemo drug. The treatment was not an antibiotic, it was a steroid; and the results were immediate! Within 2 days the tube was removed, she was moved to a regular room, and a week later discharged!
Then, during Labor Day weekend, we drove to Fort Campbell, Kentucky, where Jim would begin his career as an active duty Army Chaplain. The very next day, Allison and I were at Vanderbilt, meeting the new pediatric oncology team that would keep her alive. She and I both quickly fell in love with those amazing, caring people, as well as with the other pediatric patients and their families. Most of us had nothing in common except that our kids had cancer - it felt like joint membership in an exclusive club - we needed each other and we all spoke the same language.
Our beautiful, extroverted little girl quickly made friends wherever she went . . .she had no problem speaking her mind to whoever would listen! On many occasions, we heard her say, "I'm not a boy! I'm a girl!" when unknowing strangers would look at her little bald head and comment about how cute our boy was! And she loved chapel! As the music played, she would hold her little New Testament so that she could sing from her 'hymnal' just like we sang from ours.
In January, Allison got sick. We thought she might have chicken pox, so she was admitted to Vanderbilt for IV treatment. She continued to worsen, started having trouble breathing, and after two lung biopsies, was diagnosed with interstitial pneumonia. Her doctor moved her to intensive care where she was sedated and intubated; he confessed that he believed she was dying and he didn't know how to stop the progression of the lung infection. Finally, our doctor came to us one morning with good news - all of the cancer doctors in the hospital had met to discuss Allison, and one had shared that he had seen a similar response in a much older patient receiving very high doses of a particular chemo drug. The treatment was not an antibiotic, it was a steroid; and the results were immediate! Within 2 days the tube was removed, she was moved to a regular room, and a week later discharged!
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
A Personal Journey
Grief is a very personal journey. Granted, there are real warning signs that grief may be turning self-destructive, but we need to be careful not to confuse an individual's need to express grief and loss in a personal way as a sign that they are 'stuck in their grief'. An Army psychologist once asked us to check on a couple whose grandson had been killed in a motorcycle accident the previous year. He was very concerned about them, and when we asked why, he told us that he went to their home and saw a huge picture of the grandson in the front entryway. He saw the picture as a sign that they weren't moving on in their grief. We saw the picture as a sign that they loved their grandson - that's not a grief you can 'get over'. What is normal grief - taking a lawnchair to the cemetery and sitting there all day? lining up matchbox cars on a son's tombstone? standing in the kitchen and crying through dinner preparations?
Press On!
Last Saturday, Jim and I went to the funeral of a young man . . .a college student, an athlete, a Christian, a dearly loved son and brother. The pastor's eulogy, "The Empty Seat" was based on the passage, 1 Samuel 20:18: Then Jonathan said to David, "Tomorrow is the New Moon feast. You will be missed, because your seat will be empty." I couldn't help but think about all the 'empty seats' in my life, and the tears started to flow. But, the pastor admonished all to "press on"! Yes, the grief is hard! Yes, I can't sleep, can't eat, can't stop crying! But, I will press on!
God is good! God is in control! God has a plan! I used to think of those words as cliches, simplistic proverbs that couldn't fill the empty void in my heart. Now, I see them as truths that I must take hold of to be a good steward of the grief God has given me.
"Stay on the path that the Lord your God has commanded you to follow". Deuteronomy 5:33
God is good! God is in control! God has a plan! I used to think of those words as cliches, simplistic proverbs that couldn't fill the empty void in my heart. Now, I see them as truths that I must take hold of to be a good steward of the grief God has given me.
"Stay on the path that the Lord your God has commanded you to follow". Deuteronomy 5:33
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