Anticipation Rising

Next to sleeping, one of my very favorite things to do in the whole wide world is travel.  I was infected with the travel bug at a very young age.  As my grandmother regaled me with stories of her adventures, my explorer's heart was born and I developed a strong appreciation for discovering other cultures.  As soon as I could I became a wanderer.  My dream is to see as much as my heart desires, just as my grandmother did, although it is doubtful that like her, I will be hiking Machu Pichu when I turn 80!  

Today my youngest nephew and I will be leaving on a jet plane with our sights set on a new adventure.  All of the planning and anticipation of what's to come has brought me almost as much joy as the trip will.  There is something about the process of researching, mapping the route, building a rough itinerary, budgeting, and imagining what awaits that makes my heart sing.  Skipping those things would rob me of the slow build of anticipation.   Knowing that something good is coming if I only wait teases me with hope and wonder.  It is immensely more gratifying to me when I anticipate something for a bit, sit with the longing, and live in the hope of it before it actually transpires.  The wondering, thinking, and waiting all build to a beautiful crescendo and when I finally taste the reward I am satisfied on the deepest level. 

As Advent approaches and the holidays beckon, I hope you too find ways to slow down and anticipate what's to come.  Learn to enjoy the process as much as the reward.  

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a plane to catch!  

Noises Off

Photo by Kat Jayne from Pexels

I did it when I woke up to go to the bathroom at 4:30 am.  I did it again a few hours later when the alarm started blaring.  I reached for my phone, opened social media, and cluttered my mind with noise.  FAIL.  What could I have possibly missed while you and I were sleeping?  I'm not sure but whatever it is I MUST KNOW as soon as I am conscious!  FOMO is a real thing. 

We live in an age of non-stop information.  Sometimes it feels like a blessing, but I'm starting to see it as more of a curse.  It feels a lot like chaos.  Sometimes I want to scream "Calgon, take me away!"  I just want a break.  More importantly, I need one.  It is unhealthy to wander around wondering what I might miss if my phone is out of reach, or the TV isn't on, or I'm not connected to the web so I can read the latest opinion from someone else, without having to use my own noggin and form my own opinion by gathering facts and making an informed decision.  Memes and opinions are not facts.  Ouch.

A few weeks ago I lost my phone and the anxiety I felt shocked me.  It unnerved me to be without it.  No calendar.  No Internet.  No Facebook.  No Instagram.  No texts.  No calls.  No alarm.  I felt naked.  And then I felt........quiet.  It took a bit to settle into the sound of silence.  To listen to the still small voice instead of all the loud, obnoxious ones, or even the amusing but distracting ones.    

In the theater world, the term "noises off" is used to refer to distracting sounds coming from backstage, props falling, loud talking, etc.  It's the noise that shouldn't be there, because it distracts the audience from the actual play.

Social media has become the "noises off" of my life, the distraction from what I want and need to focus on.  It's the thief of my peace, something that quite literally steals my attention away from worship; interrupts me from loving and serving those God has placed in my life.  As much as I enjoy keeping up with my friends, liking photos, connecting with family members who live far away, and even updating people with funny (at least I think so) posts about my own life, those things can quickly take center stage and throw me off balance.  Like when I was at dinner with my parents this weekend and took a cute photo to post on Facebook, only to then get distracted by someone else's post while I was trying to upload my own, and causing my dad to ask what was so interesting that I was always reading my phone........ FAIL.

Ah yes, I was missing out on life right in front of me to look at photos and posts of someone else's life.  Giving up the limited time I have left with my parents to find the best emoji to engage someone miles away from me.  I think it makes more sense to actually enjoy my folks before I am left with only memories.  To make sure they feel loved and cared for when I am with them, instead of ignored and boring.  Come to think of it, time is limited for all of us because we are not promised tomorrow.  So I'm going to start by spending more time in prayer and study of scripture.  Trying to remember the answers to my questions instead of immediately googling them.  Turning off the TV.  And most importantly, engaging the actual PEOPLE IN FRONT OF ME.  Facebook won't go away, and neither will Instagram, heck, I'm using them to post my blog, duh!  But they will take less of my attention and receive none of my devotion.  

God help us all turn off the noise.    

Missing the Point: Deconstructing Mary and Martha

The story of Jesus visiting Mary and Martha in their home is a curious one.  Social norms?  Upended.  A woman sitting at the feet of a man?  Unheard of.  A woman shirking her responsibility?  Unfathomable.  Entertaining the Messiah and Savior of mankind?  Unimaginable.

Jesus was not put off by her "responsibility-shirking".  He recognized the purity of her devotion.  He saw that she wanted to know him, that the food and drink preparations were just noise.  He responded, engaged her, and invested in her.  He saw her. 

Meanwhile Martha was busy.....and perturbed.  She was devoted to the tasks at hand.  She was good at serving.  But, she was not happy with her sister.  Was she afraid that nothing would get done if she didn't do it?  Fearful of what people would think if she did some "responsibility-shirking" of her own?  Was she feeling invisible as someone comfortable with the noise of service who most likely needed a bit of personal glory in the process - all while missing real glory sitting in her living room?
 
Uncomfortable as it is, for a lot of us service is more about our own needs.  It's easy to get bent out of shape when we think we are doing the lion's share of work and someone else gets noticed.  But Jesus was more interested in pure devotion.  The status quo never interested him.  He responds to the hearts of people.  Mary's heart was relational devotion.  Martha's heart was servant devotion.  Both are good, but one of them is better, as Jesus kindly pointed out when he smashed Martha's complaint to smithereens.  It always makes me think of the Brady Bunch episode where Jan moans, "Marsha, Marsha, Marsha!"  Can't you just hear him saying, "Martha, Martha, (Martha), you are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed.  Mary has chosen the better thing and it will not be taken away from her." Honestly, all I hear is:  "You're missing the point girlfriend!  I'm happy with her devotion and I'm not going to let you get in the middle of it!  You will not be taking her away from me.  Full stop." 

So what's the deal?  Jesus wasn't a narcissist who needed the undivided attention of everyone around him.  His belly even benefited from Martha's "doing".  But, in this world, we cannot devote ourselves to only one thing and forgo all of the "doing".  Maybe "doing" is more effective when devotion is our priority.  It clears our minds of distractions and allows us to do the best things, instead of everything.

Why did Jesus tell Martha that Mary had chosen the better thing when both things were important?  Perhaps it was because she chose to engage in relationship before anything else, which is exactly what he would do.  It is a great model of how we should live in this cold, hard world, and in the churches that use us up if we let them.  The better choice is to let him engage us, live our lives in devotion to him, and then go out and engage them with his love, and serve them. 

💓💓💓💓💓💓

Next is the hardest story.  One that started in crisis.  Mary and Martha's brother Lazarus fell ill.  Like, 'call 911 and rush him to the hospital' kind of ill.  Except there was no 911; no hospital to treat him; no life support if he coded.  It was bad and they were scared so they cried out to the healer, the one they knew could help.  They called Jesus.  And he didn't answer.  He put them off to continue what he was already doing.  Aw, the silence of God.  My least favorite thing in the entire world.  Yours too?

After dilly-dallying around, he finally arrived a few days later, after they had spent four long days trying to nurse their beloved brother back to health while the healer had remained silent and quite literally distant.  Four days of caring for someone you love who is seriously ill is mentally, physically, and emotionally draining in a way that is difficult to explain unless you have experienced it.  It shatters your heart when you are powerless and your beloved is slowly slipping into eternity.  It is a terrible place to be no matter what, but an especially difficult faith builder when you know the one who can merely blink and make it all go away.  And he doesn't do it.  

Martha got word that Jesus was close, so she went to him.  She would not sit idly by, ever.  That is the way God made her.  And what did she do?  She called out the Son of God on his absence.  Gulp.  "If you had been here my brother would not have died."  Boom.  Yet, even in the calling out, her statement displayed faith, albeit not fully developed.  It showed that she still believed, even when there was no real reason to do so.

Jesus had such a great response to her.  He did not chastise her, he was not angry, he simply asked her if she believed he was the resurrection and the life.  And because she had maintained her faith, even in her grief she was able to affirm that she did indeed believe.  She was the FIRST PERSON to equate him as the Messiah AND Son of God.  She wasn't speaking "her" truth, she was speaking 'THE" truth.  You go girl!

Now Mary, the "emotional" one was a different story.  I imagine she was still in a puddle on the ground, engulfed in her emotions, which is EXACTLY where I would be.  But once Martha told her her Jesus was near she ran to him and threw herself at his feet. Apparently she really liked his feet. 😊

It was different that time, it wasn't about devotion, it was about grief.  She didn't hide it.  She didn't pretend that everything was okay.  She was not embarrassed.  She let herself feel the pain and she displayed it for all to see.  It was messy.  Ain't no way it was pretty.  It was the ugliest of ugly cries.

"When Mary reached the place where Jesus was and saw him, she fell at his feet and said, 'Lord, if you had been here my brother would not have died.'  When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in his spirit and greatly troubled."  John 11:32-33.  THEN he wept.

Everyone always says he wept because of the death of Lazarus.  Surely there is some truth to that, but I think there was more to it.  It doesn't make a lot of sense to me (a non-theologian) that he only wept because Lazarus died.  He had already told his disciples that he was glad that Lazarus had died if only so they would believe.  Let's be real, he KNEW of the coming resurrection of Lazarus, just as he knew of his own.

You know, when someone grieves openly, it gives space for others to do the same.  Grief rituals are important.  Maybe that was part of the reason he wept.  But the scripture is clear that their grief deeply moved his spirit and he was greatly troubled.  He knew he was about to perform the impossible, but seeing the wounding everyone experienced before he could display the Glory of God was painful.   Most of us don't get the same ending as Lazarus and it is hard to swallow.  He does not want us to hurt, but he knows that sometimes it is unavoidable.  He tenderly bottles every tear we cry and looks forward to the day there will be no more tears, maybe more than we do.  He grieves with us.  When we are as desperate as Mary was he meets us where we are, even if we are in a puddle on the ground.  He acknowledge us.  He engages us.  He loves us.  He empathizes.  And THEN he shows his power.  He goes into action after he has tended to our hearts.

As someone who is more emotional than most, I cannot tell  you how much that means to me.  Jesus modeled how we are to respond when confronted with grief and emotion.  It requires courage, tenderness, patience, vulnerability, and the ability to sit with someone else's pain, but it is the most important thing we can do before we jump into action.

Do not be afraid to grieve.  And do not be afraid to show up for those who are grieving.  Acknowledge them.  Love them.  Listen to them.  Wipe away their tears. But do not go silent and ignore them.  Jesus would never let that happen and we shouldn't either.

💓💓💓💓💓💓

The last encounter was tender.  Jesus was back at the house of Martha and Mary.  Lazarus was reclining......maybe still weak from his death and resurrection experience?  😉  Martha was serving, of course, apparently without the help of her sister who was laser focused on Jesus, the better choice.  Then Mary did something very strange to our western sensibilities - she anointed his feet with really expensive ointment (I told you she really liked his feet!)  I mean, she really poured it on thick!  Some people didn't like it - think Judas Iscariot.  Using so much of something so precious in such an extravagant way was a shocking waste to some.  And then, to humble herself and use her hair and tears to wipe off the scented, expensive ointment? It must have been a sacred moment, powerful to behold.  It was not necessary.  It was lavish.  It was intimate.  It was gratitude and love and devotion to the one who truly knew her.  The one who fully loved her.  Her savior.  Her Messiah.  It was beautiful.

He loves us that way.  It inspires devotion.

💓💓💓💓💓💓

💗Mary sat at the feet of Jesus in devotion

💗Mary fell at the feet of Jesus in grief

💗Mary sank at the feet of Jesus in worship

May we do the same.

Signed,
Robin, someone trying hard not to miss the point

This Way Sideways

Elevator at my dad's doctor's office.  

I keep trying to go up, but somehow keep going sideways.  It is more than a little disorienting.  Anyone else or is it just me? 

Life is like that sometimes, or most of the time..... Ha.  When you are young you dream, make plans, try really hard to attain goals, and then you turn old.  You reach the middle of your life and you begin to reevaluate.  You recognize that some of your childish dreams are better left unfulfilled, in fact, you THANK GOD that they are!  You grieve other unfulfilled dreams and wonder how your life went sideways.

Aw, but if you are a person of faith, you look a little more critically and the scales fall from your eyes and you realize that God directed your sideways-steps, because even though the life you live is different than the life you imagined, it still has beauty, and grace, and healing, and hope.  You learn to count it all joy.  You persevere and grieve the dead or dying dreams and, voila! you start dreaming new ones.

That is where I find myself with my 50th birthday looming.  I am excited to enter a new decade, but determined to do it with new dreams.  My prayers have changed from whining and grieving to thanking God for where he has brought me, and asking him to show me what HE imagined for my life.  His imagination is so much better than mine!  He may still fulfill some of my old dreams, and I am TOTALLY fine with that, but if not it is okay.  I am falling into grace and trusting that he knows exactly what he is doing, even though he won't tell me, which doesn't drive me out of my ever-loving mind AT ALL. 😳

Has God resurrected one or some of your old dreams or planted new ones in your heart?  Here's to hoping that he will leave us flabbergasted and full of awe as he directs our steps toward things we would never have even thought possible in our wildest dreams.  He is on the move in the lives of so many people and it never ceases to amaze me.  DREAM BIG and then hang on, because even if you end up going sideways, as long as God is the pilot it will be a thrilling ride!  

The Pharisee Within-Elderly Caregiving 102

Caring for my older parents, especially my mother, is hard.  A few months ago after a particularly frustrating interaction with her, I caught myself praying a mean and, sadly, familiar prayer, "Dear God, don't let me be like her".  Hard to admit.  Hard to write.  Pharisaical.

After her stroke in January of 2018 there were so many days when she was just downright mean and aggressive, primarily taking out her her anger on my dad and me.  I understood that she was angry and frustrated at her sudden fate, and that damage from her stroke made the outbursts worse, but it sure made her difficult to handle.

My mother and I have always had a challenging relationship.  We are similar in many ways and both fiercely independent, read: STUBBORN.  Old wounds festered for years, but over the past ten years we had finally developed a fragile peace. Peace that was fully dependent on very firm boundaries.  Boundaries that required a lot of space for both of us.  Boundaries that are nearly impossible to maintain now.

"Honor your mother and father, unless they are mean to you."  I looked hard for that Bible verse, but....  Honor.  It is a loaded word.  Full of 'esteem' and 'respect', but also of 'obligation'.  During the worst of it, obligation was the only thing that kept me in the game.  It was drudgery.  A trap I could not escape.  I am a selfish person by nature, and I would rather have been doing almost anything else that wiping my mom's bottom, or washing her clothes, or trying to get her to eat, or answering the same question for the fifty-first time, or paying her bills, or, you get the point, ANYTHING else.  And when she would yell at me to "go to hell", I would roll my eyes and respond with something kind like "I'm already there!".  When she said harsher things I would yell back and then walk out of the room to cry.  And then the guilt would wash over me as I realized that my own hurt had caused me to behave like a brat.  The difference was I could control my responses but she could not control hers.  My little inner Pharisee was showing.  Sigh.  My prayers became not just for her healing, but for mine.  

Then March 31, 2019 happened. I had just arrived at my parents' house after a birthday weekend away with some of my besties.  As I was talking to my niece, my mother suddenly sat up, grabbed her arm and started screaming that it hurt.  Obviously something was wrong, but it seemed like her hand or arm was cramping.  As we tried to help, I quickly realized that she was having a seizure.  I called 911 and we tried to keep her from slumping over until they arrived.  It was awful.  Watching someone's brain short-circuit is something I hope I never see again.  By the time EMS arrived she had almost stopped breathing.

At the hospital she coded.  They took life-saving measures and inserted a breathing tube.  The vent took over, rhythmically pumping air into and out of her lungs.  She was motionless.  It was bad and it looked hopeless.  We were all in shock.  Frightened.  Worried.  Anxious.  Exhausted.

During her stay in ICU we learned more about her 1968 brain hemorrhage.  The neurologist told us that she had essentially had a right frontal lobotomy because of the damage from the hemorrhage.  For 50 years she had overcome the absence of a right frontal lobe.  We had no idea.  It explained so much.  Her inability her to make sound decisions and judgments.  Memories.  Impulse control.  Social boundaries.  Suddenly all of the puzzle pieces fit together.  We felt guilty for our lack of patience with her.  We never knew how strong she truly was.  We never realized that the things we thought were weird were actually miraculous.  A brain hemorrhage, a stroke, and a seizure are more than one person should have to endure.  But she has not only endured, she has thrived, quirks and all.  We just wanted her to wake up.  To have one more chance and a bit more time.

After almost two weeks in ICU, after we had been told that she had an anoxic brain injury and would never recover.  After we had witnessed her vegetative state for too many long days and nights.  After we had made the decision to call hospice and let her die at home.  She woke up and indicated that she wanted to live.  Just like that.  The waking up defied all odds.  It was a miracle.  It brought healing and forgiveness as far as the east is from the west.  We had been given a second chance.  And even if it was short-lived, it would be worth all of the time and energy.

Our relationship is more tender now.  I appreciate what I have more.  I see the strength and beauty in her and I recognize that some of the decisions she made when I was a child were because she literally could not do better.  It wasn't because I was not lovable or unworthy.  She did the best she could.  How can I do less now?

For years I would get angry when people told me I was like my mother, but now I have had a change of heart.  I would be proud to have her same determination to live.  The same ability to adapt and persevere under difficult circumstances.  To find a way to be happy with deficits.  To never give up.

The business of dying is messy.  After seven weeks in the hospital and rehab, she returned home, only to be readmitted to the hospital a few weeks later.  She is home now, while my dad is in rehab recovering from a fall.  It is non-stop care for them and it is exhausting.  Thankfully, there are several of us who take shifts, and my nephew has become an amazing caregiver.  But we have all discovered that it is a privilege to walk alongside them as their lives wind down.  Yes, it is hard and terrifying.  But we can only hope that someone cares for us when we are vulnerable and our bodies are felled by our mortality.  Lord, help me to be more like my mother and less like the Pharisee.

Luke 18:10-14 - The Parable of the Pharisee and the Tax Collector

10 "Two men went up into the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector.  11 The Pharisee, standing by himself, prayed, thus: 'God, I thank you that I am not like other men, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. 12 I fast twice a week; I give tithes of all that I get.  13 But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even lift up his eyes to heaven, but beat his breast, saying, 'God, be merciful to me, a sinner!  12 I tell you, this man went down to his house justified, rather than the other.  For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, but the one who humbles himself will be exalted."

Walking Away From A Miracle - Forgetting to Remember

Photo by Oleksandr Pidvalnyi from Pexels

A few weeks ago, after a 2.5 year hiatus, I did something I had done routinely since my early twenties.  Something I was always nervous about, but did anyway.  I flew on an airplane.  Dramatic, right?

Flying has always been a little nerve-racking to me because, gravity, but I still did it.  The last time I flew I was miserable.  I had trouble catching my breath; my feet were terribly swollen; I fought a panic attack; I felt terrible.  What I did not yet know was that my health would drastically decline over the next few months and I would dive deep into the horrible symptoms of pulmonary hypertension and early, VERY early, heart failure at the young age of 46.  After numerous tests and consults with both a pulmonologist and a transplant cardiologist (gulp) I received a shocking diagnosis.  The pulmonary hypertension and heart failure were the result of a one-inch hole between the upper chambers of my heart.  A congenital heart defect that I knew nothing about until that moment.  I was numb and in shock as I tried to absorb the news.  What did it mean for my future?  Would I live?  End up disabled?  Would I ever travel again?  Or would I die young?

For years I had believed that my future was limited and had told a friend that I did not think I would live to old age.  How would my body last that long?  Doctors labeled me a depressed, anxious, lazy, asthmatic, overweight woman.  I took their labels to heart; I owned them; I believed them, but no matter the prescription for my ailments, I never improved.  I finally gave up and let myself go.  Then, my diagnosis brought sudden vindication and proved that I wasn't ANY of those ugly labels (except overweight), I was sick!  Of course, vindication also brought anger and bitterness at the failures of my parents, who knew about my heart defect but never told me, and countless medical professionals who were too tired, bored, or cynical to listen to my symptoms and figure out  my problem.  It was a lot for me to process.

I spent hours praying and shed more than a few tears.   I was very sick and getting worse by the minute, but had no choice but to keep putting one foot in front of the other.  Going to work was almost more than I could bear.  Walking from my bedroom to my bathroom was exhausting.  Taking a shower left me dizzy and breathless.  Blow-drying my hair sent my heart rate close to 200 bpm.  The thought of walking through the grocery store brought me to tears.  My friends rallied.  My church community stepped up in big ways.  I begged people to pray over me and they did.  And for the first time I was filled with that mysterious peace that passes all understanding, sans wrestling match with the Almighty!  If He had decided I could rock an oxygen tank and die younger than I thought I should, then I decided to accept that He knew best.  I wasn't even angry or upset, just a little sad and very, very tired. 

One night I collapsed into bed and sensed Him telling me to pray for healing.  I balked.  While I FIRMLY believed that He was completely sovereign and could heal me in an instant, I did not believe that he would.  Living in this world had taught me that even those who walk with him closely suffer and die without being physically healed.  Why would he heal me?  I had many one-sided conversations with the God of the universe.  I told Him I did not want to believe because if He did NOT heal me this side of heaven, I did not want to look like a fool.  He not so subtly reminded me that I was already a fool.  Ouch.

Point taken.  God: 1 - Robin: 0.  So, recognizing my own foolishness, I decided that it was better to be a fool for Christ than a fool for nothing and did something I had never done before.  I let myself believe.  And when I could not believe, I would cry out, God, I believe, help my unbelief!  And he always did.

Just a few weeks later I was the recipient of my very own medical miracle.  The kind that no one can explain with science or logic no matter how hard they try.  As with any miracle, it was prayed, hoped, and believed for and required the faith of all my friends because mine was simply too weak.  Miracles are powerful.  Being the recipient of one was humbling.  I was grateful and giddy with relief.  I was also full of guilt.  So many people had worse outcomes.  So many died and left children and spouses.  Why was I, a now 47-year-old, single woman with no children or real purpose saved?

Guilt was compounded by my struggle to heal the way the doctors thought I would.  They grew impatient with me.  I grew impatient with them.  I developed an autonomic nervous system disorder and wondered why God would heal one thing only to let me flounder with another.   Although still grateful and awed, still willing to tell anyone who would listen, I was also tired, sick, and.......disappointed that the healing was not exactly how I expected it to be.  A bit of depression set in, which surprised me.  People were so happy for me and what God had done, but I still felt terrible and felt like I would let them down if I was honest about my struggles.  It was an odd place to be and I felt like an ungrateful brat.  Thankfully, I was able to work through those emotions, but it took a lot of time.     

Eventually life moved on as it is prone to do. I kept putting one foot in front of the other, and before I knew it I had walked away from the miracle.  The details grew fuzzy.  

I forgot to remember.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I booked my flight for my trip to Nashville this month, I was nervous.  I knew altitude could affect my condition and the thought of getting worse preoccupied me.  Would my heart rate jump?  Would I get dizzy?  Would I pass out in front of the other passengers?  How would my body handle it?  

And then I remembered.  I remembered that as many flights as I had flown with a GIANT hole in my heart, I had never had a blood clot, suffered a stroke or had a medical emergency.  Even on that really, really long 14-hour flight from Poland.  I remembered that He had protected me through the take-offs and landings.  He had prevented a stroke during a delicate neurosurgery, before I knew about my heart defect.  He was with me through the ups and downs of life.  Through flood and fire.  Through poverty and plenty.  Through faith and doubt.  Through happy and sad.  Through forgetting and remembering.  He was always there.  Miracles abound when we are willing to see them.

That is why I write; to record the details of what He has done.  My memory fails me, but He does not.  I never want to walk so far away from the miracles that I forget to remember.

Remember the wonders he has done, his miracles, and the judgments he pronounced.

I Chronicles 16:12

In Between

Today is the Saturday before Easter, the middle of three days that changed history forever.  The middle, hopeless part for the disciples.  After a night of feasting just two days earlier they slept in the garden while Jesus prayed in agony.  They were faithful until they felt personally threatened and feared for their own lives.  They were mere men, unaware of the future, and certainly unaware of what would be required of them moving forward.  When their beloved master was betrayed by the kiss of Judas they did what most of us would do.  They ran for their lives (although Peter gave it a good go!)

I thought about them a lot today, as I tried to put myself in their shoes.   After witnessing the traumatic end of Jesus, they were left with nothing.  Emotions of fear, doubt, and sadness undoubtedly swirled in their hearts.  They were left with NOTHING to show for their devotion to the man they called Messiah.  They had left their jobs, homes, and families to follow him.  They loved him.  They believed him.  And then they watched him die a brutal death. Saturday must have been a no-good, rotten, terrible day for them.  Faith was never so tested as when they had to watch their hope die.

Still I wonder, did they have a sliver of hope left?  Did they remember watching Lazarus walk out of the tomb?  Did they remember Jairus' daughter?  Did they remember all of the countless miracles they had witnessed and let it bubble into hope?  Or did they do what I often do and immediately assume they were stupid to have given up everything for a promise that seemed too good to be true?  I mean, how could THEY have been chosen as the Messiah's inner circle?  Why not the elite?  Why not the Pharisees?  Why them?  Did they let doubt and cynicism creep into their hearts?

They did not have the benefit of hindsight.  They did not get to read the end of the story, they were living it.   The truth is, we are living in the middle too, the middle of our story of redemption.  The middle of the world's groaning.  And probably the middle of a smaller story that makes up the beautiful tapestry to our individual lives. Thankfully, we know the ultimate end of the story, but we don't always know the end of our own, do we?

I have seen first hand that often when others think they know, or I think I know, God will throw me a curveball and completely amaze and awe me.  He did that a few thousand years ago with Jesus, he did it seven years ago during the fire, he did it two years ago with my heart, he did it last week for my mother.  He will do it for you too.  Hope may be fickle but it walks hand in hand with faith.  If you find yourself in the difficult middle of a terrible circumstance, ask for God to intervene and believe that he will.  It may not be how you expect, or in the way that you want it, but he will not fail to act on behalf of those he loves.  He loves ALL of us and is always waiting for us to grab his hand, find redemption, and live into his beautiful plan.

Hold on tight because Easter is coming!

Seven Years of Remembering

It's coming.  I can feel it in my bones.  I relive it in my nightmares.  The seventh anniversary of the fire is next week.  Seven years since I was trapped on the second floor of that burning building.  Seven years since my life was turned upside down. 

Seven.Long.Years.

My body tends to remember before my mind does.  It isn't just the nightmares that leave me restless.  All of my senses are on high alert.  My eyes water when I'm cooking.  My ears hear sirens that are miles away, but make my heart race nonetheless.  My nose smells smoke and chemicals almost as well as my dog's cute, little snout.  The memory of the toxic fumes that almost suffocated me is imprinted in my brain and I cannot shake it no matter how hard I try.  Even seven years later it feels like last night.  The details are crystal clear.  I can recall everything in an instant.  I remember the pajamas I was wearing, the very ones I finally threw away last week, because for some weird reason I could not let them go.  I know exactly what I was thinking when I first saw my patio engulfed in flames.  I remember my panicked phone call to 911 and the operator telling me I would have to make a run for it.  I know what purse I grabbed and I remember deliberately putting my passport, ID, checkbook, and contacts inside before I attempted to escape.  I remember a plethora of useless details that do not really matter because they are enmeshed with all of the the fear and emotions of that night.  Memory is like that.

When I talk about what happened, it affects me on a deep level and leaves me a bit "off" as I struggle to shift out of the past and back to the present day.  Although I cope better now than I did immediately after the fire, or even a few years ago, it still affects me.

I wish I could say that this was the worst thing that ever happened to me.  It wasn't.  Not even close.  Although, in a way only God can orchestrate, it became the catalyst that finally allowed me to see the light in the darkness of my often traumatic childhood.  A beautiful display of God exchanging beauty for ashes and giving me a tangible example of his presence in my life.  Turning something meant to harm me into something that literally saved me.  

In the darkness of the fire, trapped in that stairwell, when I could not see my own burned hand right in front of me, and could not figure out where I was because my brain was scrambled from the toxins; in that moment, when I could not escape the blackness and I desperately needed to be rescued, I was.  It mirrored my desperate need for rescue as a child, which never came in the way I wanted.  It came in less dramatic ways, ways that I can only identify now as an older, sometimes wiser woman, who, thanks to a foolish neighbor, inadvertently traveled back to the darkness before seeing the light that had been with me my entire life.  

It was a powerful moment when I was snatched out of the fire, suffocating and crying out for rescue.  My deep, lifelong need to know where God was in the darkness of my past was met when He, the light of the world, became the only thing I could "see" in the moment before I began to black out, certain I was about to meet him face to face.  When I was falling, giving in to the inevitable, with my beloved Yorkie in my arms, the firemen literally caught me.  And instantly I knew that He was the one who gave me comfort when evil was running rampant in my fragile, young life.  He was the one who was present when evil was crushing my soul, assaulting my little body in unimaginable ways.  He was the one who saw me frightened and scared, soothed me, and little by little brought me into a deep relationship with him, even as I was unable to fight my abusers.  Seeing him in the fire finally helped me see him in my childhood.  Only He knows why rescue did not come when I was three, or five, or eight, or twelve, or older.  But it does bring me peace to know that he walked with me through the darkness of my childhood, even if rescue was not part of the plan; however, I am extremely grateful that rescue WAS part of His plan seven years ago.

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Last year I wrote this post Walking Away from A Miracle: Forgetting to Remember about how easy it is to forget the good stuff.  I wonder about that a lot.  Why is the negative so much more impactful than the positive?  Research about memory shows that negative and positive experiences are processed in different parts of the brain.  Negative experiences are inextricably connected to our emotions, and emotions are easier to recall.  Even when we have emotions tied to positive experiences, a lot of the details are fuzzier than negative experiences because of how they are processed in our noggins.  Maybe that is why God tells us to write down what he has done for us.  He knows our tendency to forget the good, and we are going to need those memories, or at least a way to be reminded of them if we are to survive the darkness of this world.  Because remembering is painful, but remembering is necessary.  And remembering with fresh eyes and faith brings healing.

As I think about trauma and remember the painful things, I am trying to consistently write down the positive experiences so I can balance my memory with all the GOOD, instead of dwelling on the bad.  Now I'm going to excuse myself and go write some happy thoughts so I can refer to them during the next crisis.  Peace to you on your journey.

Astonished

Photo by Margerretta from Pexels

I squeezed my eyes closed as tightly as possibly in a feeble attempt to stop them from leaking.  Lying in the hospital bed, surrounded by nurses and technicians I was feeling a bit dazed and confused.  My cardiologist had just performed a procedure to get a good view of my heart.  It was early in the morning and the results were not great.  

The hole in my heart was much larger than originally thought, was sitting up against the aorta, did not have enough tissue for a device to attach onto, and the doctor did not think a cath procedure could fix it.  He was pretty sure I would need risky open heart surgery.  Gulp.  I was devastated.  I had already developed pulmonary hypertension and was in the earliest phase of heart failure.  Although nothing like some people experience, it was frightening to think of the risks and danger involved in either the procedure or open heart surgery.  I envisioned my life as a 47-year-old woman unable to walk to the bathroom without an oxygen tank, slowly withering from heart failure when I should be in my prime living life to the fullest.  As the doctor and I discussed my options, he offered to try to fix the hole by cath procedure, even though he thought it would fail.  I asked him what he would do if he were in my position and he thought for a long minute before saying that he would give it a try.  I told him to proceed and he said he would consult with another doctor and then he left.  The bad news hit me hard and as he walked away and I could barely hold myself together. The nurse tried to console me, but I just wanted my friend.

A few weeks prior I had felt strongly that God was prompting me to not only pray for healing, but to believe he would heal me.  Now, I do not type this lightly.  While I have absolutely no doubts that God heals, I am not the kind of person who touts "hearing from God" or anything like that.  And I am extremely cynical by nature, so although I do not doubt his capability to heal, I do doubt that he will choose to heal.  Because, honestly, we ALL know people who love Jesus and still lose their health battles and leave this world sooner than anyone would like.  How could I expect healing when so many others had prayed the same thing and lost their lives?

One night, after wrestling with this issue for about a week, I was sitting in bed thinking out loud, when I told God rather defensively, that the reason I could not let myself believe that he would really heal me was because if, or when, he did not do it, I did not want to be proved a fool.  Almost immediately God seemed to whisper the following, "You're already a fool dear."  Touche!  In that instant I was so humbled that I decided it would be better to be a fool for Christ than a slave to my humanity.  I committed to let myself believe the impossible.  I was terrified and afraid to talk about it, but I let myself tell close friends.  And I still struggled, even on the day of my surgery, frequently reminding God of my weakness.  Over and over I asked to touch the hem of his robe like the woman who was instantly healed when she did.  I clung to the scriptures and prayed repeatedly for God to help my unbelief.  And I was at peace.

As I was remembering these things and weeping my friend entered the room with tissues and a hug.  She reminded me that the bad news I had just received would just require a little more faith.  We prayed and cried and then began texting people who would begin praying for a miracle.  About the time the procedure ended I received an email from a lady who attends my church.  I did not and still do not know her personally, but she was on the prayer team and sent me an encouraging reading for the day.  Although I have since spoken to her, I am not sure she knows how much of an impact it made.  It was a moment of pure awe when I realized that God had used her to speak directly to my wavering heart. 

Here is an excerpt from the reading she forwarded from John Prince Ministries:

And God said to Moses, “I am who I am.”… Exodus 3:14

- APRIL 4 - ‘I AM WHO I AM’ Whatever your challenge is today, whether it is physical, emotional, financial or marital, the great I Am declares to you: “I am to you what you need Me to be.” Do you need healing? He says, “I am the Lord who heals you. (Exodus 15:26) And as you believe Me, you will see your healing manifest thirtyfold, sixtyfold and a hundredfold.” Are you fearful of what is ahead of you? He says, “I am the good shepherd (John 10:11), who leads you to pastures of tender, green grass and waters of rest. You will not suffer lack.” (Psalm 23:1–3) Are you confused by the opinions and reports of man? He says, “I am the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last. (Revelation 1:11) I have the final word in your life. The doctors do not have the final word. The experts do not have the final word. I have the first word and the last word in your situation.” My friend, do not be fearful of the problems you face. The great I Am declares to you, “Fear not! For I am to you what you need Me to be!”

I sat stunned as I read those words, but also deeply and tenderly loved by God.  He knew my deepest fears and he knew how my faith was wavering even though I desperately wanted to believe.  Those words were EXACTLY what I needed to read, and know deep in my heart. Although there was not much time to process everything, I felt so much peace.  Numerous texts and calls were coming in and I was managing calls from the rehab center where my dad was about to be released.  My hospital room began to fill with family and friends, one who even drove in from out of town.  I was loved and supported by so many people who mean the world to me, but God.  Oh he was present in a way that I do not experience often.  I cannot even begin to describe it, but His presence carried me through surgery and has continued to carry me through a very rough recovery and two more huge crises these past few years.  

As the hour of the procedure drew near, my visitors dwindled and there were about four who remained at my side and began to pray for me.  Now, let me tell you, any kind of focused attention makes me extremely uncomfortable.  It feels weird, and kind of like hocus-pocus.  I know many believe Christianity to be superstitious and useless, and although I would not agree with that theory, I do tend to want to separate myself from anything that seems too "weird" or inexplicable.  But weird and inexplicable is exactly what I got. 

As my friends prayed, one reached over and laid her hand directly on my heart (or boob, because I'm a girl) and as she prayed it felt like an electrical surge went through me.  A surge that everyone else said they felt too.  Um.....okay, THAT was weird!  Finally they wheeled me into the cath lab and began prepping me for the procedure. 

I'll spare you the gory details, but once the camera and device were inserted and the doctor got a look at my heart, he was stunned.  The tissue that was NOT there during the earlier procedure was suddenly present and accounted for!  Since I was awake I could hear everything the team said and they were all perplexed and amazed.  Where did that tissue come from?  As the team continued wondering out loud, the doctor used a new technique that he had come up with while discussing my case with another cardiologist; he spliced the device so that it would lay perfectly and seal the hole without rubbing against the aorta.  No one wanted my aorta to erode because of a device.  That would be bad news!  Then he began tugging and tugging at the device to make sure it wouldn't move, because, again that would be VERY bad and likely kill me.  The tugging was one of the strangest feelings I've ever felt.  As I moaned he asked if I was okay.  I was almost panting and dizzy but he told me it was just him "messing with my heart".  Me: "Um....yeah, you can stop now."  He laughed and everyone confirmed that the device was secure and miraculously no air was passing through the hole.  It was completely sealed.  No one could believe that the procedure had worked, even I was wide-eyed with wonder because as much as I tried not to I still doubted a little bit and had been mentally preparing for open heart surgery.  The doctor gave me a big thumbs up and I began to weep.  I was sternly instructed to stop because any movement could cause me to bleed out.  So, I swallowed hard and tried my best to view the monitor to see my heart from the inside out.  Finally he was done and I was prepped to return to the room. 

My friends were ecstatic and I was tired and hungry and required to lay flat on my back for several hours to prevent a hemorrhage.  As I lay there, drifting in and out of sleep, I kept waking up to a feeling of astonishment.  I wondered why I was spared a worse fate.  Why I had never had a stroke, or a heart attack, or had more severe damage?  Why was I chosen to receive a miracle when others, who I felt were more deserving were not?  I cannot really answer those questions, all that I know if God works in ways that reveal who he is to his creation, and only he knows what will accomplish that.  Not getting the outcome we want does not mean he hates us or is punishing us.  Getting the outcome we want does not mean we are being rewarded because of our goodness.  He is God and we are not.  Period.

God does as he pleases.  Now more than ever that reality astonishes me.  I hope he will use my story to show that he is still performing miracles even though we live in a dark, evil world.  He still needs me to accomplish something for him, and once I have done that I may be called home.  

When was the last time you were astonished by God?  Was it this year?  Last year?  Ever?  I would encourage you to ask him to astonish you.  Lean into the mystery of faith and relationship with Jesus and discover what it is to live a life of joy, despite pain; hope, despite evil; love, despite hate.