Almost
seven years ago my dad had his first stroke and not long after my parents asked
me for help. They were afraid of ending up in a nursing home and wanted me to
ensure they could live at home until they met Jesus. It was a big
ask. By their request I became the executor of their will and assumed
responsibility for their finances and health care. In the early days that
involved going to almost all of their medical appointments, cooking, and
spending a lot more time with them. As they declined their needs grew
exponentially. There were lots of falls and health crises that required regular
hospital stays. As time went by, I purchased the ambulance "Passport
Plan" for the ridiculous number of ambulance rides (it seriously saved
them hundreds of $$$ each year!) and greeted the hospital staff like old
friends. BONUS! I learned to "enjoy" the hospital cafeterias. By the
time 2017 rolled around their needs ramped up and my own health dramatically
plummeted.
In March of 2017, as my dad was in the ER yet again, I was reeling from my own diagnosis of Pulmonary Hypertension the day before. In a deep state of shock, I dutifully went to the hospital and tried to help my parents and meet with doctors, while literally struggling to breathe. My brother took over and I went out to dinner with two of my besties because I could not handle anything else that day.
There was no way for me to know what was to come the next week, when after a battery of tests, the Pulmonologist, yes, a lung doctor, diagnosed a heart defect that a cardiologist had missed for years. A new cardiologist confirmed that I was in the early stages of heart failure, the root cause of the Pulmonary Hypertension. And then the hammer struck a viscous blow: my parents revealed that they learned of my heart defect when I was a baby and chose not to treat it. I nearly crumbled. It felt like a terrible betrayal on top of some other pretty big failures when I was a vulnerable child.
Let me be very clear, at that point I did NOT want to help them, I did NOT want to be nice. I did NOT want people to have sympathy for them. I wanted to be snarky. I wanted to punish them. I was angry, trapped, wounded. But they really did need help, and there were no other viable options, not to mention I loved them. My nephews began helping three and a half years ago. My brothers have pitched in. Many friends have brought food and shown up offering countless prayers and unofficial counseling sessions. Yet the responsibility has remained squarely on my shoulders. And through it all, people repeatedly tell me that I am earning jewels for my heavenly crown.
Growing up I heard many church teachings about Christians receiving crowns when they get to heaven, up to five different crowns to be exact. All awarded after the final judgment. And for those overachievers who were really good on earth, well they could earn extra jewels for their crowns. So, theoretically in heaven there will be gobs of people (well, at least 144,000) walking (floating?) the streets of gold, wearing a crown, or five, as they go about their heavenly business. And all the rest of us will immediately know who was the cream of the crop, the best of the best, those "Mother Teresa" super-servants, because they will have extra bling for their crowns. And who knows, maybe it's even true (😕doubtful.) But it just doesn't make sense to me. Serving Jesus is not a competition to see who gets a better reward or bigger mansion inside the pearly gates.
Oh, to be sure, I have been dazzled by big sparkly crowns. Yes, I rode that weird walkway thing at the Tower of London to view the famous "Crown Jewels". They were certainly pretty, HUGE, and very flashy. It was so fun to repeatedly (I had to do it multiple times to get a good view!) glide by on a moving walkway to see them behind all of that bulletproof, alarm-censored glass. Gorgeous indeed, but in all honesty, they do not appeal to me, okay, maybe one, or two...
The state of my heart is rather self-centered. I wonder if circumstances had been different would I have helped my parents so much? Would I have really forgiven them if I had not come to know them differently because I cared for them? Would I have really sacrificed so much of my own wants and needs if they had enough money to pay for 24-hour care? Or if they could have moved to an Assisted Living Facility that was better than the Medicaid options? There is not much evidence to suggest that I would have done much if I did not have to. And what little I have done for them or others is not motivated by eternal rewards. The only crown I am worthy of is covered in thorns, and because of immeasurable grace and mercy, Jesus, wore it in my place.
As I sit here gazing at my bedridden dad, I am keenly aware of how rich I am now. My heart has softened from years of sacrificing for him and my mom. I no longer feel anger, resentment, or betrayal. I recognize the redemption borne of serving them. It no longer bothers me that there is no monetary inheritance coming, it is enough to have my dad grab my hand, kiss it, tell me I'm a good girl, and that he loves me very, very much. (I always cry when he does that.) It was enough to have my mom's final words to me be the very thing I needed to finally hear and believe about our relationship.
What I have gained from these last seven years is far more precious than jewels, that while flashy, offer no human connection, touch, laughter. They cannot tell me how much I am loved. The here and now has given me memories, precious moments, healing, growth, deepened faith. The opportunity to give and receive forgiveness, grace, mercy. And to sacrifice for my parents to honor the sacrifice made more me. Loving and caring for them as they loved and cared for me, mistakes and all on both of our parts is the real reward.
If there is a crown for me, it will likely look like this one. Full of rust, devoid of jewels. Perfect for me.
