A Spring of Joy

Do y’all remember the angel in my room? (I’ve copied the post about him below.) Dear “Grandaddy” Smith who visited my room on many occasions while I was hospitalized. I’ve seen him out and about since then, and am always greeted with a smile, a kiss, a “and how are you?” and a “sing something for me.” He even convinced Bri and me to sing a duet in the middle of a restaurant last year.

What a dear, dear man he was.

Yes, my friends, he was… for I heard from my dear Bethy that the angel in my room who sang in his cracked and broken voice is singing fully and clearly now at his home in heaven. Would you pray for my friends, his loved ones, who grieve his passing? He was ready, but they are hurting.

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Wednesday morning while at the hospital, I was lying in my bed, praying for peace. There was a knock a the door, and an older gentleman was standing there. He was dressed in his volunteer vest and was grinning from ear to ear. “May I come in?”, he asked. I invited him in and got a closer look, “I know you.” I said. “And I have seen your face before.” he replied.

And he had. It was Grandaddy Smith, my sweet friend, Beth’s great-uncle.

Having spent time with Beth’s extended family, Brian and I have had our share of Grandaddy Smith, and it’s a fun share to have. We’ve been to Christmas parties, Thanksgiving dinner, meals with him at First Pres., summer get-togethers, and just plain ol’ dinner with him at Uncle Craig’s. “I’m Beth’s friend.” I told him. His face lit up even more, “And so you are!” he exclaimed, hands raised.

Grandaddy Smith came into my room with a vibrancy that belied his age. He stood by my bedside and talked with me for a while. We talked about Brian and the children, his excitement to be a great-grandaddy, his volunteering at the hospital and my battle with cancer and discouragement. A few minutes later, Christmas carolers began walking the halls, and Mr. Smith ran to the door waving at each person and hollering, “Merry Christmas!” as they passed by. He turned and told me how good it was to see me but he had others to see, and he was gone.

I closed my eyes and prayed some more, thanking God for giving me a smile that day, when there was another knock at the door. Mr. Smith was back.

“A few years ago,” he asked, “Were you at Beth’s mother’s house for Christmas? You played the piano and Brian played the trumpet and we all sang carols?” When I told him I was, he nodded, “I just wanted to be sure of who you are.” He then told me he’d be back on Saturday and how torn he was because he wanted to see me again, but he didn’t want me to have to stay in the hospital. With a wave and a “God be with you,” Mr. Smith was off again to cheer up another patient.

Move to Thursday. Brian hadn’t arrived yet from home, and I was alone in my room. There was a knock at the door, and there stood Grandaddy Smith! “I just couldn’t let you leave the hospital without seeing you again.” he exclaimed. I beckoned him in, and he told me how he had thought about me all day the day before. “I just want to sing you something, if you can bear my voice.” he said. He cleared his throat, and began to sing, “God will take care of you, through every day, o’er all the way. He will take care of you. God will take care of you.” That was the first of several hymns he sang while I held his hand and cried. “Now,” he said, “You’re allowed to leave before Saturday.” With another “God be with you”, a squeeze of my hand, and a wave, the angel in my room was gone.

Never a trial that He is not there,
Never a burden that He doth not bear,
Never a sorrow that He doth not share,
Moment by moment, I’m under His care.

Moment by moment I’m kept in His love;
Moment by moment I’ve life from above;
Looking to Jesus till glory doth shine;
Moment by moment, O Lord, I am Thine.

Never a heartache, and never a groan,
Never a teardrop and never a moan;
Never a danger but there on the throne,
Moment by moment He thinks of His own.

Moment by moment I’m kept in His love;
Moment by moment I’ve life from above;
Looking to Jesus till glory doth shine;
Moment by moment, O Lord, I am Thine.

Never a weakness that He doth not feel,
Never a sickness that He cannot heal;
Moment by moment, in woe or in weal,
Jesus my Savior, abides with me still.

Moment by moment I’m kept in His love;
Moment by moment I’ve life from above;
Looking to Jesus till glory doth shine;
Moment by moment, O Lord, I am Thine.
(Daniel W. Whittle)

From December, 2007

It began with a phone call.

“Can you come in at 12:45 to see the doctor? He would like to discuss your biopsy results.”

I knew, but I didn’t want to know.

The look in his eyes while he told us was chilling, me sitting on the edge of the large wingback chairs in his office, clinging to Brian’s hand with a ferocity I didn’t know I had.

The tender smile. The encouragement. The card he handed us with his phone number telling us to call him anytime, day or night. The numbness that crept in. Breast cancer.

Really? I’m too young for this. This has to be a mistake.

“Well, perhaps you’ll find some small encouragement in this? If you have to have chemo, at least you’re a fox and will look great bald.”

It did not encourage me. I didn’t tell him. I smiled and even laughed a bit through building tears, knowing that nothing would make me feel okay about being bald.

I stood in the parking lot in Brian’s arms. I, who hate to have all eyes on me, sobbed and made a scene and didn’t care who saw.

We called my mom who was watching our children, my dad at work, Bri’s parents, our closest friends.

It was the day we drove to the surgeon’s and heard diagnoses and future steps explained, but I didn’t really hear any of it. We made appointments that would change my life and mar my body in ways that would leave marks of brutality for me to see every day for the rest of my life and wonder if my heart would ever heal, if I would ever feel beautiful again.

We walked out that door and saw Joe, our dear friend and pastor, sitting on our car. He came to us in our need, not caring about what mattered to him that day, because we were what mattered. Then the people next to us couldn’t get their car started, and Bri and Joe helped them, Bri worked on their car and Joe helped them determine what to do next. It was a gift from God pulling us out of ourselves to see others even in our pain.

The questions.

We came home and looked at our 1, 3 and 5 year old children and wondered why this for them? How would we do this? How would we care for such small ones? How would they survive? WOULD we survive?

It was the day we tried to shield them from a topsy-turvy world knowing it would all eventually crash in on them. The day of nausea and horror and fear that washed over in waves indescribable.

There was the quiet of the house, then the busyness of the house as friends made their way to be by our sides. The box of Kleenex I went through in one day.

The sleepless night. The questions. The fear, yet the peace. I slept with my Bible that night, the first of many. It was the day of nightmares. The day of questions and confusion. The day this part of our journey began.

A phone call began it.

But worship ended it, as I sang truth with my husband that night before bed.

It was the day I learned not to take anything for granted and to live every moment.

August 10th is the day I will never forget.

But as crazy as it seems…

August 10th is a day for which I am truly grateful.

It is a bitter but sweet anniversary.

Has it really been six years since that day?

“Here’s the difference between the pragmatists and the Puritans: pragmatists do not have the patience to sink the roots of hospitality and brotherly kindness and authentic love in the deep rock of Romans 6-8. We want to jump straight from justification to the practical application of chapter 12. Just give us a list. Tell us what to do. Fix the problem at the immediate surface level, so it goes away. But the Puritans were different. They looked at the book of Romans and saw that life is built another way. Being a sage, being a Redwood, being unshakable in storm and useful in times of indescribable suffering – that does not come quickly or easily. Romans is not two chapters long. It is 16 chapters long. It does not skip from chapter 5 to 12. It leads us down deep into the roots of godliness, so that when we come up, we are not people with lists, but people with unshakable life and strength and holiness and wisdom and love.” (John Piper, on Romans 6, September 24, 2000)

I am a list maker.

I long to be a sage.

And I don’t want it for me.

I want it so that I can live a life that glorifies Him, that points to Him, that honors Him, that highlights Him. A life that fulfills my reason for being: to glorify Him and enjoy Him forever.

Psalm 90:12

So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.

There is something about tasting mortality.

It is a bitter cup.

But it is a sweet cup, too.

My life is very different than it was five years ago. What is important in my life is very different than five years ago. How I live my life is vastly different than it was five years ago.

I long for this heart of wisdom. Wisdom so that I know how to honor Him with this different life. Wisdom to fully understand and grasp the Gospel. Wisdom so I can love and honor my husband. Wisdom so I can love and parent my children. Wisdom so I can love and respect my parents. Wisdom so I can love and nurture my friendships. Wisdom so I can love and evangelize my neighbors. Wisdom so I will not waste my life but live it fully for Him.

Wisdom.

Not so I can be a perfectionist, instead so I can live in the freedom of His perfection.

Wisdom.

Not so others can say, “Wow, you’re so wise.” Instead so others can say, “Wow. God is so amazing.”

Wisdom.

Not so I can have an unmessy life, instead so others can see the mess and read the Gospel in my life.

Because what’s really important in my life is living for Him. It’s doing all to the glory of God, and I need wisdom to know how to do that.

ALL to the glory of God…

Too often I make it all about me.

I long to make it all about Him.

I long for wisdom to know how to live each day in Gospel certainty.

I long for the deep roots of godliness.

I long for wisdom to know how to glorify God in all of my life, because, honestly, those are the times I know the deepest joy. When I know I am living for him I am most content. I ask myself again. Is what I am doing today rooted in what I will gain today? Or is it rooted in the things that will last forever?

I long to be a sage.

For Him.

And Him alone.

Sometimes, I just have to do a re-post…

In John 11, Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead. He enters in to the grief of his friends Mary and Martha. He weeps. Then He moves miraculously and brings their brother back to life. I’ve always been struck by His heart, His tenderness. He knew where He was going with this. He knew when He was first told Lazarus was sick what would happen. He knew He’d be demonstrating Gospel power and raising Lazarus from the dead. He knew all that would happen, all the good things He was going to bring to that home, yet He took the time to sit with them in their grief.

I love this. A Savior Who could look at us and say, “See? See how I have it all under control? See my power? See my mighty hand? See that I am God?” But He chooses to grieve, to feel their pain, to feel His own pain, to know the sting of death.

I’ve always focused on that act of love. His heart for His friends.

But grieving with them and raising Lazarus from the dead aren’t the only acts of love in this passage.

How did I miss this?

“Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. When He heard therefore that Lazarus was sick, He stayed two days still in the same place where He was. (vs. 5-6)”

He knew Lazarus was sick. He knew He would heal Lazarus for the glory of God.

He loved Martha and Mary and Lazarus.

So He stayed two days.

Wait.

He loved… so He stayed.

He knew His friends were hurting. He knew His friend was sick. He knew Lazarus would die.

Yet He stayed His hand… out of love.

“Love?” I want to ask, “Wouldn’t love have raced to the rescue and healed His friend and spared Mary and Martha the ache of losing a loved one? How could this be love?”

But I know the answer before I even ask the question…And I see once again that it is just as He has done with me, with my family, with my friends. It is not just simply because He knows best and He knows beyond what we see, although that is all true.

It is because suffering has a loving purpose, too.

Suffering molds, sanctifies and grows, and in His love, my Father, my Savior, my Lord has allowed me to walk through years of physical suffering.

In His love… a love that allows pain.

A love that sees far beyond what I can see. A love that has sometimes stayed its hand when I begged for relief, but a love that has also moved to my rescue, not just physical rescue, but rescue from death because of His own death and resurrection.

“Who can estimate how much we owe to suffering and pain?…Where was faith, without trial to test it; or patience, with nothing to bear; or experience, without tribulation to develop it?” (L.B. Cowman)

He allows suffering, yet sits and grieves with me in it.

Such love, y’all… such love.

Overwhelmed.

Pain.

Drowning.

Trying to catch my breath.

These are the words I’ve been using lately when friends ask how I’m doing. Between physical therapy and scans and doctors’ appointments, the past 3 months I have had no time to breathe. I’m not exaggerating. Every week has been full with work, meetings, school, baseball, etc. It is all doable when I’m not drowning in 10 hours of doctor visits a week, but I was seeing no light at the end of the tunnel.

Why the pain? I still don’t know, but every scan is coming back clear, so we are thankful. I sleep little because of the pain, and I wonder what they’re missing, if I have a new cancer in my abdomen now, when I’m ever going to be able to exercise again so I will start feeling good again, etc. The questions consume. And no answers come.

Until last night, when I had a meltdown. Not a mini-I-can’t-do-this-now-take-a-deep-breath-and-move-forward meltdown. A full blown, can’t breathe, panic, how-do-I-even-find-babysitters-for-the-kids-so-I-can-go-to-the-physical-therapist-this-week? meltdown. I was sobbing uncontrollably, those deep, heaving, life-taking sobs.

I had gotten good news (no colon cancer recurrence!) on Friday, but no answers to the abdominal pain.

Then we had seen an old friend (one of our former youth group guys, who’s now a dad and runs hard after Jesus) and spent our afternoon trying to catch up with him and encourage him as he watches his father die from terminal brain cancer. The ache in my chest just wouldn’t go away.

We said good-bye to some friends yesterday who’ve been part of our lives for 21 years (well, part of Brian’s for 21, part of mine for 18). They’re moving on to the greater things that God has called them to… and when he said good-bye, Dan said, “It’s not good-bye. It’s see you soon.”

And then I remembered holding Kim’s hand and kissing her cheek and telling her I loved her. And when she pulled me back to her bedside, she smiled and said, “See you soon.” And I knew what she meant, and a week later I was at her memorial service.

And I just couldn’t bear it anymore. No more of this pain. No more of this uncertainty. And my heart exploded.

Then he came, my Brian, after I blew up at him for not saying the “right things”, and he held me in his arms, and he sang to me. He sang what he sings to Audrey at bedtime, “When I am afraid, I will trust in You, I will trust in You, I will trust in You… when I am afraid, I will trust in You, in God Whose Word I praise…”

And I wept harder.

And he changed the words, “When I’m overwhelmed, I will trust in You, I will trust in You…”

And it was life-giving,

And I wept harder.

And I went to bed and didn’t sleep, and I wrestled with God and I asked Him when I would breathe again. How could I revel in my summer with my loves if I never saw them? When would this broken body stop hurting. so. badly? Would this broken body ever stop hurting? Was I willing to accept the brokenness?

I thought about the sermon that morning and how our pastor encouraged us that God is not surprised by our circumstances, how that in His good judgment, this is where we need to be.

And I didn’t like that, because I don’t want to be here.

I. want. to. be. done. with. pain. and. uncertainty!

So I got up this morning, and I went to physical therapy and my PT said, “It’s re-evaluation day. Let’s see how you’re doing.”

And I’m doing splendidly. In fact, he unexpectedly discharged me today with these words, “Go enjoy your summer with your family. You don’t need to be here.”

And I got in my car, and I wept again. Then the phone rang, and my sweet friend, Nancy, asked a work related question, then I told her my saga, and she laughed and said, “God’s got your back, Ang.”

And He does.

He is so faithful, when I am so faithless.

And when I’m lying awake at night wanting to shake my fist at the never-ending-ness of all this, He’s not saying, “Okay. You gonna pull that attitude with me? Then let’s make your summer miserable. Let’s give you more appointments and more cancer and more misery!”

No.

He’s saying, “Ang, I love you. I’ve got your back. And here, by the way, enjoy your summer with your family.”

And I thank Him. Humbly. Knowing how undeserving I am. How I am one of the crowd mocking and yelling for His death so I can have what I want. And realizing that His death is what gives me what I really want and everything I need.

And I raise my open hands to praise at the never-ending-ness of all this.

All this grace and love and mercy.