A Spring of Joy

He sat in his wheelchair, gray sweatsuit stained with that day’s meals and drops of saliva he kept wiping with a tissue, tattered black World War II hat perched on his head.

Eddie.

Our group of college students had once again enveloped a nearby nursing home with love, music and encouragement. We do it frequently, and it is an amazing time.

As we walked the halls singing hymns, residents would come join us, some listening, some singing along, some just happy to have young and fresh faces to encourage them. We stopped at Eddie’s door and began How Great Thou Art. I realized he was mouthing the words and went into him asking if he’d like to share my chorus book. He shook his head, “I have such a hard time reading no more.” His words were garbled and hard to understand.

He sat and talked to me while our students sang. I quickly realized he must have suffered a stroke at some point, because I recognized those same symptoms my grandfather has suffered–the drawn face, slurry speech, and lack of emotional control.

He pointed upwards, “The good Lord don’t make mistakes,” he slurred. “I… I… I… been put here for a reason. He’s a good bookkeeper. He don’t make no errors.” I smiled as he said, “I like these hymns. I know them all. Can they sing Great is Thy Faithfulness?”

Of course, they could! We sang Great is Thy Faithfulness together, then he told a couple of the guys what he had shared with me–how God doesn’t make mistakes, how He’s always good.

The students moved on, ready to bless another soul, and I stayed with Eddie for a while. He told me his story, confirming multiple strokes. I probably understood a third of what he was saying, praying the whole time, “Lord, let me understand him so I can really talk with him.” He shared of the War and where he fought as a Marine, how he hated war but did what he was called to do. He talked about his school days, and how he walked 6 miles each way to school and back even in the snow. He talked about his family, most of them gone now, but he has a niece and nephew who visit him.

Then he said it again, “I… I… I… been put here. God has me here. He don’t make no mistakes.” He choked up, his face crumpling, tears streaming. “I’m ready to go to my real home though.” I grabbed a tissue for him, then sat and cried with him. “Didn’t used to be this way. Used to be when I was a kid we took the old people into our homes, we didn’t just leave them as outcasts.” I sighed a heavy sigh for him and his pain. It felt unbearable.

Then he said it again, “But… but… but God don’t make no mistakes. I’m here for a reason. He’s a good bookkeeper. He don’t make no errors. What we was just talking about? Already written in his book. He knew we was gonna talk about it.”

We chatted some more, then he pushed me on my way, “You go sing some more. Other people need you, too. Besides, I got the good Lord with me. I’m not alone.” How could he have known how badly I needed to hear his words of truth?

I hugged him, prayed with him and went back to our group of singers, passing students and residents as I walked, trying to regain my composure. We sang some more, then moved toward the exit. Bingo night had just let out, and residents were walking or wheeling toward us with their stuffed animal winnings in hand. We started to sing again, and I stood with a woman, Joyce, and her daughter who had stopped with us, and Joyce sang all the words by heart.

She told me about her cancer struggle and showed me where she was receiving radiation on her nose. She told me about her breast cancer and radiation, and we talked about how awful cancer was. “But,” she sighed, “God promised to never leave me. I hold onto Him.” Choking back tears, I nodded. How could she have known how badly I needed to hear that?

She requested Amazing Grace, and as we sang I looked around.

Down the hall was a student sitting on the floor next to a man holding his chorus book to sing. Two residents sat with two of our girls holding hands, praying in a circle together. Two of our group exited a room having spent most of our hour there sitting with a man who had trouble hearing… Up and down the hall there was no one alone, no student by themselves, they were all with residents, sitting, praying, singing, LOVING.

As always happens when we go to the nursing home to be ministers of love and peace, I walked away ministered to. I love how God does that-gives us divine appointments for the good of each other, not just for the good of one.

In His book, Don’t Waste Your Life, John Piper writes this prayer,

Forbid that any, Lord, who read these words would have to say someday, “I’ve wasted it.” But grant, by Your almighty Spirit and Your piercing Word, that we who name Christ as the Lord would treasure Him above our lives, and feel, deep in our souls, that Christ is life and death is gain. And so may we display His worth for all to see. And by our prizing Him may He be displayed in all the world… Let love flow from Your saints, and may it, Lord, be this: that if it costs our lives, the people will be glad in God… Take Your honored place, O Christ, as the all-satisfying Treasure of the world. With trembling hands before the throne of God, and utterly dependent on Your grace, we lift our voice and make this solemn vow: As God lives, and is all I ever need, I will not waste my life…

God lives and is all I ever need…

Thank you, Eddie and Joyce, for ministering this truth to me.

The nurse took me back into the short-infusion room as I prepped for some blood work and a port flush. It’s a quick, 10 minute stop-in I must do once a month as long as I have my port-a-cath in (something to make blood work and infusions easier for me; i.e. no IV’s). We chatted as we walked, catching up on kids and life. She told me to pick an empty chair while she went to gather all the materials she needed, so I found one that would work best for her to have easy access to my port.

As I walked over, the elderly woman in the chair near me looked up. Shock registered in her eyes, and she half-gasped, half-spoke, “You’re not here for chemo, are you?!” I’m used to the look, the shock, the astonishment that someone my age would be in the cancer center much less have survived cancer 3 times. I smiled and shook my head. “Just blood work and a port flush. I finished chemo a while ago.” I settled in my chair and look at her, her hand grasped her husband’s and she jiggled her foot nervously. “How about you?” I asked.

She choked back tears, “My first treatment,” she whispered thickly, “I’m kinda nervous. But I got this port thing and it helps with the needle stick. Didn’t hurt too bad.”

I talked with her about how sorry I was, about how hard the first time is, the unknown, and encouraged her to ask about emla creme to help numb the pain. Then her nurse showed up, and I sat waiting for mine, trying not to listen, but I couldn’t help but hear.

And I remembered.

What it was like.

That first day when all the information crashes over you like a tidal wave and you’re gasping for breath, trying to comprehend what it means that you can’t change kitty litter and what do I do with my cats? Then the next wave comes and they’re telling you what foods to eat if your body responds one way, but if your body responds another, eat this food. *gasp* *breathe* *CRASH* Then it’s “here’s when you’ll lose your hair and here’s how you’ll feel and it’s mouth sores and tingling nerves and flu-like symptoms and oh, if your temperature gets here you call right away because you might need to be hospitalized and…” CRASH after CRASH after CRASH.

She asked repeated questions, trying to comprehend then going back and asking the same questions again, reeling. Then the nurse said, “I have to ask this question. What has the doctor said? Are we working toward a cure or is this for remission.”

The sobs erupted. And she spoke softly, resignedly, “There’s no cure. If this works, I have 4 years, if not, 6 months.”

4 years.

6 months.

I watched as the nurse hugged her, spoke reassurance to her, “Don’t lose hope, ma’am. A cure can be found in 4 years. We just never know. That’s why you fight, and I’m here to help you fight.”

My nurse showed up then, pulled the curtain around us for privacy, stretched out all her sharp and nasty looking implements and looked at me, shaking her head, “You okay?” She had seen my tears. I nodded. “Just brings it back. It’s just so awful…” She nodded, “Cancer stinks. That’s why I stay here… to keep helping you fight.”

She finished my labs and flush, band-aided me, and pulled the curtain back. The elderly woman was swallowing her umpteen number of pills to help with nausea and allergic reactions and staring at the bag of poison hovering over her. She smiled gently, “Good luck to you, little one.” she said, sadly.

I walked to her and grasped her hand, and she clung to mine, “And God be with you. I’m so sorry.” I said. Sobs took over again, and I knelt down, “May I hug you?” She nodded, and I held her while she cried, meeting the eyes of her husband’s. “Thank you,” he said, taking off his cap to me, “This helps.”

I squeezed her hand again and made my way out the labyrinth of hallways through the cancer center. I wish I had gotten her name, her number, something so I could encourage her that it’s worth it to fight. But I didn’t.

I wish I had given her my name, my number, something so she could ask questions of someone who’d been there so she didn’t feel so alone. But i didn’t.

Instead I went to my car and wept over a woman I didn’t know, a woman who was old enough to be my grandmother. I wept because it really doesn’t matter how old you are. It’s a tragedy.

I wept over a woman who is fighting for her life against a horrible monster.

But she is fighting.

Today (Sunday) is National Cancer Survivor’s Day… today I am thinking of her, of my friend, Kim, of so many others who are fighting, who have fought. Who are surviving, who have survived… I’m thinking about those who didn’t survive… of families who do not celebrate today, but rather grieve.

I’m thinking about the doctors who help us fight, the nurses who give us reassurance and hope, the people who run and walk and donate and encourage and fight with us…

And I am praying for a cure.

Her red curls clung to the back of her neck as I parted her hair and pulled each side into a ponytail.

I had just done this yesterday morning, too. (She’s into ponytails now, because she has a friend who wears her hair in ponytails.) This morning we chatted and she sang and we talked about the dreams we had in the night.

But yesterday morning looked very different. We had a rough morning, my Bella-girl and I, mostly because I was tired and impatient with her. Honestly, y’all, (and I’m not exaggerating) yesterday is the first day that I can remember ever being off-kilter with her for more than a few moments. She just has such a pleasant personality. But yesterday morning was hard, and I failed her. Often.

Finally, I sat down with her and told her how I had sinned against her. “Will you forgive Mommy?” I asked. Her eyes filled with tears and she whispered, “Always.” She wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed my cheek and we sat there filled with grace and love and each other.

I marvel at her. This child whose sweet spirit forgives so easily and loves so freely.

Ah, the heart of a child. How I long for a heart like hers–to live in her world of freedom and love.

This morning as we chattered and laughed, I listened to her while I combed her tangles. She sang loudly, unashamedly, a song she had just made up.

Oh my world is a happy place
My world is a happy place to be.
Jesus is my Savior
And He died for me…

I want to live in her world…

Oh, but I have. I have lived with her this past year. It’s been just us two until the boys get home in the afternoon, and I have delighted in each day with her.

Today was the last one.

The last day of just her and me.

Tomorrow we’ll meet the boys for their end of year picnic and summer will begin. And then in the fall, she will trot off with the boys to school and this house will be decidedly less sunshiny.

And through the tears, I said thickly to my Bri, “I just don’t think I can do this.”

My heart aches tonight as I relive our last day. Playing cards and curling up to watch a movie and swinging high on the porch swing while we play our guessing game. She is sleeping next to me tonight, leaning into my side, curls tightening as she sweats in her sleep. I can’t help but watch her, and my tears fall freely, aching with this transition.

Endings.

They hurt.

God has gifted me with this treasure, and gifted me with the joy of staying home with her full time. I have reveled in this time with her, and I am so thankful I have had the amazing privilege to call her my daughter and to learn the music of her life.

I will miss these days. Oh, how I will miss them.

Summer beckons… as does our summer list… and the joy of having the boys home with us every day. We are excited about the summer together.

But today.

Today is an ending.

A painful ending at that…

But endings mean beginnings.

And beginnings hold promise and hope.

So I hold it all with open hands, holding my Bella out to Jesus that she might learn to trust Him first in her life.

And isn’t that what I’ve been doing all along? This time together. This molding.

Andrew Ferguson wrote of parenting that it is “preparing those you can’t live without to live without you.”

I ache to think of my empty days to come, but I find great joy in the lives she will fill with her sunshine.

Living in her world has been so much fun.

It is 8:15, and I have just finished tucking in little ones for the night, and now it is time to tuck myself in, too. Or at least that’s how it feels these days. By the end of the day I am so exhausted that I am dropping as soon as they drop, and often before they drop.

But, oh, the dropping!

I adore the dropping to bed with them, the hearing their heart’s cry as they whisper prayer requests, so I can pray for them, ending their days as I have begun it, in prayer that God would make them loving and wise and bold and strong.

Then I stroke red curls and tell her how very brave she was when she got her shots today, and her face lights up for a moment then darkens as she says, “But Bay-ah (Bear) didn’t cwy when he got his.” (And let me tell, y’all, I have never heard such screaming as I heard today.)

And I pull her close and tell her bravery isn’t about not crying, it’s about doing the hard things even when they’re painful. “Do you understand?” I ask her, and she scrunches up her face and says, “Yes. It means the othah thing doesn’t mean this thing except foy-ah when that thing means something else.”

My face remains stoic as I stare at her, unsure of how to respond. Unsure of what she even said. Then she sighs and says, “Maybe I didn’t weally undah-stand you.” And I smile and explain it to her again and again until she gets it. That she is a brave girl.

Her face shines as she digests just how proud of her I am, and I eskimo kiss and butterfly kiss and double kiss and pull her sheet over Cinderella jammies and whisper my love on my way out the door.

I want to stop there, to stand and soak in her love, to ponder just how deep she is becoming, how she has tasted weakness and felt small because of it, and I must preach to myself rather than belittle my own weakness as I have stepped into so many hard things… so many that continue, and I remind myself that in my weakness I find His strength. I want to stand there and just think.

But then green eyes and dimples pull me from my reverie, and I make my way to bunk beds and books and boys waiting for mommy’s tuckings. We talk about our day and the adventures that await tomorrow, and I plunk myself on Bear’s bed while Ash curls up with his book.

“I am just so tired,” I tell Bear, and he puts his arm around me and says, “Well, you just sleep here all night if you have to.” I can hear the giggle in his voice as I close my eyes, because I know he’s waiting and waiting. Then I pop my eyes open at him and our games begin, the laughter and tickling and pretend sleeping and snoring, and I startle him at one point so badly that he literally jumps up and we crash heads and then laugh so hard we are both crying and snorting, and it just feels so good.

We pause and he curls into me and says, “Oh, Mom. I’m so ready for school to be over so I can be home with you all the time. I just have so much fun with you.” And my heart melts all over again as I hear Ash whisper from above, “Yeah.” My boys. I tuck them both in with more kisses and rumplings of hair, then move out the door and I stand there wanting to soak in their presence, their love, their joy overflowing.

As I meander downstairs, picking up strewn socks and pondering packing lunches tonight or in the morning, I see my Bri outside still working, trying to get everything done before the light fades. I stand at the door and watch him and my heart overflows. He is so diligent to care for us, to provide for us, to do what needs to be done.

Here I sit, feeling the weariness seep into my bones. I often wonder at the end of the day how on earth I’m going to get up and do this all again tomorrow. How? When I am so exhausted from the physical, mental, spiritual and emotional battle that I am constantly fighting.

And I realize that no matter how weary I am, my husband and children bring life to my life.

Isn’t that how gifts are?

They are life-bringers.

These gifts God has given me bring life into mine.

May I never take a single moment for granted.

Their voices overlapped and interrupted, rising in intensity and excitement as they remembered and repeated and replayed scene after scene of the movie. It had only been 2 days since they had seen it, and along with their friend riding home with us that day, they had memorized half the movie (how do they DO that?!). The soundtrack played over our car stereo, and someone would say, “Oh, this is when…”

I quickly tuned them out. After all, what did it matter to me? It was just a movie. A sweet movie, but a movie nonetheless.

Then my Bella said, “Mommy, remember when…?” and I was forced to pay attention and involve myself with a half-hearted, “Oh, yes, dear.” Quickly, distractions pulled my thoughts away from a silly movie, and then I heard, “Mom, remember when…?” and I was pulled back again from my reverie. “Wasn’t that neat?” I came up with quickly, not even knowing what they had said.

I groused inwardly. After all, it’s just a movie. Why do they keep distracting me from my thoughts? My mental to do-list is much more important that a little ol’ movie. What does it matter?

You know what’s coming, don’t you?

It mattered to them.

It wasn’t just a movie to them.

It was important to them.

They enjoyed reliving it.

And if it mattered to them, well then it mattered to me, because they matter to me. And I was reminded again that this mommyhood thing is not about me… it’s about them and it’s about Him.

And I realized how many times I come to God with my repeated requests and demands and frustrations and joys, and He doesn’t ignore me or push me out of his mind or let me chatter away while He thinks about something else.

He listens and He cares.

Because it matters to me.

And if it matters to me, it matters to Him.

It matters.

And that is enough.

May 5th. All around us are signs of Cinco de Mayo. It’s all over Facebook, the news, it’s even on Google calendar. May 5th. A day of celebration.

May 5th. The due date of our first child. The child we lost 10 years ago.

The pregnancy was a surprise. The loss was heartbreaking.

Grief is a funny thing. A heart-stopping, knee-buckling, ache-inducing thing. It hits at the craziest times and the pain takes your breath away. Sometimes it hits me when I’m not expecting it, but every May, as the due date of my little lost one approaches, I feel the brutality of that pain all over again.

I used to wonder how I would ever get over it.

And I’ve found that I haven’t gotten over it.

But one day I woke up and realized I didn’t mind carrying it with me.

This morning, as I read to my children around the breakfast table of Jesus feeding over five thousand with 5 small loaves and 2 fish, we talked about our God.

Our God who cares deeply about us.

Our God.

The only One Who can satisfy the deepest of our needs. And I thought about how He has met me in this place and brought quiet to a restless heart.

He loves me. He loves that child.

And 10 1/2 years ago, when I was pregnant with this little one, I wrote these words in my journal:

There is so much excitement and joy… yet so many fears. I am so afraid I will lose you. What if I miscarry and never have the chance to hold you, to love and nurture you?

I am thankful we have a God Who is in control; Who knows what is best for us (all three of us). I take contentment and joy in knowing that if we do lose you here on earth, God will hold you in Heaven.

My child. What volumes those words speak! I am a mom! Not going to be… AM one. And soon, very soon, I pray you will be with us where we can love you in a whole new way.

My child.

I love you.

Beyond words.

I never had the chance to hold that sweet child.

But.

I still love my child.

Beyond words.