A Spring of Joy

Corrie ten Boom tells the story of her life in Ravensbruck, a Nazi concentration camp, during World War II. At one point, she and her sister, Betsie, were moved into new barracks into conditions that nauseate me to even think about. When they were assigned their bunks, they found the pallets not only filled with the the stench of bodily fluids, but they lay down into a bed covered in fleas. Corrie asked her sister how they were to live in such conditions, and Betsie turned her to the Word. In I Thessalonians, Paul writes, “Comfort the frightened, help the weak, be patient with everyone. See that none of you repays evil for evil, but always seek to do good to one another and to all. Rejoice always, praying constantly, giving thanks in all circumstances…” In all circumstances, not just the pleasant ones… not just the ones we want. So Betsie and Corrie stood in the middle of a concentration camp–the foulest conditions, most horrendous torture and executions imaginable–and they thanked God for fleas. Fleas! Fleas that they knew would make their lives miserable. Fleas that would bite and sting and itch and make sleep impossible. They thanked God for fleas.

Last night I couldn’t sleep, so I prayed. I thought about so many people in my life who are struggling. I prayed for my grandfather recovering from triple bypass, for my grandmother’s loneliness while he is in the hospital. I prayed for friends who long to get married and start losing hope as each year passes by. I prayed for people in my life and in the lives of my friends who struggle with physical ailments–too many to name. I thought of those who will hurt through the holidays because of loss in their lives–whether a week ago, a year ago, 10 or 50 years ago. How their ache doesn’t go away. I thought of those struggling in their marriages or going through divorce. Loneliness, pain, conflict, fear… I’ve said it before–we all have our pain. Our lives are full of fleas… pain that bites and nags and makes us feel miserable.

This morning Audrey woke at 6:00. Ow! Flea bite! Then Asher got up at 6:30. Another bite! My kids are never up before 7:00! But wait, I got to spend more time in the Word and prayer this morning because of it… because my mom said, “I’ll get the kids, you go back to bed.” Thank you, Lord, for fleas.

Today I have my fifth chemo treatment. I’m so nervous. I’m nervous about starting a new drug. It’s unknown. I’m nervous about a possible allergic reaction or nasty side effects. I’m nervous about spending 5 1/2 hours in “the chair”. I get 3 needle sticks today, plus an IV (which they sometimes miss the veins), and I have a horrendous fear of needles. It feels like a lot of fleas are biting this morning. And the one thing I hadn’t done is thank God for the fleas.

So I did, and He brought so much awareness of His hand. I’m thankful for a new drug that is one more way that they can hopefully prevent recurrence and give me time here to live with my family and serve the Lord. I’m thankful for 5 1/2 hours in the chair because I get to spend that time with Barb, my chemo buddy, who is an amazing woman of God, and I will learn so much from her today. I’m thankful for the needles (it’s hard to say that one!), because without them they wouldn’t be able to check my blood counts or give me the treatments which will hopefully heal my body. I’m thankful for cancer because it has driven me closer to Jesus, deepened my love for Brian and intensified my delight in my children. Thank you, Lord, for fleas. You are faithful.

And He was faithful to Corrie and Betsie, too. Weeks after they prayed and thanked God for their fleas, Betsie came to Corrie, excited. They had been given incredible freedom in the big room where they worked, knitting socks for the German soldiers. When asked to come in and sort out some confusion about those socks, the supervisor refused to set foot in the room. “That place is crawling with fleas!” she said. Corrie and Betsie were overwhelmed… they were faithful to thank God for things which they didn’t understand.

I think my struggle with being thankful has come from a misunderstanding of what thanksgiving really is. Being thankful doesn’t minimize the pain. It doesn’t take what I’m going through and throw it all away or make it meaningless. In fact, being thankful deepens the meaning, because it helps me to see my Savior and it drives me to focus on Him in the midst of pain. The reality is we live in a fallen world, and I hate the fleas. I hate cancer. I hate my treatments. I hate, as Bri put it in his last entry, the dull routine of surviving chemotherapy. But I love my Savior and I am thankful that I can see His hand in the midst of all of this. I hate that acquaintances, friends and loved ones have to struggle and suffer, but I am thankful that I have friends to pray for, and I am thankful they are in His hand, too.

Neither go back in fear and misgiving to the past, nor in anxiety and forecasting to the future, but lie quiet under His hand, having no will but His.
(H. E. Manning)

In a recent email, my friend, Monica, wrote, “The messages for our daughters and sons about what the world considers beautiful are everywhere… If we aren’€™t talking with them about what God thinks how else will they really know the truth?”

I see the images everywhere, beautiful women and men with perfect forms and flawless complexions. I hear what my youth group girls say about themselves and others. I see the securities and insecurities. I’ve felt them. And Monica is right, if we aren’t talking to them, from whom will they learn? From our beauty-obsessed entertainment culture? From their friends at school? From television and movies and music?

Last night, while being bored to death with the Patriots/Bills game, I flipped back to the American Music Awards Show, and my heart broke. From the interviews on the red carpet, to the cleavage-ridden mini-dresses on the presenters, to the seductive twistings and turnings of the dancers, “beauty” was everywhere, and it was empty. I thought about life and how the majority of the people at the awards show may be beautiful, but they don’t have beautiful lives… as hard as we might try to imagine they do.

I’ve thought a lot about beauty recently. Honestly, I’ve questioned my own… feeling as if so much of my femininity has been cruelly ripped away from me as I’ve watched my body change through the chemo. I’ve wondered if I’ll ever feel beautiful again… then I realize where the truth about beauty lies. It’s not in how I look or feel. It’s in the reality of the world around me and all the blessings God has given me.

Beauty is…

The deep brown penetrating eyes of my Asher and Audrey. The mischievous green eyes of my Micah. The sparkling hazel eyes of my Brian.

The way Brian’s smile can light up a room and fill you with warmth.

Forgiveness. Finding it in Christ. Asking and receiving it from others. Giving it to others even when it hasn’t been asked.

Total abandonment to God’s will. Yielding ourselves to God rather than living egocentrically.

Simplicity. The beauty of a single flower. A simple hug on a bad day. A quick phone call to say, “You’re special to me.”

Watching friends like Maretta and Kristin worship on Sunday mornings.

Prayer. Knowing that I can talk to God anytime, anywhere, about anything. And be real.

Poetry.

The smile of a child that delights in tiny accomplishments because it’s a big step for them.

Artwork on my refrigerator.

Picking up the phone and hearing the voice of my best friend, Beth.

Grandparents. That “going home” feeling of walking into Nan and Pap’s house. Watching my children with their own grandparents and envisioning what their futures will be.

Deep thoughts with Asher. Silly giggles with Micah. Sweet snuggles with Audrey. Safe sharing with Brian.

Music. Not over-produced empty ramblings with no meaning, but truth that reaches the soul.

Watching snow fall. Building snowmen, then drinking hot chocolate with rosy cheeks and runny noses.

The smell of fresh pine, the glitter of Christmas lights, and the joy of Christmas music.

Laughter… playing games with friends and thinking your sides will split.

Watching Grandma pull that turkey out of the oven on Thanksgiving day, then looking at all the faces around you and feeling at home.

Friendships. The deep ones where you don’t have to say anything and you’re still comfy with each other.

Warm slippers worn with fun socks.

The way my heart still skips a beat when Brian’s jeep roars down the driveway and I know he’s home.

Contentment. Knowing this is where God has me, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

The squeals of my children outside playing.

Sitting with my mom and talking for hours. Leaning my head on my Daddy’s shoulder and crying.

Perspective. Knowing that people are much more precious than possessions.

Eternity. Heaven waiting for me, and Jesus ready to greet me with open arms.

I could fill pages. And I probably will. I know this won’t be the last time I share about beauty, because that’s the beauty of beauty… you learn and see something beautiful and new every day. But to finish, I quote the wisdom of Monica again, who sums it up perfectly, “… becoming more like Christ every day. That is the ultimate beauty standard.” I pray that today each of you finds something beautiful to smile about… and thank God for it.

Audrey cut another tooth last week–a cuspid. That’s one of the sharp ones. And it hurt. A lot. Add to that the frustration of a broken arm. Then top it all off with entering the separation anxiety stage at bedtime. I’m not too sure turning 19 months old was all that exciting to her. She had a rough week.

The past few nights Audrey has made it clear that she wants nothing to do with her crib at bedtime. She wants to be with us or be held and rocked. Once her cries have proven she’s not going to fall asleep and reached their feverish intensity, I will go to her and as soon as she’s in my arms, the hysteria fades. I tell her over and over, “It’s okay, Mommy’s here.” And she calms, her cries softening to gentle hiccups. She lies on my chest, her arms wrapped around me, unmoving while I sing to her–“All The Way My Savior Leads Me”. When I finish, Audrey will sometimes hum quietly to let me know she wants me to sing another song. More often than not she is still, content to lie in my arms with my cheek resting on top of her head, rocking.

Audrey doesn’t say many words yet, but she knows how to communicate quite well. If I lift my cheek off her head, she will raise her arm and pull my head back down. When I say to her, “Are you ready to get in your bed?” she will do one of two things. She will either nod, sit up and point to her crib, or she will gently shake her head and pat my chest as if to say, “I want to be right here with you.” How can I say no to that? I don’t want to say no to that! I am treasuring these moments with her.

When I do leave her room and occasionally let her cry to sleep, what Audrey doesn’t know is that I’m still there, right outside her door, listening to her every cry, often crying with her and waiting. Even though I tell her, “I’m still here.” she can’t comprehend it, because she doesn’t feel my presence. Sometimes I go down the road I don’t want to… the what if I’m not here for her one day soon? I don’t know if I have 5 minutes, 5 months, 5 years or 5 decades with her, but I know the One Who does.

In John 14:1-2 Jesus says, “Do not let your heart be troubled. Trust in God, trust also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.”

I read this last week with new eyes. I’ve read it a hundred times before, but the line that struck me was this: “If it were not so, I would have told you.” Jesus is saying, “You can trust me. I will tell you the truth.” He’s taking care of me and loves me and wants to be with me. He’s preparing a place for me even now.

How like little Audrey I am! I don’t want to be left alone in the darkness. I want to sit with my Jesus and be still and know and feel His presence. And like Audrey has mine, I have His words, “I’m still here. It’s okay.” Only He is perfect, and He will never fail me. On those days when I struggle to sense His presence, He’s right there, waiting, listening to my every cry, crying with me, ready to show Himself in mighty ways in my life. Sometimes He lets me cry myself to sleep, but He’s still there. Sometimes He gives me Brian’s arms as a tangible way of showing He is there. Sometimes He gives me a strong sense of His presence as I experience His faithfulness time and again. And just as it is for Audrey to see her Daddy or Mommy or Grandma in the light of the sunrise each morning, every dawn when I wake, He is there.

If it were not so, He would have told me.

One of the most difficult side effects of my chemotherapy has been a condition known as “chemo brain”. Some people scoff at this “excuse”, assuming cancer patients are blaming chemo for their forgetfulness. Trust me, it’s real. It is hard to lose all sense of focus, forget the simplest of words, and be unable to put two sentences together in a legible fashion. It is a struggle… and I am a deep thinker. I love to bury myself in books that challenge me. If I am going to watch a movie, I want it to have a purpose to it. And if I watch television, it needs to be more than crude humor and sexual innuendo. I want something well-written, thought-provoking… something to challenge my mindset.

You can imagine how difficult the past few weeks have been for me. The physical pain and exhaustion from my treatments often leave me with hours of just lying in bed unable to do anything… definitely nothing focused going on! My dismay has only increased as I turn on the TV looking for something to fill my time that doesn’t require “work”. I haven’t watched daytime television in years, and let’s not get me started on the prime-time trash that’s out there… nightly soap operas focused on who’s cheating on or sleeping with whom, off-color comedy, and let’s see how belittling we can be to men in our culture of feminism.

But I digress… in the space of 2 hours (I’m embarrassed to admit I even wasted that much time) of flipping around trying to find something mildly entertaining, I was apalled at the mind-numbing drivel that fills the airwaves or soundwaves or whatever it’s called (see, chemo brain is real). Here’s a taste:

First, there’s Regis and Kelly. Okay, I actually didn’t see them that day, but I’ve watched them enough in waiting rooms over the past 2 months. Let’s spend 20 minutes talking about ourselves, then we can spend 15 more talking about who’s hot and who’s not on the red carpet. Why? Why do we spend so much time obsessed with beauty and with belittling those who we don’t think are beautiful? We are all created in the image of God… all of us!

Other drivel I subjected myself to–20 minutes of The Tyra Banks Show where the discussion was on the new word of our culture, “frenemies”. This is girl friends who compete constantly with each other. So Tyra has them compete on her show–who can get the most hot guys in an hour to meet them at a bar? Who has the higher IQ? Who has the stronger emotional IQ? Sigh. Who cares? Instead, let’s teach them what friendship really is.

The other shows I only saw previews of, thank goodness, but here’s the list. Maury Povich “Caught On Tape”… Montel Williams “Psychic Connections” with some chain smoking psychic who claims to hear people from the other side. I wonder when someone is going to tell her to quit smoking. Then there’s Jerry Springer (I had no clue he was still on), whose preview this week was on clowns–yes, people actually dressed up as clowns–who were cheating on each other and smacking each other all around the stage. All I could do is sigh deep sighs.

Oh, and Oprah, who I’ll admit can bring some fascinating topics, guests, etc. to her show. However, she is so self-absorbed that she continually interrupts her guests and rudely has to say what she has to say no matter what. Must be nice to have such power.

It saddens me. The problem is it defines so much of our culture, and we, in turn, allow so much of our culture to define us. It is scary to talk to high school and college students today, and see just how much television defines their reality. “But that’s the way it is on Grey’s or Desperate Housewives or ER.” Small town courtrooms are expecting impossible evidence because it looks so easy on CSI. Why do we allow TV to define us?

I submit two reasons… although I know there are many more. First, we are discontent. Our lives are not satisfying to us, so we look to other realities in which to escape. Secondly, we fail to be defined by God. We fail to define our culture and television by the Word, and we buy into the lies of our culture instead of seeking to redeem it. So often we make what we want the basis of what we believe or how we act… it is then we become followers of culture rather than followers of Christ. I am saddened by how our culture is affecting Christians, rather than Christians impacting and redeeming our culture. I don’t mean an “in your face” impact, I mean through integrity.. by really making a difference in lives through loving others.

Yes, I still watch some TV… there is entertainment there, and it does make me think sometimes. But what makes me think more is God and Who He is, and in Him I’ve found my relief from the drivel of daytime television. On those days when I can’t read or write or think, I can still hear. Sound travels in darkness and in light. I can listen to John Piper’s sermons (desiringgod.org) or download old sermons by our former pastor, Phil, two deep thinkers who aren’t afraid to speak against our culture and speak the truth of the Word. And I am blessed with the thought of God.

If you read history, you will find that the Christians who did the most for the present world were just those who thought most of the next. The Apostles themselves, who set on foot the conversion of the Roman Empire, the great men who built up the Middle Ages, the English Evangelicals who abolished the slave trade, all left their mark on Earth precisely because their minds were occupied with Heaven. It is since Christians have largely ceased to think of the other world that they have become so ineffective in this. Aim at Heaven and you will get earth ‘thrown in’: aim at earth and you will get neither. (C.S. Lewis)

Corrie ten Boom wrote:

“When the train goes through a tunnel and the world becomes dark, do you jump out? Of course not. You sit still and trust the engineer to get you through.”

At some point in life, our worlds become dark. I look around at my friends and family. I read and watch the news. I hear stories from old college or high school buddies. I walk into a store or onto JMU’s campus or even to church. I look at faces and it hits like a brick wall. We all have tunnels in our lives.

For some it is a short tunnel where the light at the end is clearly seen. For others its long and dark. Some might find their lives are one long tunnel while others have frequent short ones. For some there are lights in their tunnel; for others the darkness is suffocating.

Just because I am going through my tunnel and my darkness doesn’t mean the train stops. It doesn’t mean other trains aren’t running. Others are in pain, too. In my own life–my sweet Audrey with her broken arm, my grandfather hospitalized earlier this week, Brian trying to manage with his wife’s cancer, Micah’s fear of darkness and nightmares, even Asher’s allergies…that is their pain; their tunnel.

There is so much pain as I look at the world surrounding me–chronic health problems, the loss of parents or spouses or children or siblings or grandparents or cousins, depression, conflict, family members suffering, couples unable to get pregnant, miscarriages, singles longing for marriage and still waiting, unexplained tragedies, job loss, financial struggles and so much more. We all have our tunnels, even if it’s just one week in bed with the flu.

My gut reaction is to run from pain–run far away from it–whether it’s mine or someone else’s. Being real about my pain means being vulnerable. Being real and caring about someone else’s pain means taking a risk. Pain is real. Pain is hard. Pain is ugly. Pain is isolating. Pain is the result of living in a fallen world. Pain is one of Satan’s tools to try to destroy us.

I have learned much about pain by experiencing my own, and I have been convicted, blessed, astonished, hurt, encouraged, and overwhelmed with it all. We all handle our pain differently, but one thing is certain–we all need relationship in our lives. We all need to know someone cares. It is so comforting to hear a simple “I care” from others, and it is such a blessing to say a simple “I care” to others. Ultimately, though, I find the real peace comes in knowing that God cares even more than I can begin to comprehend. He whispers it every day to me in His Word.

I would be foolish to jump off my train into the darkness. Although there are days when I think in my sinful self-reliance that I can do this on my own, one step off that train into the darkness would lead to confusion and chaos. I would lose my way so quickly, unsure of which direction to head, wondering what lay at the side of the tracks, and the fear would consume me.

So I cling to the seat in my train, and I know my Engineer won’t make a mistake. He knows right where I’m heading. My train won’t crash or derail. In fact, some days I make my way to the dining car, and on the menu I see Psalm 16, “He has assigned me my portion and my cup; my lot is secure.” And I feast like a hedon from the portion and cup He has given me–a very full plate of blessings. Other times I go to my sleeping berth, and I find that His “yoke is easy and his burden is light”, and there I find rest for my soul. There are days when I just sit in my seat, holding on for dear life and weeping as I watch the darkness outside the window. Sometimes, I go and I sit in the engine at the feet of the Engineer, and I listen to His voice reassuring me that He loves me and “nothing can separate me from that love”. And I stay on my train.

I have fear, yes, but I have no doubt, because He who promised is faithful, and one day I will reach my destination safe in the arms of my Engineer. It will be a place where there will be no more pain, no more suffering, no more tears… and there I will rejoice with all the others who’ve ridden through their tunnels in Christ alone.

No guilt in life; no fear in death.
This is the power of Christ in me.
From life’s first cry to final breath,
Jesus commands my destiny.
No pow’r of hell, no scheme of man
Can ever pluck me from His hand.
Till He returns or calls me home;
Here in the pow’r of Christ I’ll stand.
(Keith Getty & Stuart Townend)

…watching your 18-month old daughter get her first (and hopefully last) cast on her broken arm.

Audrey pulled a pillow out from underneath herself while she was sitting on the couch this morning. This promptly rolled her off the couch, into the coffee table and onto her arm. I called the doctor, got an appointment, and after 4 agonizing hours of watching her cry and scream almost every time she used her arm, we went to see him. The verdict was pretty clear on her x-rays. She has a buckle fracture in her arm. Both bones… not just one… so she did herself in pretty well. She did great getting the cast on, and is feeling much better now that her arm is immobilized. In fact, she is quite happy that she finally has a weapon to use against her brothers. Three and a half weeks, baby… don’t mess with Audrey!

So today was one of the longest in my life, and I’ve had a lot of those lately. It is amazingly hard to watch your child struggle. But a friend emailed me these lyrics today by Andrew Peterson to encourage me, and the timing was perfect. There is so much more… oh, so much more!

There is more
More than all this pain
More than all the falling down
And the getting up again
There is more
More than we can see
From our tiny vantage point
In this vast eternity
There is more

Every evening there is a ritual in our home. Hearing the healthy purr of Brian’s Jeep, Audrey will drop whatever she’s doing, race to the sliding glass door, scream at the top of her lungs and beat on the glass. She calls to me, points out the window and claps her hands. Daddy is home! Audrey will watch Brian every step of his way to our door. She waits until he leaves his truck, then runs to the window by the steps to watch him walk up… screaming all the time. When Daddy is no longer in sight, Audrey will run to the door and wait for the knob to turn. As soon as it does, the screaming commences again, and Audrey is swept up in a huge bear hug when Brian enters.

The screams have alerted the other troops in our home, and Asher and Micah will run from wherever they have been playing, yelling, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” They each get their turn with hugs and, “Hey guys”. I watch it all with wonder and amazement while I wait my turn to feel those arms around me. And my heart smiles.

Bri starts his new job tomorrow. We are in a place that is exciting and wonderful and it is so obvious that God has called him there. I am thrilled for him, and I can’t wait to see how God will use him. But I am scared, too. Bri will be in DC for the first part of every week for a while, and this will be the first time we’ve been apart since my diagnosis. Brian is the rock that God has given me to cling to during some very dark times, and I long to have that rock remain with me. All the “what if’s…” start to pour into my mind. What if I have a really rough spell? What if infection sets in and I have to be hospitalized? What if I can’t sleep? Who will hold me when I need to cry? Who will pray with me? Whose shoulder will I lean on for strength?

I know the answers to those questions.. I know that Jesus is my ultimate Rock and He will provide for me. He already has. My parents will be here to help care for us. My friends will surround me. My children will love me. And I know that I will hear Brian’s voice every day on the phone. Even though I know all these things, my heart still hurts thinking about Bri’s absence. I realize even more just how much I love him and want him by my side.

Ronald Reagan once said, “There is nothing more wonderful for a man than to know as he approaches his own doorstep that someone on the other side of that door is listening for the sound of his footsteps.” And Thursday night, I know four someones who will be listening.