Thursday, October 22, 2015
Those who sow with tears
will reap with songs of joy.
Those who go out weeping,
carrying seed to sow,
will return with songs of joy,
carrying sheaves with them.
(Psalm 126:5-6)
This is one of those events which occasionally sneak up and surprise
me and need to be written down. For whom I don’t know. Mostly for me. To
remember. To remind me. To proclaim a truth and a reality which I so easily
forget.
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| Taking goofy pictures while waiting in the exam room |
My funny, but clueless, boy had his pre-op appointments
today. Clueless? Because he knows
nothing of the scoliosis surgery (spinal fusion) coming up in less than two
weeks.
I left the house at noon and got home at 7:00. Four of those hours were
at Children’s Hospital: waiting for and getting through three appointments, one
of which included stripping him down and contorting him in different angles for
spine x-rays; standing at a desk for thirty minutes to schedule yet another
pre-op evaluation for next week; and finally getting Bug’s blood drawn around
5:30PM. The last required three women (of whom I was the biggest) to hold a
screaming and fighting boy in order to get a needle in the most accessible vein
and fill a couple vials with blood. When it was over, my red and teary boy
said, “Didn’t hurt.”
We left the hospital at almost 6:00. Traffic was a mess, I
had no dinner at home, AND the Seahawks game had just begun. So, we headed to
Burgermaster for cheeseburgers and fries and a TV.
Bug and I sat on the same side of the booth so we could
watch the game, and so I could keep an arm around him as he sat on the bench
(he begged to be out of his wheelchair after such a long day).
As I sat there eating my fries, I felt alone yet not alone,
sad yet not sad. I longed for someone to talk to about all the details of the
upcoming surgery while they were fresh in my mind. I scanned the parking lot, looking for someone to appear
to share this special moment at the end of a full afternoon. I kept my arm
close around my precious boy as the idea flooded me that I was glimpsing the
life ahead of me: Bug and I, just the two of us. No brother, sister, or dad
around all the time.
I kissed Bug’s head and whispered, “It’s just you and me and
Jesus. You are my life now. I love you. And I am so thankful and I don’t mind
at all.” Yes, I’m lonely and sad sometimes, but it is a privilege to be his mom,
and—even more so—it is an overwhelming privilege to have received not only the
miracle of Bug’s life, but also the miracle of the change of my heart and mind
and outlook toward my special boy.
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| French fries and Football! |
And as if that thought, that glimpse were not enough of a
revelation and a blessing—unexpected but sweet—I soon received another
unexpected and sweet gift.
A man arrived at Burgermaster as we were finishing our meal.
He scouted out a place to sit with his crotchety older relative who complained
about having to watch the football game. The younger man came near our booth
and asked if we had a decent view of the game. When he saw that we were getting
ready to leave at halftime, he asked if he could have our table. It was
situated in such a way that he could see the TV, but his older companion could
avoid it behind the relative privacy of a half wall.
As I buckled Bug back into his wheelchair, the man noticed
Bug’s Seahawks shirt and asked if we like watching football games. Bug gave his
best “Go Hawks” cheer as I shared how much he gets caught up in Seahawks fever,
and then I showed off his brand new orthotics: covered in blue Seahawks helmets
and secured by blue and green straps printed with “Go Hawks.”
Bug and I headed for the soda fountain to refill our cups,
and the man came up to gather napkins and straws for his meal. He commented on
the game and his hope for a win, then asked Bug if he had a Seahawks jersey.
When I answered, “No,” he asked Bug if he would like one—and before I was aware
of what was happening, he proceeded to take off his coat, remove the licensed, #56 (Avril) jersey he was wearing, and put it on my surprisingly un-surprised boy. I stammered, “Really?”
And the man explained that his own kids are grown and he doesn’t have any
grandkids, so he was happy to share Seahawks fever with someone.
We thanked him and left. And I was overwhelmed for the
second time that evening. I told Bug as we headed to the van, “You are awesome, Bug,
a gift from God who blesses others and brings them such joy. You're so amazing that someone actually gave you the shirt off his back!”
And I was again to thankful to be his mom, to care for him,
to share the rest of his life with him. He is my life’s work (so why do I keep
thinking about what career I will have when I grow up---I mean, when the kids
are grown?). But not only that, I am so thankful and excited that I get to
witness and be a part of the way he blesses others and brings them joy. That is
his ministry. And mine is being a part of it. Sharing life with my miracle.
Hours after I got that boy home and tucked into bed, I drove
to pick up my girl from a friend’s house. As I headed north, sleepy and ready for
bed, I reflected on the whole of my day.
Earlier, I had been gone from the
house for seven hours, including driving T. to hang out with her friend so she
didn’t have to spend the afternoon alone, and then picking Bug up from school
to take him to Children’s for his appointments. A seven-hour work day isn’t too
bad; why was I so tired? Of course, those seven hours came after getting Bug up
before 6:00 and on the bus at 7:00, taking the dog for a walk (oh, and that
held the extra, breathtaking gift of heading out the door while there were
still stars—planets perhaps? I never had time to look up what stars are still
visible after dawn—shining over the treetops), starting a load of laundry,
listening in on T.’s online history class, helping her with math and chemistry,
cleaning the bathroom, and sweeping half the floors in the house, in order to
leave shortly after noon. (Are you wondering yet where I’m going with this?)
And then, I had come home from a long day of appointments,
and still needed to put Bug on the potty, feed the ravenous animals two hours
past their usual mealtime, vacuum in two rooms, unpack Bug’s backpack and my
bag of stuff from the day, put Bug to bed, and fold the laundry, all while
ignoring the sink full of dirty dishes, the dishwasher needing emptying, and
the stinky litter box. No, I am not whining. That was one more unexpected tidbit from the day. Not a single part of it all
bothered me. (Well, except maybe the dirty dishes part.)
Exhausted, I had collapsed on the sofa to read my email from
the day and to start getting the memories and thoughts of the day written down
before they faded into yesterday. I had been up since 5:30 and I usually try to
get to bed around 10:00. But, tonight I had to wait for S. to get off work so I
could leave him with his sleeping little brother while I drove to pick up T.
Up past my bedtime, tired, and driving in the dark. How
easily that used to throw me into self-pity, grumbling, and all-around
negativity. Not tonight. Even though I was going to pick up my equally-tired
daughter who had texted me earlier about struggling with some hard thoughts and
emotions. And I knew she would want to talk. Or cry. Or both. Late at night,
when we both should be in bed.
And yet, remembering how I felt so blessed and privileged to
be Bug’s mom, I realized I am equally blessed and privileged to be T.’s mom.
Even when she is wrestling with heart-wrenching emotions and difficult
thoughts. I am honored to help her as she walks her sometimes dark and rough
road, to come alongside and ease her burden as I am able, to encourage her, and
to point her to Christ and the freedom of complete dependence on Him.
As I turned off the freeway, the memories and emotions of
the day lingered, and I thought to myself—no, I heard the thought from some
unknown person who must have climbed in the car when I wasn’t looking—“I love
my life.”
I paused in the silence and said out loud (yes, I talk to
myself while driving. I have some of my best conversations in the car), “Did I
just say, ‘I love my life’?”
Another pause.
Again out loud: “Wow. That’s a new one.”
A smile surprised my face as incredible joy washed through
me. I can’t remember the last time I said I love my life. Usually my mental
tapes played a repeat of “I hate my life.” And given the current circumstances
of all the unexpected in my life, my crazy thought made absolutely no sense.
Do I really love my life? I do really love being a mom and a caregiver. That’s also new for me,
to that extent at least. While I chose to be a mom, I never chose the life I
was given. But I have finally learned to receive it. And in acceptance I have found
peace…
The joy has its shadow of sorrow, of course, because joy and
sorrow go together and illuminate one another and each carries its own
important lessons and blessings. I was sad--true and genuine sorrow, another unexpected gift since it lacked resentment or blame—that my kids’ dad wasn’t part
of this amazing, monumental day, that he did not experience what I had
experienced. Sad that he had not been able to join me at the pre-op appointments to hear
the details from the surgeon’s mouth and to ask the questions that would inform
and perhaps lessen his anxieties about surgery. Sad that he did not take me up
on my offer to meet for dinner afterwards so I could share what I learned about
surgery while it was still fresh in my mind and have the opportunity to
process all the details with someone who will be part of it. Sad that he missed
the special time eating burgers and fries and watching football. Sad that he
missed the amazing gift of the #56 jersey. And sad that he was not
there to see his daughter’s tears, witness that glimpse into her brokenness,
and have a chance to share what he has learned through his own brokenness. And sad, too, that our kids missed out on sharing that that day—good and hard and
goofy and exhausting—with their dad. He missed and is missing so much of our daily life, so many of these little, unexpected gifts. My heart ached for him and for our kids. An ache that was in itself a gift from God.
But—joy! What life I have found in the midst of sadness, in the death
of my dreams, my plans, my hopes, my
life. It is not my life. And I will receive whatever God chooses to give as I
relinquish all I thought I wanted and needed. Within unexpected loss, I have
found unexpected gifts.
I want to keep saying, “I love my life.”
And now it is no longer today, no longer this day of
miracles. It is tomorrow.
Bring it on! And, "Go Hawks!"
