Monday, November 28th
This morning after leaving Melody at school, I walked back into the house through the rain, the God-given rain to this parched earth. Fire's everywhere burning up these Appalachian Mountains. Miranda's deciding to lean hard into her training and pursue firefighting full on. Never quite sure how I feel about it, but I won't subdue her by withholding my approval the way I did with Megan's flying because of my fear, ignorance, or traditionalism.
Speaking of, the tree is up, one of the last remaining sentiments for Christmas. I whittled it all down to two boxes from that flooded basement, just how I like it, minimal, the way we are doing gifts this year, even with our 8 and 11 year olds, which I have not bought the first of. On Thanksgiving, the 10 of us, son-in-law, Timothy, included, drew names with a limit of $50 spending. No Santa, no surprises, just those sought after most desired $50 gifts. There are the grandparents though who faithfully send money, in large part to spend on each's most recently needed item/s.
Not that we have the credit to, but there will be no borrowing to get through Christmas, just as there was no borrowing for the wedding. The Lord provided and McKala accepted His provision whether it was her ideal or not. Even the location was moved because of increasing threats of rain, the one thing we've scarcely had since.
My Dad made the smoked Boston Butt. The rest of us pitched in late night for the sides and drinks. Melody made a gorgeous, naked lemon blueberry cake with flowers and fruit and some 200 cupcakes that all tasted as superb as they looked. McKala herself fixed most all the bride's maids' hair in curled loose braids. My great friend, whose mother is a professional florist, and her daughters brought and arranged all the flowers as their gift to her. My sister-in-law and nephew kindly took photos. McKala's sisters all decorated the reception hall with borrowed books and crates, candles, and knicknacks Megan found in Georgia.
And in response to that was my first "moment" had. I arrived midafternoon, no make-up, no hair, no dress, looking for the wedding party. I opened the door to the large banquet room, not a soul in sight, only the tables handsomely set, waiting for their guests. A lump formed in my throat. "This is it."
My other "moment" was when I opened the door to the bridal room, again no one is sight. There were wedding things strode out everywhere. "This is happening."
I found them finally in the bathrooms looking as flawless as manikins. I retreated to a private bathroom I'd found off the kitchen. There I held back tears to get my make-up on and hair straightened. Then, I put on a dress for the first time in 12 years. Only my girls knew I had it.
It all went seamlessly. Then, our 19 year old bride was off with her groom for the night to their furnished apartment, thanks to my Dad's handiwork of refinishing items he'd bought at an estate sale, then to the prepaid honeymoon my parents-in-law saw to. Thankfully, for the penniless couple, it was right in the threshold of Grandfather Mountain, where they hiked and made do with their agreeable surroundings, getting by on the abundant leftovers from the rehearsal dinner and reception.
Fast forward to Thanksgiving Day. Everyone: all the kids, Mike, and me here making final preparations for the meal. McKala slides off her jacket and walks toward me as I read the glittery words on her shirt. "There's a Little Turkey in the Oven." I grab and hug her as hard as one could safely hug a pregnant woman. My reaction was far more than at the wedding. I cried that my daughter has made a person with her lover. I cried because it's all she's ever wanted. I was the only person who saw the shirt, so everyone else just sat immobile and watched, mostly sure they knew, I know.
Lingering questions: the 6 month round of antibiotics for walking pneumonia? the beta-blocker heart medication? the insurance? We knew pregnancy is supposed to improve her POTS tachycardia. But the answers still lie in the Lord's hands. He can and will heal at any time, just as it appears he has done with Melody.
We had follow up visits with her pediatric gastroenterologist and her neurologist the day before Thanksgiving. All results, especially the reduction of optical nerve swelling, were unmedicated improvements. Last month, she underwent both venous and arterial catheterizations of her brain, from which after-the-fact we are certain she suffered a small stroke. Following the procedure, she also had a lumbar puncture to recheck the spinal fluid pressure. Once more, she had a spinal leak. Knowing the symptoms and having already been treated for one at the local hospital, the staff jumped right into position and did another blood patch to stay her suffering.
A couple of weeks later, she had biopsies done of her stomach and small intestine. The brain and the digestive procedures indicated abnormalities, but her symptoms have subsided. What I know is that she feels good except for a UTI, that she's making straight As, and that she's been in the paper on the swim team 3 times, having won an event her first meet.
Some other things we are still wading through and led to my explosive "phone throwing" on Saturday. We have to come, as a family, to a meeting of the minds. Any logical parent knows that it starts with us. So, for the third time in the last year or so, I found myself at the altar Sunday morning, asking the Lord to finish me, empty me of myself so that I am not a stumbling block for my children, or anyone for that matter, that daily discipline of moderation in all things: modesty, music, meals, minutes, and money, be found final and not teetering. "Clean" versions of songs is not what David spoke of in Psalm 18, "Therefore will I give thanks unto thee, O LORD, among the heathen, and sing praises unto thy name." It's more like, "It is better to hear the rebuke of the wise, than for a man to hear the song of fools," in Ecclesiastes 7. What are people hearing us ride down the road to, the praises unto His name or the song of fools?
With money, do I piddle it away? Do I buy needless things? Or do I wait for my Lord to show Himself. Recently, I bought the first new shirt I have bought for myself in I don't know when. It took almost a month to arrive, the whole while I was anticipating the beginnings of a new "look." When it finally did, it wasn't at all what I thought it would be. Not only do I have no business wearing that fabric, it wasn't long enough to cover the derriere of the jeans I'd like to wear. Funny how when we're in the perpetual state of losing weight/getting in shape, we excuse ourselves with that needed support, otherwise known as tight jeans. With modest, upstanding dress, it actually should work in reverse, a tight hind end with roomy jeans, or slacks for those of us who are still wanting class, or maybe us soon to be grandmothers. I don't wish to become matronly or sloppy, but I do think my casual self could move it up a notch, especially since we don't live on a farm anymore nor do we have drooling children.
Do I think my new clothes are just going to show up? In a way, yes, because when it came down to it, I found out the new shirt was meant for someone else. I love that God is gentle enough to show us that even our smallest mistakes can be redeemed for beautiful causes. And it turns out when I was at the gym the other day that I had on a shirt McKala gave me, pants Miranda gave me, and shoes Megan gave me; and it all looked really good!
We're supposed to be content with our food and clothes alone. So, when it comes down to the nitty-gritty on spending, I don't think we're supposed to use it on much else. Even then, did He not say that He feeds and clothes the sparrows. So, why is it that I assume I have to go looking/shopping? Matthew 6 tells me not to worry about it. Seeking the Kingdom first will take care of that.
Over the last weeks, have I been to the grocery store? Yes. But during the "short" weeks, where it was getting tight before the next check, something has been happening consistently. One week someone Mike met gave us 3 packs of beef from a cow he had slaughtered. Later, hamburgers were sent to our house after a company picnic. The next week our new friend gave us a turkey, as though we were doing her a favor. Then, the church gave us a big bucket of soup. Last week, my parents sent a turkey (and apples) with Megan, and Dr. Miller sent three pounds of sausage home through Michael. This week someone gave Mike a pack of deer burger and a pack of deer sausage. I know we can't require meet every meal; that's how I know these are not only provision but gifts of God.
Just this morning, I used our leftover mashed white (and sweet) potatoes to make fried potato cakes. And tonight, we'll have quiche with the last of the ham and the bag of cheese Shannon gave us. (Yes, we have our Kentucky friend as a house guest, who kindly pays rent, until she finds a place of her own.) Lately, we've had freshly ground grain pancakes, frozen fruit smoothies, popcorn - the kind you have to cook on the stove, and all manner of whole foods, which is what you have when you're down to nothing. Guess what? It's a very healthy, modest, and sobering way to live. Plus, all that cooking and washing keeps you in the nerve center of the home, the kitchen.
As we Americans do after Thanksgiving, we (hopefully) come down from the high of sugar, caffeine, salt, and fat. Interesting that "All the labour of man is for his mouth, and yet the appetite is not filled." (Ecclesiastes 6: 7) It doesn't take much for most of us to fall back into our addictive eating patterns. Yesterday even, I had thought that a particular doughnut would satiate my fancy and that I would give myself until the end of the week to get back on course since my cycle hadn't ended yet, to "allow" me back to my regular activities with Macklynn at the Y while Madalynn swims on the team.
My friend and Madalynn's art teacher, Melanie, whom I met in the parking lot did not know the cause of the beeline I was on when I took her cart for the "one" item I was there for. Oddly enough, they were out of the one and only kind I wanted. I settled for less. And as I bit into it, expecting it to be full of cream, alas, it was not. I got a good laugh at myself, and with God for subtly showing me that my satisfaction is no longer found in things that are bad for me, plus I'd "piddled" $4 for a box of something I didn't even want.
So, in the quiet of this morning, while the ones who have left are at their posts and the ones who were home were sleeping late, I considered all these things and my return to a "normal" week, which is almost too normal. I have the status quo of two children to teach, a husband who has a daily job returning home in his soiled Carhartt overalls, to me oftentimes in my apron trying to piece together a meal. We hardly know what to do with routine, the absence of distress and imminent disaster.
It must be where "the finishing" starts. It must be where we are made useful. It must be where I remember who I am, that I am David, guilty of unspeakable things, and that God alone without any of my "Southern pride" in my boots or "country roots" with my gun or "big family status" with my crew will refine me into a woman whose repute transcends generations and cultures. Nothing matters to me any more now than that the name of Jesus be known. I understand that I am not to just chat but to bring God in the conversation by forming the habit of prayer with my friends and family. And I understand now, specifically after a conversation with one of Melody's doctors, that I'm to speak the name of not only God but Jesus, the way Michael did in the video for his school. God knows he is not ashamed and will be guiding him soon into a place of study that Michael has fought long and hard for, possibly to play Division 1 football - a homeschooled, country boy who went hunting every morning the last trip home.
That's the part of the premise of the book I'm reading now in the carline for Melody, "How to Make a Meatball," that God can and will use anyone. Shannon gave me that book after we heard the author at the Festival of Tables, which was my first real go at participating in being a help to organized women's ministry. After all, I did have the wedding decorations to use. But the word "organized" scares me sometimes, because a lot of the time we do more damage than good when we get "organized," especially when we misuse our time and resources from our first loves: God, husband, and children. That said, I also just finished up my first time being part of a "Women's Bible Study" and for several reasons am considering hosting one at our home in the near future.
It's a struggle, that balance, between home and ministry. Now that my children are more independent, I have some freedom to venture out. But I prefer that they venture with me. It's good for children to see their parents passionately reach out to people, ideally one person at a time, before we can be trusted with many more Especially now that the last of us, Macklynn, was baptized with all his siblings looking on, and understands that life lived to ourselves is no life at all.
Wednesday, December 14th
After visits, calls, and emails with several colleges, Michael verbally committed to play football at the D1 AA level with Western Carolina University today. Four year, full ride. He won't have to pay for anything. He's spent his summers working since he was 11 years old. He became Company Commander, Cadet of the Year, and football MVP then captain, at military school. He got up at 4:30 for workouts, even when he didn't have to. He made the National Honor Society. Most importantly, he and the assistant chaplain began a Bible study. The Lord has made the way and the provision, and Michael has followed and performed all that he could to get to this day.
Mike will have been clean a year January 6th and is "planting seeds" all over the county.
Megan has already paid off half her debt.
Miranda is still in the business of saving the unborn and training diligently to save the victims of fire.
McKala and Timothy are pregnant with TWINS.
Michael has landed the scholarship.
Melody is well and on her way and a trusted ear to her peers.
Macklynn is baptized into the congregation of the saints.
Madalynn still aspires to make beautiful things, as her brother makes scientific ones, both of which I loved the most in school. Another gift of my Lord.
"Thou hast turned for me my mourning into dancing: thou hast put off my sackcloth, and girded me with gladness; to the end that my glory may sing praise to thee, and not be silent. O LORD my God, I will give thanks unto thee forever." Psalm 30: 11-12
Even though two days ago, I did not get such happy news. McKala's lab workup came back showing higher numbers of the mycoplasma (walking pneumonia) that troubles her lungs. She's being sent to an infectious disease doctor. I'm thankful they don't have to search blindly for what it is, and I'm hopeful that God will draw her closer as she trusts in Him for her own life and the two within. Pray that she pulls her strength from Him for not only one but two babies. And pray for my mother, who has fallen from an 8 foot ladder and shattered her heel in three places, requiring extensive surgery.
Wednesday, December 14, 2016
Wednesday, June 29, 2016
Books
Books, stacks of books everywhere. One for the young ones' summer learning. One for Michael's NCAA core curriculum worksheets. One for McKala and Timothy to read excerpts on marriage. One Melody took to camp with her to be academically confident upon entering high school.
But you know what? I've gotten rid of the ones that didn't stand the test of time. And that includes the mounds of workbooks I've always drug along, just in case. All anybody really needs to teach young people is a good, right to the point math workbook and well written older books that have a moral to the story. I would say the Word also, but it is wiser that the parent have a good working knowledge of it themselves rather than treat the Holy Bible like a mandatory textbook.
I've been going through the roomful of storage that flooded when the dehumidifier quit on the air unit. I dumped out the plastic bin of my childhood activities. Seems like I went to every camp, jamboree, lesson, and VBS in the region. I entered and won almost every contest, exhibit, and officer's position I could. But for what? Ribbons, trophies, letters, and awards to look at these many years later?
Achievement is good. Service is better.
I have cards from all the way back. I'm keeping the handwritten notes, like the one from a classmate thanking me for helping out. That's what really matters all those years ago. Wish I had more of those to speak of. That's what I'm pursuing in raising my own children, that they might be a help, not a star, but a help.
Among the cards separated into years, intermittently I have letters written to myself of how I might improve so that my husband might love me, not equating my bouts with gluttony and vanity with his drunkenness, the way the Bible does. That's why I can't get this mess up and done in the basement, for the flow of memories that come with it.
I was always trying to reach the pinnacle of a more perfect household and body, waiting for the day that things would go just right, not understanding that God is looking for a perfect heart, not a perfect day.
I've had friends who believed adversity was always a direct result of personal sin. I've studied too many stories in the Bible now to believe that. "Asa's heart was perfect with the LORD all his days ...Nevertheless in the time of his old age he was diseased in his feet." And there "was a great woman" who made her home open to Elisha and was then blessed in her old age with a child. Yet, "And when the child was grown, it fell on a day, that he went to his father to the reapers. And he said unto his father, My head, my head." He died and was later restored to life by Elisha. And then there was the man who was blind from his birth and Jesus' disciples asked,"Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind? Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him."
What I am convinced of is that "The Lord's mercy often rides to the door of our hearts on the black horse of affliction." Mike's cousin posted this Spurgeon quote today. Similarly, Megan posted, "Pressure makes diamonds."
So, as I wrote the last blog post, awaiting those summer days I could hammock with the young ones and reclaim lost time, the storage room was about to flood. A head cold was about to invade the house and has yet to leave. Melody had to go back to the doctor, plus she's gotten a very black eye playing ball and has a serious case of poison ivy at camp. But the camp nurse messaged me that she is getting better and "smiling as her usual." Megan has hurt a place on her back that even the chiropractor can't help and has taken the cold with her to work in the 100 degree weather in Georgia. Michael has managed to elude the problems the rest of us have. His summer is no easy task though. He gets up at 4:30 am, gets home no earlier than 4:30 pm, spends most every evening in the gym, and tries to consume 6,000 calories a day. And virtually every dime he makes is going back to the school or to the gas tank.
And McKala, she's the real reason I'm writing today. Last week, I noticed she was speaking lightly. Then, I noticed she was oversleeping. So, I asked her what else might be wrong. A while later, she said, "My back (lungs) hurt like they used to."
Today, we found out the labwork shows another active case of walking pneumonia. This time she's been prescribed antibiotic therapy for 6 months. Thankfully, the doctor considered that she doesn't have insurance and got us huge discounts on everything.
So, the young woman who will soon be a bride will carry this burden into her new life. I pray that it will only draw her closer to the Lord in whatever He has to teach or show by it.
Because we don't always have to sit by and suffer needlessly. Hezekiah "trusted in the LORD God of Israel; so that after him was none like him among all the kings of Judah, nor any that were before him. For he clave to the LORD, and departed not from following him, but kept his commandments, which the LORD commanded Moses. And the LORD was with him; and he prospered as he went forth: and he rebelled against the king of Assyria, and served him not." Later in 2 Kings 20, "In those days was Hezekiah sick unto death. And the prophet Isaiah the son of Amoz came to him, and said unto him, Thus saith the LORD, Set thine house in order; for thou shalt die, and not live. Then he turned his face to the wall, and prayed unto the LORD, saying, I beseech thee, O LORD, remember now how I have walked before thee in truth and with a perfect heart, and have done that which is good in thy sight. And Hezekiah wept sore. And it came to pass, afore Isaiah was gone out into the middle court, that the word of the LORD came to him saying, Turn again, and tell Hezekiah the captain of my people, Thus said the LORD, the God of David thy father, I have heard thy prayer, I have seen they tears: behold, I will heal thee: on the third day thou shalt go up unto the house of the LORD. And I will add unto thy days fifteen years; and I will deliver thee and this city out of the hand of the king of Assyria; and I will defend this city for mine own sake, and for my servant David's sake. And Isaiah said, Take a lump of figs. And they took and laid it on the boil, and he recovered."
But in the meantime, we press on. That "perfect day" doesn't come often and when it does, there isn't much to claim in it. For even the heathen can manage as well, just as they take care of their own. But we are called to a higher place, not to wait for seamless circumstances to control our tempers or our appetites or our spending or our duties. The discipline of a seasoned believer is tested in the midst of the mess. "Beloved, think it not strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try you, as though some strange thing happened unto you." Funny how we like to only apply that to outlandish persecutions and not to everyday temptations. Ending out this saying is verse 19, "Wherefore let them that suffer according to the will of God commit the keeping of their souls to him in well doing, as unto a faithful Creator."
Today is another less than perfect day. I would have it be perfect, but that perfect schedule is always just past my grasp. But that basement has to be done sometime or another. So, we rescued part of the day by pulling the car around nearby the basement doors so that Macklynn and Madalynn could clean it without being so near the road and out of sight. And before that, Macklynn read his word problems to me and tackled some new concepts, though it was for a few minutes before I got the call about McKala's results. God knows I want to do what is right. He knows if we groan in our spirits when we are prevented from performing what seems good, just as He knows when we sigh of relief when we get out of having to do something. He knows if I'm glad I got out of that walk because of my cold. He knows that I got out anyway just for the sake of discipline for the kids. Something is always better than nothing. That is all that matters, the heart cleaving to what is good. That we pursue the right track but are willing to pause for the needs of others. It is nothing to boast of a pristine routine that rejects the inconvenient and immediate needs of a lost and dying community. 1 Corinthians 13 says I can move mountains and bestow all my goods on the poor, "and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing."
Teetering, I'm always teetering somewhere between dying for structure and denying it the inherent stranglehold it brings. I rewrite my day over and over. For someone who's used to winning, it makes sense that losing would be the way God shows me I am not the one in control.
July 1st, our 27th anniversary it will be. We thought I'd get to ride up and be with Mike in the hotel where he's staying to help his new employer gather propane tanks that have been swept away by the floods. It doesn't look like that's gonna work out either. But something I have found in the oceans of things downstairs is history, a history that no one has but us. I even feel kind of lost without him here. I used to breathe a sigh of relief when he left (as I'm sure he did, never able to live up to my expectations). We have progress. We have something to go on now. We have a mutual desire to serve the Lord and make Him known. So, here I am crying again, with little cause compared with the souls that were washed away in the flood or the people in the explosion today at the aluminum plant my father used to supervise.
As if all this is not emotional enough, I got a letter just this afternoon from Melody saying the kind of things a mother longs to hear, of thanks and acknowledgement of our friendship and sentiments of regret, and that she misses us - the one who was so frustrated and eager to leave. Can't say that I blame her though. She had to fill my shoes for many months of the last year. As the card I found from Megan states, "Motherhood is not for sissies. Motherhood is not for women with weak stomachs, strict routines, or white wall-to-wall carpeting. Motherhood is not for women unable to juggle three things at once, read between the lines, or face fear on a regular basis. Motherhood is not for women who can't answer the same knock-knock joke 'umpteen' times a day, the endless 'whys?' of childhood, or hear the unspoken feelings of a child's heart. Motherhood is for women who can taste the tea in an empty cup, see the smiles behind the peanut butter, and the genius in the tiny scribbles. Motherhood is for the caring and courageous women who make a difference in the lives they touch - women just like you."
So, while some of you will be in church tonight wondering where I am, I'll be in the basement fighting back the residual cough I have ...and more tears, I'm sure. Because I'm not quite done going through those old things that remind me how far we've come and give me hope that we will make it to where we're supposed to go ...
Then again, I might be downstairs listening to the bats chirp and laughing about last night when the kids were trying to smoke the bats out of the fireplace insert, and Miranda decided to take the airsoft machine gun with Mike's night vision scope on it to inspect from the rooftop, as the police drove by suspiciously. We have plenty of times to look back on and to realize that while we have lagged here and there, we stopped the regimen for something different than we could have imagined and learned life spontaneously and delightfully without stunting one part for the other.
Some of you probably took offense when I posted over the weekend that if your Christian walk is boring, it isn't God's fault you're an ungrateful prude. I only meant that there is endless adventure and that you can jump in or you can sit back and watch. But don't blame God for an uneventful path and nothing to bring to the table of relationships when you are unwilling to sacrifice that which is safe and comfortable. Most of the time, you just have to throw the book out the window and let God write the rest. Grace doesn't excuse oneself from the law but supercedes the law. Else if we all had a textbook life, we would have no need to go before the throne of our Father all hours of the day and of the night to know Him as such.
But you know what? I've gotten rid of the ones that didn't stand the test of time. And that includes the mounds of workbooks I've always drug along, just in case. All anybody really needs to teach young people is a good, right to the point math workbook and well written older books that have a moral to the story. I would say the Word also, but it is wiser that the parent have a good working knowledge of it themselves rather than treat the Holy Bible like a mandatory textbook.
I've been going through the roomful of storage that flooded when the dehumidifier quit on the air unit. I dumped out the plastic bin of my childhood activities. Seems like I went to every camp, jamboree, lesson, and VBS in the region. I entered and won almost every contest, exhibit, and officer's position I could. But for what? Ribbons, trophies, letters, and awards to look at these many years later?
Achievement is good. Service is better.
I have cards from all the way back. I'm keeping the handwritten notes, like the one from a classmate thanking me for helping out. That's what really matters all those years ago. Wish I had more of those to speak of. That's what I'm pursuing in raising my own children, that they might be a help, not a star, but a help.
Among the cards separated into years, intermittently I have letters written to myself of how I might improve so that my husband might love me, not equating my bouts with gluttony and vanity with his drunkenness, the way the Bible does. That's why I can't get this mess up and done in the basement, for the flow of memories that come with it.
I was always trying to reach the pinnacle of a more perfect household and body, waiting for the day that things would go just right, not understanding that God is looking for a perfect heart, not a perfect day.
I've had friends who believed adversity was always a direct result of personal sin. I've studied too many stories in the Bible now to believe that. "Asa's heart was perfect with the LORD all his days ...Nevertheless in the time of his old age he was diseased in his feet." And there "was a great woman" who made her home open to Elisha and was then blessed in her old age with a child. Yet, "And when the child was grown, it fell on a day, that he went to his father to the reapers. And he said unto his father, My head, my head." He died and was later restored to life by Elisha. And then there was the man who was blind from his birth and Jesus' disciples asked,"Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind? Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him."
What I am convinced of is that "The Lord's mercy often rides to the door of our hearts on the black horse of affliction." Mike's cousin posted this Spurgeon quote today. Similarly, Megan posted, "Pressure makes diamonds."
So, as I wrote the last blog post, awaiting those summer days I could hammock with the young ones and reclaim lost time, the storage room was about to flood. A head cold was about to invade the house and has yet to leave. Melody had to go back to the doctor, plus she's gotten a very black eye playing ball and has a serious case of poison ivy at camp. But the camp nurse messaged me that she is getting better and "smiling as her usual." Megan has hurt a place on her back that even the chiropractor can't help and has taken the cold with her to work in the 100 degree weather in Georgia. Michael has managed to elude the problems the rest of us have. His summer is no easy task though. He gets up at 4:30 am, gets home no earlier than 4:30 pm, spends most every evening in the gym, and tries to consume 6,000 calories a day. And virtually every dime he makes is going back to the school or to the gas tank.
And McKala, she's the real reason I'm writing today. Last week, I noticed she was speaking lightly. Then, I noticed she was oversleeping. So, I asked her what else might be wrong. A while later, she said, "My back (lungs) hurt like they used to."
Today, we found out the labwork shows another active case of walking pneumonia. This time she's been prescribed antibiotic therapy for 6 months. Thankfully, the doctor considered that she doesn't have insurance and got us huge discounts on everything.
So, the young woman who will soon be a bride will carry this burden into her new life. I pray that it will only draw her closer to the Lord in whatever He has to teach or show by it.
Because we don't always have to sit by and suffer needlessly. Hezekiah "trusted in the LORD God of Israel; so that after him was none like him among all the kings of Judah, nor any that were before him. For he clave to the LORD, and departed not from following him, but kept his commandments, which the LORD commanded Moses. And the LORD was with him; and he prospered as he went forth: and he rebelled against the king of Assyria, and served him not." Later in 2 Kings 20, "In those days was Hezekiah sick unto death. And the prophet Isaiah the son of Amoz came to him, and said unto him, Thus saith the LORD, Set thine house in order; for thou shalt die, and not live. Then he turned his face to the wall, and prayed unto the LORD, saying, I beseech thee, O LORD, remember now how I have walked before thee in truth and with a perfect heart, and have done that which is good in thy sight. And Hezekiah wept sore. And it came to pass, afore Isaiah was gone out into the middle court, that the word of the LORD came to him saying, Turn again, and tell Hezekiah the captain of my people, Thus said the LORD, the God of David thy father, I have heard thy prayer, I have seen they tears: behold, I will heal thee: on the third day thou shalt go up unto the house of the LORD. And I will add unto thy days fifteen years; and I will deliver thee and this city out of the hand of the king of Assyria; and I will defend this city for mine own sake, and for my servant David's sake. And Isaiah said, Take a lump of figs. And they took and laid it on the boil, and he recovered."
But in the meantime, we press on. That "perfect day" doesn't come often and when it does, there isn't much to claim in it. For even the heathen can manage as well, just as they take care of their own. But we are called to a higher place, not to wait for seamless circumstances to control our tempers or our appetites or our spending or our duties. The discipline of a seasoned believer is tested in the midst of the mess. "Beloved, think it not strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try you, as though some strange thing happened unto you." Funny how we like to only apply that to outlandish persecutions and not to everyday temptations. Ending out this saying is verse 19, "Wherefore let them that suffer according to the will of God commit the keeping of their souls to him in well doing, as unto a faithful Creator."
Today is another less than perfect day. I would have it be perfect, but that perfect schedule is always just past my grasp. But that basement has to be done sometime or another. So, we rescued part of the day by pulling the car around nearby the basement doors so that Macklynn and Madalynn could clean it without being so near the road and out of sight. And before that, Macklynn read his word problems to me and tackled some new concepts, though it was for a few minutes before I got the call about McKala's results. God knows I want to do what is right. He knows if we groan in our spirits when we are prevented from performing what seems good, just as He knows when we sigh of relief when we get out of having to do something. He knows if I'm glad I got out of that walk because of my cold. He knows that I got out anyway just for the sake of discipline for the kids. Something is always better than nothing. That is all that matters, the heart cleaving to what is good. That we pursue the right track but are willing to pause for the needs of others. It is nothing to boast of a pristine routine that rejects the inconvenient and immediate needs of a lost and dying community. 1 Corinthians 13 says I can move mountains and bestow all my goods on the poor, "and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing."
Teetering, I'm always teetering somewhere between dying for structure and denying it the inherent stranglehold it brings. I rewrite my day over and over. For someone who's used to winning, it makes sense that losing would be the way God shows me I am not the one in control.
July 1st, our 27th anniversary it will be. We thought I'd get to ride up and be with Mike in the hotel where he's staying to help his new employer gather propane tanks that have been swept away by the floods. It doesn't look like that's gonna work out either. But something I have found in the oceans of things downstairs is history, a history that no one has but us. I even feel kind of lost without him here. I used to breathe a sigh of relief when he left (as I'm sure he did, never able to live up to my expectations). We have progress. We have something to go on now. We have a mutual desire to serve the Lord and make Him known. So, here I am crying again, with little cause compared with the souls that were washed away in the flood or the people in the explosion today at the aluminum plant my father used to supervise.
As if all this is not emotional enough, I got a letter just this afternoon from Melody saying the kind of things a mother longs to hear, of thanks and acknowledgement of our friendship and sentiments of regret, and that she misses us - the one who was so frustrated and eager to leave. Can't say that I blame her though. She had to fill my shoes for many months of the last year. As the card I found from Megan states, "Motherhood is not for sissies. Motherhood is not for women with weak stomachs, strict routines, or white wall-to-wall carpeting. Motherhood is not for women unable to juggle three things at once, read between the lines, or face fear on a regular basis. Motherhood is not for women who can't answer the same knock-knock joke 'umpteen' times a day, the endless 'whys?' of childhood, or hear the unspoken feelings of a child's heart. Motherhood is for women who can taste the tea in an empty cup, see the smiles behind the peanut butter, and the genius in the tiny scribbles. Motherhood is for the caring and courageous women who make a difference in the lives they touch - women just like you."
So, while some of you will be in church tonight wondering where I am, I'll be in the basement fighting back the residual cough I have ...and more tears, I'm sure. Because I'm not quite done going through those old things that remind me how far we've come and give me hope that we will make it to where we're supposed to go ...
Then again, I might be downstairs listening to the bats chirp and laughing about last night when the kids were trying to smoke the bats out of the fireplace insert, and Miranda decided to take the airsoft machine gun with Mike's night vision scope on it to inspect from the rooftop, as the police drove by suspiciously. We have plenty of times to look back on and to realize that while we have lagged here and there, we stopped the regimen for something different than we could have imagined and learned life spontaneously and delightfully without stunting one part for the other.
Some of you probably took offense when I posted over the weekend that if your Christian walk is boring, it isn't God's fault you're an ungrateful prude. I only meant that there is endless adventure and that you can jump in or you can sit back and watch. But don't blame God for an uneventful path and nothing to bring to the table of relationships when you are unwilling to sacrifice that which is safe and comfortable. Most of the time, you just have to throw the book out the window and let God write the rest. Grace doesn't excuse oneself from the law but supercedes the law. Else if we all had a textbook life, we would have no need to go before the throne of our Father all hours of the day and of the night to know Him as such.
Sunday, June 5, 2016
Bags
Bags, bags everywhere, all the time. This has been a breakthrough year. Never so much a need for bags. It started in January when I took Mike's things to the rehab center where nothing much more than his Bible, work and dress clothes were allowed. Then, after months of consideration Megan packed her bags for Georgia to take an advisor's position in hopes of being loosed from her debt in a year's time. Melody, having never been to the ER, has been 5 times in the last 2 months but is now packing her bags to be a camp leader and Biblical intern for 8 weeks, all because a sweet lady she works with in the kitchen at church took it upon herself to raise the majority of the money. Miranda trying to maintain steadiness in all the storms has bags of Bible school materials ready to teach her 4 year olds next week. McKala became engaged while away on the yearly deep sea fishing excursion with her sisters and my parents this month and will pack her bags in August to live her new life. Macklynn's baseball bag sits here as the season that almost didn't begin is coming to an end. And Madalynn, laying down her karate one and packing another for anything any of us will let her go along with us for.
My bags: one for Virgie's, one for DJ, and one for the Y, they are empty. Last week, the tables turned at Virgie's. I hadn't planned it; but in hindsight, I see the pieces that were falling in place. Michael's final payment was made to the school. Another caregiver had come on board. And we were asking God if I needed to stay long enough to pay for McKala's wedding. But it was a gnawing question, and I was becoming restless in a setting that was no longer mine to be in. That chapter was closing but not before I got off my chest things that had to be said. And I said them. Boy, did I say them. But at least now, I can go to her funeral, knowing I did all I could possibly do to persuade her that in the end, the "good Christian life" she quoted does not suffice for the unkindness that permeates from her core and always has.
DJ, his mental health doctor assessed him and told him he was "free," free from his sedation for the depression and voices he hears. But what surfaced is he not free from the psychosis that his mother contributed to when she took advantage of him sexually. Like always, I was quickly helping him with his church clothes Wednesday night and yawning incessantly when I told him I needed to go home and go straight to bed since in the last 3 weeks, there were 6 nights I slept 3 hours or less. He laughed and said, "You can lay with me." I immediately scolded him, "That's the opposite of what the Bible teaches!" He laughed again and said, "Mike doesn't have to know."
And that's when I knew he was very aware of what he was saying and that we had a problem. You see, I know it is never a woman's place to minister to any man other than her husband, but in the state of mind I met him in, that rule didn't seem to apply. Actually, I'm still okay with that initial decision to grant him his request to go to church with us. But now, this season also has come to a close. I've emptied the bag I carried his things in. I earnestly pray that someone, a man, takes the baton from me so that DJ isn't forgotten.
The Y - a few weeks ago we had a misunderstanding and Macklynn was "lost" for nearly 20 minutes. Every available employee was looking for him. His name was called across the intercom. The building was put on lockdown. No Macklynn. Toward the end, I actually sought God that if Macklynn had been dragged away from the building, He would just end it, that he would not have to endure the suffering, the torture, the innocent confusion. I don't know if that is a right prayer to pray but at that moment, I just wanted him to be safe.
Finally, someone found him playing in the kiddy pool. He must've been under water when I looked and couldn't make out the page when it went out. He was truly bewildered at all the commotion. I was so relieved that I got light headed. Instead of in the weight room, I wound up lying on the bleachers by the pool for an hour. I haven't been back.
Part of it is that I've been overcome with activity. Part of it is that I've neglected my progress and gained 6 or 7 pounds in the last while. Some days gluttonous but most of them just not careful. Funny, instead of fasting under stress that we would grow fat instead. Rebellion.
The last hurdle of the month was Michael's graduation party. It was a gathering of mostly men who have sewn into Michael's life come to see the harvest. Little did we know when we arrived in Fork Union, Virginia, Saturday morning that at an awards banquet the night before, he had received not only the overall MVP for football 9th through 12th grades but also the "Distinguished Cadet" Award that is given to one individual in each grade. He took what was given to him and made the very best of it, despite several classmates who purposefully made it hard on him.
But upon the final announcement of their graduation, I saw something else, a brotherhood. Young men seeking him out in the crowd and he doing the same. Big hugs between comrades.
He was invited to an afterparty. Mike and I decided to indulge the idea. I was disheartened at what I saw but was glad that we got to be privy to it as a family. Only select young men were invited, but unfortunately the "selects" of this world are often taught to make bad choices. The catered food was terrific, the house the same Colonial one Michael and Melody got to stay in for the Military Ball. But this time, there was alcohol around every corner. And anyone, perhaps especially the underaged, were permitted by the parents. Parents from all corners of the world, almost every continent.
Finally a bottle of Tequila and a shot glass arrived from another set of parents and began circulating. I saw Michael step away from the group of his classmates who were partaking. Perhaps, in respect to his father. I hope moreso in respect to his Father and the reputation and example that ought to go hand in hand with a believer.
Mike has not had a drink since the first week of January. This was just one of many trials he's had since his return home. Since we've laid all the cards on the table, he's found out some devastating things. It's also been hard to reorient into the family. I don't know that anyone has put in writing how intricate a task it is for an addict to come to terms with his sober personality. But I know by his prayers that his heart is intent on finishing the course, no matter how much is body objects sometimes. No one said dying daily to ourselves would be easy, for any of us.
He has again a good excuse for any addict to return to his feeding ground, an injury, a shoulder injury. Instead of seeking pain killers, he told his doctor the truth about his addiction and was prescribed sleep medicine until he can get treatment, which is where it plays out well that the job he was promised 3 months finally came through but not before he acquired another one! He intends to keep them both. Starting last Friday night, I am going with him on a dedicated run to Ohio, back in 24 hours. It is the equivalent to what I was making at Virgie's so we can still pay toward McKala's wedding AND I can be home with my husband and children weeknights again.
Back to the bag, I grabbed a few things and stuffed them into the overnight one from Virgie's and off we went, trucking together for the first time in over 3 years. I didn't talk the whole way trip up except to answer him. He talked on and on. And that was okay. I needed to just be. It's been that kind of month.
Melody's had a real go of it, averaging being in the emergency department more than once a week lately. First a CT to rule out a brain tumor after a routine eye exam, then onto a spinal puncture to check the fluid pressure. Bingo, that's what was causing the swollen optic nerves, headaches, and wouldbe vision loss. The second trip was worse than the first because she had developed the "spinal headache" associated with lumbar taps. The pain is basically untreatable until a "blood patch" is done to stop the leakage from the puncture site. The diuretic that inhibits the production of spinal fluid also caused her to return to the ER for invasive treatment. After a surgeon chose to admit her, the doctors had no explanation after the blockage "disappeared." But I know that my God knows when a person has had enough and that He answers the most basic of prayers.
Then, we went ahead against the advice of her attending Neurologist and Opthamologist to have her scheduled Tonsillectomy. She said she could not stand to be as sick as she was last summer at camp, having every bug around going straight to her throat.
Lo and behold, she had a super swelling of her uvula, touching her tongue and making it impossible to sleep and all but closing the airway, inducing another run to the ER where they administered steroids. Then, when all seemed clear after a few days, one side began to bleed, pulsating blood. The gargling ice water seemed no opponent for the blood that was pouring out of her nose and mouth. I hadn't had coffee nor could find my glasses, so I screamed for Mike to take her on. It took quite some time for them to stop the bleeding.
All these procedures and introductions to medical staff who answered her many questions fed the appetite she's always had for the medical field. And she has learned in quick time empathy as a patient. This is the girl who instead of reading romance novels reads and memorizes anatomy for fun, who watches surgery videos for entertainment.. She's always wanted to be an ER surgeon. And I can't help but believe she's got what it takes. She's beginning to own her own education and is ready to enter the public realm. As long as she follows Michael's footsteps as a leader and not a follower, all will be well.
Michael hit the ground running when he got home. Monday morning he was in the office of his "sponsor," aka his middle school basketball coach who recruited Michael to his Fork Union alma mater. Michael was drilling holes for his blasting company on Tuesday, "pulling" a calf with Dr. Miller on Wednesday, got an offer for some other job, and had a forth job in the works by Thursday, a man who needs help pressure washing houses. Under the advice of several coaches, Michael is passing up significant scholarships and returning for a post grad season at Fork Union to get more exposure and to continue gaining strength as in the 4 am workouts he's already been doing with the PG team. He plans to fund as much of it as he can himself. And I have to support that kind of dedication.
And to Megan's cause , I must give my support although she is being put through the ringer. She's screamed at daily by her boss or customers or both. She is a worker, a pleaser. Her self induced obligation makes her do well but take unwarranted disapproval all the harder. She is 6th in the line of Harpers who have within the last year been face to face with employers or coworkers who have been virtually unbearable. It has become evident that we are being trained for something, broken for something, bigger than ourselves.
McKala escaped her toxic work environment and was even paid more for less effort, which opened the door for her focus on getting well. She went to the gym, even though it was prescribed anogony. The specialists at Duke told her it would be for the first 4 or 5 months, until her heart gained strength to overcome the imbalance of her other systems (and that was after she fought her third bought with Walking Pneumonia). All this without her regular medications, because at the end February she lost insurance coverage. But a couple of weeks ago, she looked at me in the kitchen and said, "I missed a couple of days of my heart pills and my heart rate didn't go up." That's huge! It means she's getting well, finally after 5 years.
And to think, in less than 3 months, she will be rightly married in white to a man who loves the Lord and knows to guard her heart. It's making me well up just to think of the grace shed on her after all her entanglements with disease.
Then there's Miranda, no big bags moving to speak of right now, still just unpacking the ones from the gulf of Florida. But that's good. For Miranda steady is good. For someone who is moved easily to become firmer is good. Her heart, I see it moving though. Her heart is always toward people, not always so for her mouth, but her heart is ever moving toward the Lord. Those kinds of moves don't get awards or job promotions or reciprocating relationships, but they are noticed by the Lord, and by me. Miranda is more like me than she would ever wish on herself. Bless the child's heart, we realize daily the things we have in common and they are not always good. But at least, it enables me to understand what she's getting at and to know what to pray for her!
At last, there are my littles, which Macklynn says they do not qualify for anymore. He proved it at his first baseball practice, after having nearly blown his thumb and index finger off altogether last August. I hadn't told the coaches of his injury since I had informed them he had just come off a 5 day stomach flu.
Wouldn't you know, there at the end of practice, the coach hit a pop fly right to him in left field? It hit him square on the scar, and he began to cry. When the outfield coach took off his glove, he saw why. I sat on the bleachers stoic, as he was escorted to the dugout to the head coach. After the evaluation, I walked slowly over but not too awfully close, unemotionally as possible nodding asking him how it felt. I didn't want to cater to his pain so that he would have more reason to up and quit. He sat and nursed the sting, and I sat back on the bleachers. When batting practice started, he decided to participate. And I knew then, my little boy had taken a step into manhood.
McKala did her part and got him a palm guard, some pants, and his very own baseball bag from the sports store she works at. I never bought the others their own bag, and she just wanted him to have that.
We all are going to miss more than we think the nuances of the family innerworkings. We're already down one member. This fall, it will be one off to college as it were, one off to marriage, and one off to high school. All with more bags than I care to imagine.
But as God would have it in the cycle of a large family, I still will have my Macklynn and Madalynn to dwell on. My Macklynn who is busy being rescued from his inward world into the world of the only man who can fitly draw him out, his father. They already have been working on mowers, cleaning gutters, and beyond, while at night reading the Word and praying, without the all intrusive sound of a television. This is happening for an 11 year old boy who when I took out the DVO on his father, I asked, "How do you feel about this?" couldn't get out the words, only a beleaguered thumbs up sitting there beside me in the courthouse. A boy who in the midst of the fallout said he hated us all AND God. Big words in a house where those words are not allowed.
And the little girl who wants to be big, who has been using her sisters' razors unbenounced and panicked when there were none to be found while they were away at the beach for 10 days, the girl who's already sporting bras and believing crushes are the norm, BUT also in her own words "helped a girl get saved" in the bathroom at a baseball game. She outrightly asks if people are Christians. I too have a "little me" on my hands and much work to do. This never gets any easier. Every child is so very different.
I'm hoping sometime soon we'll get to those camping and hiking trips we haven't taken. And I can pack up my old LL Bean bag with my new ENO hammock and Camelbak the girls got me for Mother's Day. And we can act a little like normal folk, because I'm just plain worn out. My whole right side has turned arthritic, and I could use some good times. However it comes, I'll take it. I'm brought back to a place where my family is my only service, not that I could ever leave the house and miss an opportunity to share my Lord. But we're back to "us"... "us" is all I can be right now and I trust that all the "you's" out there will understand and take the time to consider your own "us" and what bags you yourselves should be setting down or picking up ...
My bags: one for Virgie's, one for DJ, and one for the Y, they are empty. Last week, the tables turned at Virgie's. I hadn't planned it; but in hindsight, I see the pieces that were falling in place. Michael's final payment was made to the school. Another caregiver had come on board. And we were asking God if I needed to stay long enough to pay for McKala's wedding. But it was a gnawing question, and I was becoming restless in a setting that was no longer mine to be in. That chapter was closing but not before I got off my chest things that had to be said. And I said them. Boy, did I say them. But at least now, I can go to her funeral, knowing I did all I could possibly do to persuade her that in the end, the "good Christian life" she quoted does not suffice for the unkindness that permeates from her core and always has.
DJ, his mental health doctor assessed him and told him he was "free," free from his sedation for the depression and voices he hears. But what surfaced is he not free from the psychosis that his mother contributed to when she took advantage of him sexually. Like always, I was quickly helping him with his church clothes Wednesday night and yawning incessantly when I told him I needed to go home and go straight to bed since in the last 3 weeks, there were 6 nights I slept 3 hours or less. He laughed and said, "You can lay with me." I immediately scolded him, "That's the opposite of what the Bible teaches!" He laughed again and said, "Mike doesn't have to know."
And that's when I knew he was very aware of what he was saying and that we had a problem. You see, I know it is never a woman's place to minister to any man other than her husband, but in the state of mind I met him in, that rule didn't seem to apply. Actually, I'm still okay with that initial decision to grant him his request to go to church with us. But now, this season also has come to a close. I've emptied the bag I carried his things in. I earnestly pray that someone, a man, takes the baton from me so that DJ isn't forgotten.
The Y - a few weeks ago we had a misunderstanding and Macklynn was "lost" for nearly 20 minutes. Every available employee was looking for him. His name was called across the intercom. The building was put on lockdown. No Macklynn. Toward the end, I actually sought God that if Macklynn had been dragged away from the building, He would just end it, that he would not have to endure the suffering, the torture, the innocent confusion. I don't know if that is a right prayer to pray but at that moment, I just wanted him to be safe.
Finally, someone found him playing in the kiddy pool. He must've been under water when I looked and couldn't make out the page when it went out. He was truly bewildered at all the commotion. I was so relieved that I got light headed. Instead of in the weight room, I wound up lying on the bleachers by the pool for an hour. I haven't been back.
Part of it is that I've been overcome with activity. Part of it is that I've neglected my progress and gained 6 or 7 pounds in the last while. Some days gluttonous but most of them just not careful. Funny, instead of fasting under stress that we would grow fat instead. Rebellion.
The last hurdle of the month was Michael's graduation party. It was a gathering of mostly men who have sewn into Michael's life come to see the harvest. Little did we know when we arrived in Fork Union, Virginia, Saturday morning that at an awards banquet the night before, he had received not only the overall MVP for football 9th through 12th grades but also the "Distinguished Cadet" Award that is given to one individual in each grade. He took what was given to him and made the very best of it, despite several classmates who purposefully made it hard on him.
But upon the final announcement of their graduation, I saw something else, a brotherhood. Young men seeking him out in the crowd and he doing the same. Big hugs between comrades.
He was invited to an afterparty. Mike and I decided to indulge the idea. I was disheartened at what I saw but was glad that we got to be privy to it as a family. Only select young men were invited, but unfortunately the "selects" of this world are often taught to make bad choices. The catered food was terrific, the house the same Colonial one Michael and Melody got to stay in for the Military Ball. But this time, there was alcohol around every corner. And anyone, perhaps especially the underaged, were permitted by the parents. Parents from all corners of the world, almost every continent.
Finally a bottle of Tequila and a shot glass arrived from another set of parents and began circulating. I saw Michael step away from the group of his classmates who were partaking. Perhaps, in respect to his father. I hope moreso in respect to his Father and the reputation and example that ought to go hand in hand with a believer.
Mike has not had a drink since the first week of January. This was just one of many trials he's had since his return home. Since we've laid all the cards on the table, he's found out some devastating things. It's also been hard to reorient into the family. I don't know that anyone has put in writing how intricate a task it is for an addict to come to terms with his sober personality. But I know by his prayers that his heart is intent on finishing the course, no matter how much is body objects sometimes. No one said dying daily to ourselves would be easy, for any of us.
He has again a good excuse for any addict to return to his feeding ground, an injury, a shoulder injury. Instead of seeking pain killers, he told his doctor the truth about his addiction and was prescribed sleep medicine until he can get treatment, which is where it plays out well that the job he was promised 3 months finally came through but not before he acquired another one! He intends to keep them both. Starting last Friday night, I am going with him on a dedicated run to Ohio, back in 24 hours. It is the equivalent to what I was making at Virgie's so we can still pay toward McKala's wedding AND I can be home with my husband and children weeknights again.
Back to the bag, I grabbed a few things and stuffed them into the overnight one from Virgie's and off we went, trucking together for the first time in over 3 years. I didn't talk the whole way trip up except to answer him. He talked on and on. And that was okay. I needed to just be. It's been that kind of month.
Melody's had a real go of it, averaging being in the emergency department more than once a week lately. First a CT to rule out a brain tumor after a routine eye exam, then onto a spinal puncture to check the fluid pressure. Bingo, that's what was causing the swollen optic nerves, headaches, and wouldbe vision loss. The second trip was worse than the first because she had developed the "spinal headache" associated with lumbar taps. The pain is basically untreatable until a "blood patch" is done to stop the leakage from the puncture site. The diuretic that inhibits the production of spinal fluid also caused her to return to the ER for invasive treatment. After a surgeon chose to admit her, the doctors had no explanation after the blockage "disappeared." But I know that my God knows when a person has had enough and that He answers the most basic of prayers.
Then, we went ahead against the advice of her attending Neurologist and Opthamologist to have her scheduled Tonsillectomy. She said she could not stand to be as sick as she was last summer at camp, having every bug around going straight to her throat.
Lo and behold, she had a super swelling of her uvula, touching her tongue and making it impossible to sleep and all but closing the airway, inducing another run to the ER where they administered steroids. Then, when all seemed clear after a few days, one side began to bleed, pulsating blood. The gargling ice water seemed no opponent for the blood that was pouring out of her nose and mouth. I hadn't had coffee nor could find my glasses, so I screamed for Mike to take her on. It took quite some time for them to stop the bleeding.
All these procedures and introductions to medical staff who answered her many questions fed the appetite she's always had for the medical field. And she has learned in quick time empathy as a patient. This is the girl who instead of reading romance novels reads and memorizes anatomy for fun, who watches surgery videos for entertainment.. She's always wanted to be an ER surgeon. And I can't help but believe she's got what it takes. She's beginning to own her own education and is ready to enter the public realm. As long as she follows Michael's footsteps as a leader and not a follower, all will be well.
Michael hit the ground running when he got home. Monday morning he was in the office of his "sponsor," aka his middle school basketball coach who recruited Michael to his Fork Union alma mater. Michael was drilling holes for his blasting company on Tuesday, "pulling" a calf with Dr. Miller on Wednesday, got an offer for some other job, and had a forth job in the works by Thursday, a man who needs help pressure washing houses. Under the advice of several coaches, Michael is passing up significant scholarships and returning for a post grad season at Fork Union to get more exposure and to continue gaining strength as in the 4 am workouts he's already been doing with the PG team. He plans to fund as much of it as he can himself. And I have to support that kind of dedication.
And to Megan's cause , I must give my support although she is being put through the ringer. She's screamed at daily by her boss or customers or both. She is a worker, a pleaser. Her self induced obligation makes her do well but take unwarranted disapproval all the harder. She is 6th in the line of Harpers who have within the last year been face to face with employers or coworkers who have been virtually unbearable. It has become evident that we are being trained for something, broken for something, bigger than ourselves.
McKala escaped her toxic work environment and was even paid more for less effort, which opened the door for her focus on getting well. She went to the gym, even though it was prescribed anogony. The specialists at Duke told her it would be for the first 4 or 5 months, until her heart gained strength to overcome the imbalance of her other systems (and that was after she fought her third bought with Walking Pneumonia). All this without her regular medications, because at the end February she lost insurance coverage. But a couple of weeks ago, she looked at me in the kitchen and said, "I missed a couple of days of my heart pills and my heart rate didn't go up." That's huge! It means she's getting well, finally after 5 years.
And to think, in less than 3 months, she will be rightly married in white to a man who loves the Lord and knows to guard her heart. It's making me well up just to think of the grace shed on her after all her entanglements with disease.
Then there's Miranda, no big bags moving to speak of right now, still just unpacking the ones from the gulf of Florida. But that's good. For Miranda steady is good. For someone who is moved easily to become firmer is good. Her heart, I see it moving though. Her heart is always toward people, not always so for her mouth, but her heart is ever moving toward the Lord. Those kinds of moves don't get awards or job promotions or reciprocating relationships, but they are noticed by the Lord, and by me. Miranda is more like me than she would ever wish on herself. Bless the child's heart, we realize daily the things we have in common and they are not always good. But at least, it enables me to understand what she's getting at and to know what to pray for her!
At last, there are my littles, which Macklynn says they do not qualify for anymore. He proved it at his first baseball practice, after having nearly blown his thumb and index finger off altogether last August. I hadn't told the coaches of his injury since I had informed them he had just come off a 5 day stomach flu.
Wouldn't you know, there at the end of practice, the coach hit a pop fly right to him in left field? It hit him square on the scar, and he began to cry. When the outfield coach took off his glove, he saw why. I sat on the bleachers stoic, as he was escorted to the dugout to the head coach. After the evaluation, I walked slowly over but not too awfully close, unemotionally as possible nodding asking him how it felt. I didn't want to cater to his pain so that he would have more reason to up and quit. He sat and nursed the sting, and I sat back on the bleachers. When batting practice started, he decided to participate. And I knew then, my little boy had taken a step into manhood.
McKala did her part and got him a palm guard, some pants, and his very own baseball bag from the sports store she works at. I never bought the others their own bag, and she just wanted him to have that.
We all are going to miss more than we think the nuances of the family innerworkings. We're already down one member. This fall, it will be one off to college as it were, one off to marriage, and one off to high school. All with more bags than I care to imagine.
But as God would have it in the cycle of a large family, I still will have my Macklynn and Madalynn to dwell on. My Macklynn who is busy being rescued from his inward world into the world of the only man who can fitly draw him out, his father. They already have been working on mowers, cleaning gutters, and beyond, while at night reading the Word and praying, without the all intrusive sound of a television. This is happening for an 11 year old boy who when I took out the DVO on his father, I asked, "How do you feel about this?" couldn't get out the words, only a beleaguered thumbs up sitting there beside me in the courthouse. A boy who in the midst of the fallout said he hated us all AND God. Big words in a house where those words are not allowed.
And the little girl who wants to be big, who has been using her sisters' razors unbenounced and panicked when there were none to be found while they were away at the beach for 10 days, the girl who's already sporting bras and believing crushes are the norm, BUT also in her own words "helped a girl get saved" in the bathroom at a baseball game. She outrightly asks if people are Christians. I too have a "little me" on my hands and much work to do. This never gets any easier. Every child is so very different.
I'm hoping sometime soon we'll get to those camping and hiking trips we haven't taken. And I can pack up my old LL Bean bag with my new ENO hammock and Camelbak the girls got me for Mother's Day. And we can act a little like normal folk, because I'm just plain worn out. My whole right side has turned arthritic, and I could use some good times. However it comes, I'll take it. I'm brought back to a place where my family is my only service, not that I could ever leave the house and miss an opportunity to share my Lord. But we're back to "us"... "us" is all I can be right now and I trust that all the "you's" out there will understand and take the time to consider your own "us" and what bags you yourselves should be setting down or picking up ...
Tuesday, March 8, 2016
Give Me This Mountain
I woke up kind of groggy this morning at Virgie's. On the way home, I was enjoying the sunshine and listening to Chris Tomlin's rendition of "Amazing Grace," which reminded of the men at Bethel Colony, which reminded me to listen to the CD Mike sent. I popped it in and what else played but "Amazing Grace" a cappella?
At first, I wasn't interested in the style of prayer that the testifier was using. But I kept listening because I wanted to hear his story, because I knew it was one of addiction. I arrived home and switched the key back, so I could keep listening. He gave an undeniably power packed witness of what God did in and through his life that began as a child of addicted parents.
I've been thinking lately on passion, that it gets a bad wrap. God does not want us to squelch all that is inborn in us. Sometimes it only needs to be redirected, because a passionless life is hardly worth living.
Wondering where I've been? Or better yet where Mike has been? He's been at Bethel Colony of Mercy, as far as I'm concerned the best addiction recovery center in America, right here at our back door in Lenoir. You know how I found out about it? When one of Mike's friends intervened in a drunken roll he was on over eight weeks ago. When he went in handcuffed under police custody to the hospital, his blood alcohol level was well over .3. He was drinking himself to death.
When I realized that he would be confined if only temporarily to state care, perhaps with no spiritual guidance whatsoever, I reached out to our pastor for advice. He immediately recommended the voluntary program at Bethel. I got busy advocating for Mike's placement there. Everything was in line for the day they would release him from his involuntary stay at the hospital, when I got a call that there would be no room for him for two weeks.
I was floored. And I decided right then, it was do or die. So, I took the young kids who were home and I prayed a prayer that the devil tempted me not to. He said, "What if you ask and it isn't given? What will the children think of God then?" I slayed that thought and went before the throne boldly with my children as witnesses. I said, "God, make a place for him. I don't care how - just make a place for him there."
The next day I called the same man I'd been in communication with and he said, "Have him here at 6 pm tomorrow." I was stunned. God did exactly what I asked. I couldn't even register it just yet. So, that next day as the snow poured, the sheriff's department transferred him to the place that has altered his future solely with Biblical principle, where he still is today.
Wondering how he's doing? So well that it makes me question my own belief, that I can't fathom such a drastic change that I myself requested. When God says he will do "exceedingly abundantly above all" that we ask, he isn't kidding. I have to ask God daily to help my unbelief. It's not really something I can tell many people about, because a lot of people, oftentimes just trying to lend an understanding ear, tell stories of a family or friends who have been in and out of rehabs. But they haven't read the letters or seen or heard from my own husband. Things are happening that are only explained by the indwelling of the Holy Spirit.
But these things could easily have been prevented/killed if my obedience had not been what it was. God has shown me and I have "hearkened," especially in these last three years to obey, no matter what I feel or think, ESPECIALLY when I don't understand. So, I have studied through His whole Word, to the point of wrenching my gut. I have given over my own tendency/addiction of comforting myself with food and lost 35 pounds. I am still learning to be quiet and listen, no matter how good something I have to say is. I was learning how to serve my husband in spite of his emotional or physical state; I am thankful for the opportunity soon to continue it. I heard recently, "A successful man does daily what an unsuccessful man does occasionally." I believe every word of that and try to instate it every single day, if only a little of each thing.
Then the trial came, not the one you're hearing about here, but the one only a handful of people know about. In the chaos of our move last September, I must have had my guard down and walked straight into the biggest temptation I've ever had.
It was "necessary" for me to be at a particular place at a particular time, which was the same place that this man also had to be. Over time, I almost involuntarily took notice of his attributes of quietness, humility, work ethic, mannerliness, much less his outward rugged, earthy appearance. Whatever was worthy about me in his eyes completed the "master plan." The mind game began.
I literally had to confess to close family and friends, and oddly some strangers, to hold myself accountable. I even took it to the altar, which is something I very rarely do. But, the demons inside are much more threatening than the ones without. You see the devil wanted me to believe that my time had come, that I had taken enough. Even though I admit I did not bring every thought into captivity to Christ, I clung to my Bible and every sermon I could get my ears on, even and especially when I felt too condemned or guilty to do so.
And on a particularly strong day, I was reading Joshua, where he told God, "give me this mountain ...," and I thought, that's it. Lord, give me this mountain. I don't know what in the world is going on. I can't even remember the last time I "loved" my husband, but I know you have a plan for the protection and provision of my children and me, as you always have, so give me this mountain, whatever is on it. I will bear it, for the sake of your truth, your staff that rules and your rod that reproves. It's all I have to trust in, even as good as this other "plan" looks before me. And by the blood of Christ alone, it never grew past a mind game.
I would be lying if I said it is not still a struggle. Would it have been easier if I asked God to take away the passion that I have to connect with another person, specifically a man? I know for a fact that's what a large percentage of women have done. You sit and sneer at me as though I were a "harlot" and think how happy you are that you don't lower yourself to be tempted so. But because you have murdered your passion altogether, that you ought to have at least kept for your own husband, does not make you any less guilty. Perhaps, you are in a much more wretched state than mine, a ho-hum existence of getting by, living as a martyr, numb to the "perverted" ways of men. Really?!
We have fallen headlong into the civility of not being stirred up about much of anything. Where is the fire of your salvation? Where is the earth shattering realization that you are saved for eternity and that everyone should know about it?
It is subdued so as not to offend anyone. It is stifled to get on with the work of the day. It is handicapped because of the ones who come against it. For the last thing, I am at fault. At home with my husband, I just couldn't take another day of his ridicule about my knowledge of the Bible or my prayer or my whatever, so I just got quiet. On its own, that is a Biblical mandate, to win our husbands without words but by our actions. Slowly but surely though, walls around my heart were being built to stop the arrows from penetrating. As I heard Sunday in reference to alcohol and drugs, "It's feels good not to feel." Man, that hit me. We are ALL guilty of doing something to not feel the hurt.
When I start feeling, I often start crying. And I don't like to feel out of control. After all, somebody has to keep the ship from sinking, so we trudge on. You and I, we stay busy. But these last couple of days, I've been able to catch my breath and just live. I took Macklynn fishing on Sunday. Yesterday, we pitched the ball to each other to bat (yes, he has full function of his hand!). Then Madalynn rode her new birthday bike. And afterwards, Macklynn grilled his first burgers. We had things to clean and lessons to learn, but kids know your love by the time you take to do with them what they love.
Now THAT's my passion and I know full well in hindsight that the devil wanted to disrupt my relationship with my husband so that he could steal away the souls of my children, by removing me from my rightful place. That's the trouble with divorce.
There is no place in this degenerating world for part time parenting. I thank God every morning that I am able to converse with my older kids before they go to work, that I am able to take conversations as they come with my little ones, because I am present at the very moment I'm needed, nothing rehearsed, most of the time nothing planned. We wonder why we walk around in a haze, half-hearted, half blessed, wondering what our purpose is, wondering what our next step will be, wondering what life is about. I say this about the Christian, as well as the unChristian. Because we don't whole heartedly do anything. Wives and/or mothers, pursue your husband and/or your children like there's no tomorrow and the aspirations of jobs and hobbies will fade. You don't have to reserve "me" time. You don't need a "back up" plan. God knows His daughters and what they are in need of.
Mike has said that it's too bad everyone can't come stay where he is. I say it'd be good if there were such a place for self righteousness, coldness, bitterness, slothfulness, and rigidness.
As part of his testimony, he spoke before the men and told them that the kids and I had been tithing, and still are, on our earnings and that we have been taken care of in his absense, not by one lump sum but in surprising places here and there, but that he had not been tithing and look at where it landed him. How disgusting would it be for me to come there and be glad that I'm not one of them. I say to anyone who has even thought it while they have been reading this, Pharisee! We are all about 5 minutes from needing an intervention from something.
I went to watch a community outreach movie about longterm recovery. I didn't get a whole lot out of it, because even AA does not direct people to the One True God, but what I did get was a sign I saw for addicts, "Don't quit 5 minutes before your miracle happens." It gave me hope. No, I'm not the addict; my husband is. Was. And now, HE is my miracle.
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