#3, March 28, 2015, There Has to be a Way

These are excerpts from my journals, written during the last year of Dave's life.

The thing I remember most about what I believe was God's vision of heaven, given to me all those years ago in a dream, is that it was the only time I have ever felt complete love and utter freedom from critical judgement. How different it was from this life. Dave tells me all the time how much he loves me and truly does as much as he is able, then will, without warning or intent, cut to the core, leaving me speechless, or nearly so. Like today when he said that I could do anything I wanted to do after he was dead.

The contradiction of it stunned me. I can hardly think of anything I'm doing in my life right now that I truly want to do, at least entirely. The only reason I put one foot in front of the other is that I trust God. There is little happiness or contentment or satisfaction in this life because there is little reward. Death--Dave's death--is the only probable end to all this work and heartache.

And yet, I have to trust God in this. There isn't anything else.

[I'm not at all like Maggie--my sweet stepmother who cared for Dad in his last illness, every bit as disturbing as Dave's and more because of Dad's dementia--who, when I asked her how she was doing it all, told me that she didn't want to be anywhere else. She didn't want to be anywhere else. I have no idea what that would be like. I so often want to be anywhere but where I am. Her love and devotion shine like an unattainable beacon. I will never be able to say that.]

Yesterday, Dave said that maybe we would still be able to go to Panama and that, statistically, he was still beating the odds, but I can't help but feel that Dave is a house of cards and when one card falls, the whole entire structure, the man, will collapse.

Until then, though, there's nothing to do but love one another as much as we can. As for me, I have to seek God to discover what love demands of me. That is my lesson. I will not always like what I have to do, but I do so want to love God in doing it. I'm not sure how, but there has to be a way.

Image: hrmonline.ca

#2, March 27, 2015, The Task Appointed

Excerpts from my Journal During the Last Year of Dave's Life

Definition:
Palliative Care: specialized medical care for people with serious illness. This type of care is focused on providing relief from the symptoms and stress of a serious illness. The goal is to improve quality of life for both the patient and the family.

From my journal:
Yesterday Dave's doctor recommended Palliative Care for him for the first time saying that, no, he will not get better, but will surely get worse and unto death, probably within two years. And this in the face of improving test results. But this time, the doctor did what I've been doing--he looked at him. Dave's test results hold but the man--the man fails.

This was my first warning. I thought I was prepared--had indeed been thinking the same thing myself--frustrated by docs who had to see it but wouldn't say it, and now one honest doc finally did say it and I couldn't breathe. A huge, screaming NO caught in my throat, like in a dream, where arms and legs flail, but we can't run.

Dave was fine, of course, smiling and nodding as if to say "What's wrong? This is next and I want it. Of course. Of course."

Today, though, I see the mercy of God in this. Only one step, one little step further down the road. The thought, not the fact. Something I can, like Mary, hold in my heart.

Two years. He is surely wrong about that, I think. Dave's hold on life is stronger than anyone, including me, can know. He has done better than anyone imagined until now and he will keep hold. He likes his life. Disease will not take it from him. God will have to be done with him.

I'm wondering whether this whole process is why I'm not content with reading the Bible these days. The Bible is about life and I live every day in the presence of impending death. The gospels, even the Old Testament, tell us how to live. I've picked up the Upanishads instead, and they help me to see the unbroken stream that connects life and what is beyond it. 

It's not only Dave making this trip. I do, too. And I want to make it well. I think of Galadriel saying to Frodo, "This task was appointed to you and if you cannot find a way, no one will..." 

There are times to laugh and times to mourn--and sometimes to do both simultaneously.

Image: Pinterest

She Walks These Hills #1, Fitted for Widow's Weeds

My husband Dave died one year ago, after seven years of on-again, off-again illnesses, on March 17, 2016. During the last years of his life, and during the year that has followed, I kept a journal. Two weeks ago, I read it. All of it. And, as I did, I took the journey again, but this time with perspective, and I saw the winding path of those days, and where they led--where they had to lead--and the gentle hand that guided me through them.

I've often said that the sorrow of my loss is always mixed with gratitude for the many years Dave and I shared--full of constant love and lush laughter--but it's taken time to understand what was so gradually accomplished in those days, both in him and in me.  And that is the best part of the story, the part that renders less important our physical ends--after all, Dave did die and I did not--but it gives an opportunity to see what God did for us during these days, how He listened, how He answered each prayer as we put one foot in front of another into a place we did not want to go, and how He welcomed us there with grace beyond our imagining.

This post is the prelude to what will eventually be a year of posts, published chronologically just as they happened, almost all taken directly from my journals. I give them as a gift, both for those who have walked this path before me, for those whose daily walk is still healthy and whole, and also those for whom mortal illness holds a vibrant terror. God is with us all in each of our places. This was my walk through the valley.

#1:Fitted for Widow's Weeds

I don't know why I didn't record this in my journal, because I remember it vividly--the day I bought my widow's weeds.

That's what they used to call them back in Victorian days, the clothes a widow wore for a year following her husband's death.

Long, heavy, impenetrable, they included a weeping veil whose purpose, I'm assuming, was to hide her puffy face and red eyes. We don't wear these anymore, of course, but we do need a black dress for our husband's funeral. We do need that. And, more than a year before he died, more than a year before anyone knew he would die, I found one.

I was in Goodwill of all places, browsing for something to wear to a wedding, I think, and there it was. Crepe, mid-calf, with little pintucks down the front and a belt in the back. Just the style that looked best on me and a bargain besides. Obviously, however, there's a problem with this. One does not buy a dress to anticipate one's husband's death. It's not done.And for good reason.

How could I even consider it? I knew he was sick, very sick, and had been so for a long time. My common sense told me that, eventually, he would die. But not soon enough to necessitate buying a dress. Not even close. I didn't try it on. I hung it back up like I'd been stung instead, and walked out.

But I kept thinking about it, trying to imagine what would happen if--when, if I was being honest--Dave did die. Would I want to go shopping then? After all, I almost never wore black. I didn't have one thing in which to wrap grief that big.

And I kept remembering the little, almost microscopic, ways that God drops favor into my unexpecting lap, and I kept thinking of the dress.  Would it not be better to get it now rather than have to get one later, when I would rather be doing absolutely anything else? I knew it would. OK, I thought, I'd put it to the test. I'd wait a couple of days and if it was still there when I went back, well, I'd get it.

It was and I did, but guiltily, without telling anyone, and I shoved into a corner of my closet. I didn't want to look at it. And it hung there for 13 months, after which I took it off the hangar, wore it exactly twice, for both of Dave's funerals, and got rid of it, casting it out as though someone had coated it with acid.

My widow's weeds, for which, by God's grace I did not have to shop while broken and weeping, had served their purpose and I never wanted to look at them again.


Images: Shutterstock, Amberrose Hammond

Deep to Deep

Advent and Christmas, coming in these darkest days of the year, invite contemplation. They make me think--about seasons, about waiting, about where I fit in the grander scheme of things. I feel my vulnerability more acutely when winter storms gather outside and I have to work to stay warm and to guard myself  against harm from the elements. These are times of pause.

That may be why happening upon this image on one of these cold mornings caught me. Eve and Mary. The first in full knowledge of what she's lost. Her head hangs down in defeat. She can't meet anyone's eyes, let alone her companion's. The snake still coils about her feet in apparent victory. The flowers of Eden, now all she has left of the place, still cling to her clothes and ring her head. But she is cast out and knows it only too well.

And then there is Mary, pregnant and understanding completely. She reaches out to Eve in feminine fraternity while at the same time stepping firmly on the head of the snake. Eve may have been temporarily defeated, but she has not lost. Mary is here, bearing more than just hope. She has brought rescue.

And there they are, the female bookends framing the story of mankind. Eve and Mary. Creation and Salvation side by side. They are their own beginning and end, Alpha and Omega. Christ made them both and they have each done what they must. Eve has presented the problem and Mary carries the solution. 

Men will not understand this the same way a woman will. When a woman reaches out to place her hand on a sister's pregnant belly, they share an understanding of what was, what is, and what is coming. The life that belly holds moves and grows and promises a future. And as women, we treasure that promise in our hearts in a special and personal way, just like Mary.

And Eve, in her hopelessness, lets Mary draw her into a secret circle of hope and life. There they embrace, where Deep calls to Deep.

This is advent. 

During these dark days, Mary and Eve feel together the movement of the coming Christ, and know they have been saved. From the moment of His incarnation, while He still adds cell upon cell to His burgeoning humanity, while He still stirs under Mary's heart, while the process is even just beginning, Christ is already saying, "It is finished." 

Drawing above by Sr. Grace Remington, published in Give Us This Day, December 7, 2016

My Love

October 15.
Today would have been our 38th anniversary.
Now that I think of it, maybe it still is. After all, in the eyes of the world, I'm a single woman now, a widow, and no longer married. But in my heart, well, that's another matter.

In some ways, this anniversary is sweeter, distilled down from experience and transmuted into memory. It is the day of wedding, and every one of the 37 anniversaries that followed,  all celebrated
together. A combined delight, made better in combination.

Memory.
All anniversaries are memory, aren't they? While lovers are together, they add to their communal experience, but after they've been parted, well, the experience ceases and the memories alone carry on, becoming thick and palpable, more real sometimes than reality itself. I feel them all, know them not like a thought, but like a thing. I'm getting very good at remembering, and it becomes a pleasant, vital pastime--active, not passive.

Memory is a privilege.
God Himself urges us to remember.
When we cannot have real presence, memory consoles us. Memory teaches us how to long for something once had, how to use loneliness to good purpose. Memory makes solitude productive.

While those we love are with us, we have the pleasure of their flesh and blood. We have laughter, and love, and we make stories together. It is so good. But later--later we have this longing. We have the privilege of feeling again what we once had.
But this time, the experience differs. This time, we feel, but are not satisfied. God, after all, does not want us to be too satisfied in this world. He wants us to long for another. He wants us to remember that satisfaction here is fleeting.

"See?" He says, "What you've had was good, but there's more. I'm going to prove it to you...." And suddenly, our loved one is gone.
But in his place is Memory. The sweet experience of re-living all of the best God has given.
 
So, what if memory does not satisfy? What if it does not ease the longing?  Memory is bold and intrusive. It pumps up the longing, intensifies it. It makes me remember how good it was and want more. It leaves me panting with excitement. I remember and am glad to be able to do it.

Then I hear Him speak again. "I have more," God tells me. "I've always had it. And you will come to know it.  But, in the meantime, enjoy these days, full of sweetness, full of memory. They are my gift to you. Live them again with your love, and then look for Me. I am here. Full of hope and promise. You will find me. This is our time."

Why "Miracles from Heaven" Makes Us Cry

I went to see "Miracles from Heaven" last night and from the moment of walking into the theater lobby, was concerned. All women. Every one.  Not a bad thing, but when they come armed with handfuls of tissues, declaring that they expect to cry, well, that concerns me.

Crying, last time I checked, is not a good time. It can be cathartic, relieving, and useful, but it's never, in my experience, enjoyable. Even at weddings. Even in victory.

So we were off to a bad start.

"Miracles from Heaven" is advertised as a true story and I believe it is. But beware. It is not everyone's story. It is not hardly anyone's story.

Anna Beam, the sick little girl at the story's center, is cute and sad and suffering, so sick that she wants, at one point, to die. I didn't blame her. Of course, the movie is about a miracle, so we know from the very beginning that she won't and she doesn't. I'm glad about that. But the story isn't really hers--it's her mother's--her mother, Christy Beam, whose faith fails during her daughter's illness and is regenerated at her healing.

That's the part that bothered me.  I believed the little girl. I believed Anna. I believed her suffering. I believed her faith. I believed her healing and her carefree embracing of renewed life afterward. But I felt sad for Christy.

She got her daughter back, of course, and that's good, but what kind of faith did she get? She got a faith borne on the back of healing. What happens if Anna gets sick again? Or her husband? Or one of her other daughters?

Frankly, I was hoping Anna would not survive. I wanted to see Christy in real victory, a victory that is the product of common sorrow, of looking square in the face of our worst fear and knowing that God still loves us and is still directing our lives for good in spite of circumstances. I wanted to see a Christy walk away with a faith that would last. As it is, I couldn't help but wonder what would happen to Christy's faith the next time it is tried. 

That was when I understood the tears in the audience--and there were tears, lots of them. Christy got her daughter back--for awhile at least. But most people don't. Most sick loved ones don't live. They die. And we know it. We see it every day. We know that Christy's story will probably not be ours.

We rejoice in Christy's good fortune, but know that we will probably not get that same miracle. Our loved one, when faced with a life-threatening illness or accident will probably not survive. And that is the more common challenge of faith.  That we are to find God in our sorrow, not just in our victory. We are going to need a faith more than that given to Christy Beam. I am going to need it.

So we cry at "Miracles from Heaven". For Christy's pain. For Anna's suffering. And for our own. Fortunately, God hears those cries. Because, regardless of physical deliverance that may or may not come, we are drawn close in trial and loved. That is a miracle. That is my miracle.

photo credit: youtube.com

The God Who is not Superman

It's that moment when you're falling....the bottom's dropped out and your fingers try to grab onto anything close, but every ledge, every fire escape, rushes by too fast. The street below gets bigger and bigger. Any minute, you're going to hit bottom.

And then it happens....

You feel strong hands under your shoulders and behind your knees, the ground stops rushing up and you're swept instead into midair...safe at last.

Who else could it be? Superman.

Oh, I do like that moment....the feeling of rescue. The fear as it drains away and you wrap grateful arms around his neck. 

What is is about that guy, anyway? I'm pretty sure it's not the cape. It's not the muscles or that cute curl in the middle of his forehead. In fact, I'm pretty sure I know why the Man of Steel appeals so much, at least to me.


It's that in giving in to Superman, I'm admitting a secret vulnerability.
I mean really.
When was the last time any of us had to be rescued from anything? 
In general, we are capable, intelligent, and self-sufficient.  I don't fall off buildings. Bad guys don't chase me. No one needs to rescue me. Not really.

And a good thing too. Because Superman isn't real. I know that. *shrug*

But here's the rub. 
Sometimes I still feel like I need rescue. 

Everybody seems to be calling my name at once. The washer breaks on the same day as it snows 15 inches. Three of our children all get the flu at the same time and we don't have insurance. Somebody hits the only car we own. Somebody we love betrays. Somebody we love dies. 

I'm not falling off a bridge, but it sure feels like it. Superman may be fiction, but my feelings are real. I'm hanging alone at the end of my rope. I've done everything I know to do and I'm still going down for the third time. No man, super or not, is coming to help.
There's only one thing to do--and I cry out:

Rescue me, Oh Lord, 
Make haste to help me...
Free me from the snare they have set for me... 
Come quickly and answer me. 
Do not turn away from me or I will die...
Psalm 40, 31,143

And He does. God rescues.
Not like Superman. Not with cape and tights. But like God. 
The God Who is not Superman. 

And there's a big difference.

This is what God's rescue looks like:
When I prove my holiness among you, I will gather you from all foreign lands; and I will pour clean water upon you and cleanse you from your impurities, and I will give you a new spirit, says the Lord. --Ezekiel 36:23-26

He just doesn't fold us into His arms, carry us to safety, and then fly off to the next crisis.
God completes the job. He makes us holy.
He doesn't pat us on the head and let us straighten our skirt and go our way. He cleans us from the inside out.
He doesn't give us a pert little salute. He gives us a new spirit.

He has to and, better yet, He wants to.
Like Moses who had to take off his shoes before he could approach God in the burning bush, like the Israelites who had to believe God before they could enter the promised land, we have to be prepared. God's rescue isn't a one-step process.
He wants to reclaim all of us, inside and out, and that takes time.

That's real rescue. 
God plucks us out of danger by showing us our sin and guiding us to the firm ground of repentence.
God takes us to high ground by gifting us with faith and hope.
God puts out his hand, helping us stand every day in growing the fruit of His Spirit--kindness, meekness, self-control, and all the rest.

And, when He is done, He brings and keeps us near, made new in confidence in Him, leaning on His shoulder, depending on the only sure rescue there ever was and ever will be.
And there it is, the fear draining away as you wrap grateful arms around His neck...
Do not be afraid. I have ransomed you. I have called you by name. You are Mine.--Isaiah 43:1

Pictures courtesy of : www.top10films.co.uk
                                   www.comingsoon.net
                                   www.geek.com
                                   www.engadget.com
                                   scripture-for-today.blogspot.com