A Song of Monsoons and Rainbows

I love the illustrations that my Pastor used Sunday morning in the Worship Service.  God’s Message had my name written across it in crimson.  Brother Leland firmly gripped one fist inside the other and reminded us that as Children of God, there is absolutely nothing that can pull us from God’s grip.  He went on to say that we are held there and protected so well, that nothing can come to us unless God first gives His permission.  “We are runners in this race we call life.  God has assigned each one of us a lane in which to run.  We cannot run in someone else’s lane; and no one else can run in our lane.”

I have been pondering that Message as it relates to the monsoon season I’m experiencing in my “lane” at the moment.  The definition of monsoon is:  “a season of very heavy rainfall.”  I find that challenges are raining down like ping pong balls in a Captain Kangaroo episode. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SSpPyTNSlTU

On November 24^th, we learned that my Uncle Doc had passed away.  What a shock that was.  We had been expecting “The Call” about Aunt Juanita whom I wrote about in a previous post, but we thought Uncle Doc was recuperating well from the broken hip.  He was 91 years old and until this past summer was still mowing his own grass and driving his car around the Metroplex.  His mind remained sharp and he cared for his wife as her mind slowly slipped into the past.  At times, she thought he was her “roommate” or “that man who lives here”, and she even thought he was her “Daddy.”  It wasn’t supposed to be Uncle Doc who died first, but God had a different Plan.  When Aunt Juanita learned of his death, she at first thought her Daddy had died.  But God granted her a moment of clarity so that she understood her precious husband had gone ahead to get the home at their new heavenly address ready for her arrival.

On November 28^th, I received a phone call from my Dad around 1:30 in the morning.  Mom was “very dizzy” and he needed me to come check on her and help figure out what we needed to do.  I tried contacting her primary care physician’s on-call Nurse Practitioner twice over the next 3 hours, but was unsuccessful.  I realized that Mom needed attention sooner than Monday when the clinic would re-open and I knew I’d never be able to get her to my car, much less drive her to the hospital.  It was time for a 911 call.  While others were preparing for a morning of Worship, we were at the hospital waiting on test results.  As they were leaving Sunday School and moving to the Worship Center, I was driving Mom home.  The diagnosis was Vertigo and UTI.  No matter how slowly I drove or how easily I took the turns, Mom was nauseated.  How thankful we were that there was a plastic trash bag in the floorboard!

It was clear that Mom wasn’t going to be driving Dad to dialysis that week, so my nephew and I figured out a schedule between us that would meet Dad’s needs and allow us to both continue working.  His wife helped me provide meals for the week and I ran errands and did the shopping.  Busy week at work and at home! 

On December 1^st, I learned that Mandy, my Prodigal Daughter, had begun the transfer process from a parish maximum security facility to the federal prison where she will spend the rest of her sentence.  We knew we wouldn’t hear from her until she arrived at her destination.  On December 5^th, my husband and I took one last trip to the parish facility to pick up her personal property.  Every visit there had been emotionally draining for us, and this was no exception.  Hal and I realized we would no longer have weekly visits with her and that it would be some months before we will be able to travel out-of-state to visit her.  There was something unsettling in holding the garbage bag in which her belongings had been placed.  The bag wasn't labeled and it took the guards some time to find her things.  It was if her life was so worthless, no one could be bothered to give her another thought.

At eight PM on December 8^th, I had just returned from Keyboard practice in preparation for an upcoming Instrumental Concert.   Hal followed me into the bedroom and said, “You need to call your father.”  When I asked if something was wrong, he only repeated, “You need to call your father.”  I looked into his eyes, saw the sadness and concern there and said, “It’s about Aunt Juanita, isn’t it.”  He nodded.  A phone call to Dad confirmed that his sister slipped into a coma and that her passing was peaceful.  He reminded me that she died 2 weeks to the day after Uncle Doc.  My Dad and Hal were so concerned about how I would receive the news that they purposely delayed telling me until after rehearsal.  Truthfully, her death didn't sting as much as Uncle Doc's had.  She hadn't recognized me in over a year and sometimes she didn't recognize Daddy even when he said, "I'm your baby brother."  She wouldn't have wanted to linger on machines and she knew Uncle Doc was waiting for her along with her parents, a sister and two brothers.  I could rejoice that her memory and health were now restored.

After our conversation ended, I began the task of contacting cousins to let them know about her death and the funeral arrangements.  That's always an emotional task - retelling the events, hearing the sighs and tears on the other end, and reminiscing together.  As I was talking to one cousin, I heard the familiar “boodle-doop” ring tone which meant a text message had arrived.  My daughter-in-law, Jenny, texted to say that she had taken my son, Chris, to the ER and that the doctor thought his symptoms were consistent with MS.  I knew that he had been having odd sensations of numbness in his hands and feet – and that he had been working with his doctor to figure out why that was happening.  But that problem was slight and intermittent so tests hadn’t been able to pinpoint anything.  Jenny said that Chris had been experiencing "bad headaches" all week - much worse than a tension or sinus headache -  and that while he was at work that afternoon, he suddenly lost sight in his left eye.  A CT Scan came back clear which meant that there was no mass or bleeding in his brain.  But appointments were set up for him to see two specialists the following day.  Sleep eluded me that night so I prayed as I tossed and turned.

Over the 9 days since Mandy left the parish facility, Hal and I had been tracking her progress across the United States to her new “home-away-from-home” much like everyone else has been tracking Christmas packages they’ve sent via USPS, UPS, or FedEx during this holiday season.  A few clicks on the computer would bring us to a website which told the name of the facility where she was currently being held.  We knew she had been held for about a week in Oklahoma City, OK but had yet to reach her designated prison.  Finally on the morning of December 10^th, the website indicated Mandy had indeed completed the journey. 

That same day, Chris’ neurologist said that he didn’t believe the problem was MS.  He feels there are 2 unrelated issues:  migraine headaches which caused the temporary loss of vision and something else causing the numbness.  While we all expected the doctor to perform an MRI that day, he told them that he wanted Chris to have an MRA instead.  I had never heard about that medical term before.  From what Jenny said, it must have something to do with scanning the arterial system.  There is also some concern that Chris could have a condition which can cause stroke or aneurysm.  But the MRA couldn’t be scheduled until December 23^rd – so we float. . .

Later that evening we received a call from Mandy.  It was a blessing to hear her voice yet startling to hear about the long journey through several states before she arrived in a state adjacent to ours.  But that is a Song for another day. 

December 11^th dawned and we had our final Keyboard Rehearsal for the Christmas Concert.  I felt extremely uncertain as I tried to keep up with the others.  Ever since the rehearsals began in November for this year’s concert, I have felt overwhelmed and there were several times when I almost backed out of playing with the group.  I hadn’t been able to practice at home like I should have to prepare.  But, I couldn’t just quit – too many others were counting on me to do my part.  With ten keyboardists playing, there is some doubling of piano parts; but when one person is missing the balance is thrown off.

Another ongoing challenge I’ve been experiencing for a while now is that hearing any type of Christian music causes me to weep uncontrollably.  I don’t break out into wracking sobs, but I cannot stop the stream of tears from flowing down my face.  I’m not really sure what causes me to weep and it is frustrating.  I love to sing and I deeply enjoy singing in the choir, yet I have been unable to sing – partly due to upper respiratory health issues and partly from this weeping.  It happens in rehearsal, during the church service, driving down the road and at other random times throughout the day.  Sometimes I wake up at night to find that my face is wet with tears. 

On December 12^th as we ran through the music before the service, I was fine.  Our keyboardists played with the orchestra on the Christmas Carols and Songs of Praise.  We listened or sang along as the orchestra and ensemble went over the special music to be presented that day.  No tears or fears for me then.  But when the service began, so did my tears.  As my fingers struggled to play, tears streamed down my face and fell onto my blouse.  At times, I could not see my sheet music for the tears welling up and spilling from my eyes.  I would alternately lift one hand from the piano to wipe my face on one side and then repeat the process on the other side.  Through the hymns, through the praises and Christmas Carols I continued to weep.  I felt as if everyone in the congregation was distracted from Worship by my embarassing tears.  I wanted to escape but I couldn’t jump up and run off the stage – I’d have had to vault over the grand piano or the entire orchestra to reach the choir door.  Or, I’d have had to jump over a sea of poinsettias to the floor below.  So I sat and I wept until the music portion of the service ended and I could go sit with Hal in the pew.  No one said a word about my tears, but a precious Sister in the row behind reached up to pat my shoulder in a silent signal that she was lifting me in prayer.

Many loving friends have said that they see me as having "great strength" because of the way they see me face these challenges.  I don’t feel strong, and they must not notice my tears or they would see how weak I am.  One co-worker said, “The devil must be so scared of you!”  I don’t feel very scary either; in fact, at times I feel afraid.  I feel weak, weary and emotionally drained in this monsoon season.  It’s difficult to stay afloat in this turbulent ocean.

Have you ever wondered why God told Noah, “Build a boat; I need you to float!”  Noah had never seen rain, much less flood waters.  He couldn’t fathom the flood that God described would come in the future.  The architectural plan alone must have sounded crazy to Noah, much less the directive to gather 2 of every type of creature on the earth, (or 7 pairs of certain ones.)  His sons had to think he was a bit odd for spending 120 years to build a gigantic ocean-going vessel - the likes of which no one had ever seen - on dry land and so far from any known body of water large enough to float such a vessel.  The people thought he was absolutely insane – until the flood came. 

God didn’t need Noah to float for just the 40 days of torrential world-wide rain – he had to keep on floating for months and months after the rain stopped.  For approximately 370 days they floated in the shelter of that ark.  The ark had no provision for steering – it simply floated where the waters took it.  There was no provision for navigation either – Noah didn’t know where they were going or even in which direction they were heading.  Noah trusted God to know where He was taking them and when they would arrive.  His instructions were to float, but I don’t imagine his days were idle.  There were many mouths to feed and care for.  There was life to live in those long months. 

My cousin, Becca, and her husband, Kent, were Missionaries in Africa until their oldest daughter entered college.  I remember Becca telling of one flight across the ocean when the girls were small.  One of the youngest kept looking out the window with a puzzled expression.  Finally she asked her Mama, “Why aren’t we moving?”  I think Noah must have peeked out the hatch in the top of the ark day after day at the endless expanse of water and wondered if there would ever be dry land again.

Why did God tell Noah to float?  Well, God didn’t create us with the ability to swim in turbulent waters.  He reserved that ability for the fish of the sea. The more we struggle to stay afloat in the gigantic waves, the weaker we become.  We can’t touch land with our feet, we can’t see the nearest shore and the waves toss us about.  We panic, we despair – and we drown.  God wants us to learn to Trust Him in all things. 

We don’t learn how to do that unless we’re given an opportunity to put our Trust or Faith into action.  My struggle is not with Faith.  My faith is Rock Solid.  God has proven to me over and over and over again that I can Trust Him to lift me out of the stormy sea and to set me on solid ground once more.  I think about God’s promise of the Rainbow and I am comforted.  Yes, that first Rainbow was a Promise that God would never again flood the entire world.  But, I believe it was also a Promise to us today that no matter what storm, flood, fire or famine that He gives permission to come to us, He will carry us safely through.

My struggle is with my human heart.  I hurt when my children are frightened or in pain.  I hurt when family members experience illness or loss.  I hurt when Brothers and Sisters in the Faith struggle.  I cannot stop the flood of emotions, but I can float.  When I was a teenager, a swim instructor had us jump into the deep end of the pool fully clothed and tread water for 30 minutes.  We were allowed  to briefly roll onto our backs and float, but then we had to continue treading water.  The weight of the clothing combined with the exertion of trying to keep our heads above water was exhausting.  God doesn’t want us to tread water; He knows we couldn't survive that way.  Floating is a deliberate choice to obey.  I can’t look at the entire struggle and worry about how long it will last or what other challenges will fall.  What I can do for this moment in time is to trust that God’s strength will sustain me and continue to do so in the next moment and beyond.

I am floating through this stormy sea, but I am not without purpose.  My Anchor is set deep within the Solid Rock.  My instructions are to care for others who are running in lanes to my left and right.  I am to pray for others and to encourage them when their struggle is difficult and their strength begins to falter.  I cannot cross into their lane to run their race, I can only be part of their Support Team.  I have two precious Sisters who are running extremely difficult races, ones I fear would destroy me were they in my path.  One lost her youngest child to suicide just over a year ago.  She is struggling with that anniversary and Christian music hurts her too.  She said she had tried to explain how the music made her feel, but no one understood until I told her I feel that way too.  The other one has a child with Cystic Fibrosis who had a double lung transplant on November 21-22.  I have prayed for him since he was a very tiny, sick baby and through these 22 years.  I prayed with her through the long surgery and continue to pray for his recovery.  As much as I love these women, and as much as my heart bleeds over their struggles, I cannot run their race - and truth be told, I wouldn't want to exchange lanes with them.   

I am beginning to see rainbows ahead.  Some are just barely visible and others are only faint glimmers in the distance.  But God is Faithful and I know those rainbows will soon be radient - in His time.

“The anchor holds though the ship is battered.  The anchor holds though the sails are torn.  I have fallen on my knees as I face the raging seas.  The anchor holds in spite of the storm.  The Anchor holds!”  Ray Boltz  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DWXngxNJY-k 

A Song of Imminent Homegoing

As I write today, my Aunt Nita, Dad's last survivving sibling, is nearing the moment when she will step into Heaven.  Though our family is understandably saddened by that news, we know that doctors have done all that is medically possible here on earth and we don't want her to linger here as she is now.

When I was very, very small and both of my parents worked, Aunt Nita, "kept" me.  We moved away before I was old enough to remember staying with her.  The last time I talked to her, she told me that she always thought of me as "her" little girl, the one she never had.  She loves her sons and their families very much, and she loves all of her nieces and nephews.  But she had always wanted a little girl of her own.  She told me I was the "next best thing" to having a daughter of her own.  (No doubt because she got to send me home at the end of the work day!)

The dynamic of my parents' families is very different.  My Mom is one of twelve children, eleven of whom grew to adulthood and went on to have families of their own.  Her family is very close-knit and we have a huge family reunion every year.  We've grown up knowing not only each other, but all the spouses and too many cousins to count.  We don't pay attention to whether we're first, second, third, or fourth cousins - we're all simply Cousins.  (It's so much easier that way.)  Most of us are on Facebook so we have many opportunities to stay in touch between Reunions.

My Dad's family is very different.  He is the "baby" of five children, all of whom had families of their own.  But we've been separated by death, divorce and distance over the years. We haven't gathered for a family reunion in well over twenty years.  I have only nine first cousins on Dad's side of the family.  As adults, six of my cousins and I have "found" each other through Facebook - what a blessing!  And we are growing closer now through our "Walls" - sharing photos of our children and grandchildren and learning about one anothers' lives.  It isn't that my Dad's family members love each other any less than those in my Mom's family; it's just that we haven't had the same opportunities to be together or to know the spouses and generations of cousins.  Aunt Nita's the one who called everyone and kept our "family ties" securely knotted.

Almost three years ago my Mom was diagnosed with Lymphoma and a few months later, my Dad was diagnosed with Kidney Failure.  Aunt Nita would call them first to find out how they were doing or what the latest report from their doctors indicated.  Then she would call me saying, "I know they're not telling me everything, so you tell me the truth.  How are they really doing?"  If Aunt Nita couldn't catch me, she'd call my sister or brothers.  Our family would chuckle about her calls because Mom and Dad really were telling her everything; but at the same time, we loved knowing that she loved us all enough to call. 

A week ago on Saturday morning, I received a phone call from my Dad about Aunt Nita.  We have known for some months now that dementia was stealing her away from us little by little.  She hasn't  known me for about a year and the last time my Dad called to talk to her, she didn't know him either.  She believes Uncle Doc, her husband of over 60 years, is "Daddy" and she wonders when Daddy will come to see her.  Uncle Doc is in a Rehab facility recovering from a broken hip.  At 92, his mind is sharp but his body is very frail.

Aunt Nita contracted pneumonia and was hospitalized about a month ago.  Doctors were able to cure the pneumonia, but Aunt Nita's body is not healing.  She's on a feeding tube because everything she swallows aspirates to her lungs.  Doctors have told us that there is nothing else they can do but keep her comfortable.  Last week, Aunt Nita was transferred to the facility where Uncle Doc is so that they could spend these last days together.  And Hospice is in charge of her care.  We dread hearing the telephone ring because we know *THAT* call is coming soon.

Our prayer is that Aunt Nita will be granted clarity of mind long enough to say goodbye to her beloved Doc, and that she not hang around here on earth one moment past when God's purpose for her life as been fulfilled. 

A Song of Innocence

But Jesus asked the children to come to him.  "Let the little children come to me," he said. "Don't keep them away.  God's Kingdom belongs to people like them."  Luke 18:16   New International Reader's Version

Lest you think that my heart has only sad songs to sing, I wanted to share two of "my kids" with you today.  By "my kids" today, I mean any child or youth who has come through VBS , children's choirs and/or youth choirs with me as their leader or helper.  Today's two guys fit all three descriptions - and I'm so happy to say they still greet me with hugs though they are both in college.  {Since I haven't asked them whether it is okay to use their real names, I've changed their names to protect their privacy.  Their moms will recognize them because these stories were shared with them years ago.}

My first little guy, Brody, was all of 4 years old one summer during VBS.  For some unknown reason - it had to have been a definite God thing - I had agreed to be the director of that department instead of just leading the music rotations as I have done in the recent past.  It's been too long ago for me to remember the theme of that year's VBS - but I had a canoe in my classroom that the little ones loved to pile into, so it must have had something to do with water.

Besides having some adult helpers, we also had some youth workers.  Youth workers are indespensible for helping to round up the wiggliest tykes and for taking them out to the playground for "bubbles" or the all-important energy release!  On this particular day, recreation was over and it was time for the children to return to our classroom for snacks.  While the youth had the children outside, my helpers and I set their tables with cups of juice and whatever our snack ladies had prepared for that day.

One by one, the children came back into the room and took their seats at the tables prepared for them.  But one seat was conspicuously empty.  Uh-oh, they lost one.  That's a teacher's worst nightmare - for a student to go AWOL.  The youth helpers ran back outside to look for the lost lamb while the rest of us supervised much-needed hand washing table-by-table.  (If you've ever had a room filled with 30 four-year-olds, you understand why we had only a few at a time at the one and only sink.)

While the children were washing up, they waited semi-patiently at the tables because they knew that we would have a blessing before indulging in the tasty treats.  As thirsty as they must have been, no one grabbed the juice cups.  But as the children continued to wait, and wait, and wait, and wait for this last straggler, Brody had reached his limit of waiting.

I'll bet you're all thinking that he grabbed his juice or snacks and chowed down.  But that isn't what happened.  As the adults in the room sent out another search party for the youth and missing child, Brody simply bowed his head and began to offer his own blessing and then had his snack.  As quickly as Brody began to pray, the Holy Spirit filled the classroom.  As we watched, one by one, the other children began to ask offer their personal blessings and began to enjoy their snacks too. As long as children were praying, it was very still and quiet in the room.  When the last child finished praying, the Presence of the Lord lifted and the usual classroom noise returned - along with our MIA and Entourage.

Lots of lessons were learned that day, but the greatest lesson was that children don't need to wait on adults to pray with or for them.

Gavin, another of "my kids" was in my third grade choir.  For some reason that year, the schedule had been flip flopped so that children went straight to Missions from supper and then came to Music.  The girls went to GAs and sat around tables completing projects and learning about Missionaries at home and around the world.  The guys went to the gym and usually ended up playing basketball.  When it was time for choir, the girls would come in excitedly talking about the projects they worked on or the Missionaries they met.  The boys came in boisterously and were more likely to punch or hit one another than take their seats.  How was I going to settle them down for choir without physical restraints or loud voices???  (Mrs. Marsha never yells!)

God provided the answer.  Directly across from our choir room, there was a small unused classroom.  It was actually the size of a walk-in closet, but it had a window.  Storm damage to one corner needed to be repaired so the furniture had been moved out until those repairs could be made.  (It wouldn't happen that year or for the next couple of years.)  So I brought an old queen-sized comforter to put on the floor and we moved in a standard Sunday School cabinet usually used to hold all of the lesson photos and helps.  No one was using it at the time so it was perfect for our purposes.

The first night we used our Prayer Closet, the other adult leaders and I "herded" our wild children into the tiny room and asked them to sit on the floor. We talked about God's answers to prayer:  Yes, No, and Wait.  A large posterboard was pinned to one wall and crayons and pencils were provided for each child to go in turn and write a prayer request on the board. (I still chuckle at the little girl whose baby brother was just a few weeks old and had come down with some type of illness.  She wrote, "Please help my baby bother."  Her spelling skills needed a little help, but the sentiment was priceless!)

After each child had written a prayer request, we had a closing prayer and went across the hall for choir.  We didn't get a lot of singing done that night, but unless we were able to deal with all of the behavior issues we weren't going to be singing anyway.  Sometimes you have to spend a little longer getting control of a class before the real work gets done. 

The next week, we reminded our children to come into the Prayer Closet first.  Each child went to the board and indicated how God had answered.  "Yes" answers were marked with a red cross.  "No" answers were X'd out.  "Wait" answers were circled so that we could continue to pray.  After a couple of weeks of using the corporate posterboards, each child received his/her own Prayer Journal with blank pages inside.  These were stored in the little cubby shelves - 1 journal to a shelf.  Pencils and crayons were kept below in the storage cabinet.  The children learned to quietly enter the room, find their journal, make their entry, put the journal away and sit on the comforter till everyone was finished.  After a closing prayer, we walked across the hall for choir.

In just a couple of weeks, we no longer had to spend time on behaviors - the children came into the choir room ready to sing.  And though we technically had 10 less minutes to sing than scheduled, it was more than enough time because it was all quality singing time. 

Instead of having an adult to always close prayer time, we asked for volunteers.  Gavin always volunteered - and sometimes he was chosen. His pattern of speech was unique even for our area of the south.  I'm not sure where his Southern Drawl came from since neither his parents or brother spoke that way.  He talked v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y, drawing each word out as long as possible.  On the nights when he was chosen to lead the prayer, he would begin, "O-u-r-F-a-t-h-e-r....." That was the longest Lord's Prayer any of us had ever heard!  If any of the children interrupted Gavin, he would start over from the beginning accompanied by groans.

We knew that Gavin had head knowledge about God, but he had not asked Jesus into his heart yet.  One night, there was a difference in Gavin.  He came up to me and whispered (loudly), "Mrs. Marsha, did you know that God is in here?"  I replied, "Yes, Gavin, I know He is waiting for us every week because He knows we're going to be in here at this time.  I'm so glad you feel Him too."  That night, Gavin asked to say our prayer.  I saw a few eyes roll as children braced themselves for the long, drawn-out prayer.  We were all surprised when Gavin simply talked to God as he talked to his friends.  His prayer that night was straight from his heart, albeit still with each word stretched as far as possible.

When I got downstairs to Adult Choir Practice that night, I asked Gavin's Mom to step aside with me for a moment.  I told her how precious his prayer had been and asked if he had been talking with them about making his profession of faith public.  She indicated that she and his Dad thought he was ready and I told her that I agreed. That Sunday when it was time for the Invitation, Gavin didn't wait for the music to start, he simply stepped out in the aisle and began walking forward to the Pastor. 

There is nothing so precious as watching the change in a child's life when Jesus takes up residence in their heart. 

When the burdens of each day begin to wear you down, I hope you'll remember Brody and Gavin and go to the Father as they both did - as Little Ones.

A Song of Compassion - and Surrender

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. Ecclesiastes 3:1  KJV

I had a frightening experience today as I worked with my little "Stevie", a student from one of my previoius posts.  I do understand that my terminally ill students may die while I'm working with them - but understanding that intellectually doesn't mean I want that to happen.  I always pray for God's Mercy in their lives, but I'd rather He didn't answer those prayers with me standing there holding a little hand.

Today Stevie's heart rate was fairly "normal" for most of our time together although his body was in constant seizure mode.  All of a sudden, Stevie emitted a blood curdling scream.  I've never heard Stevie's voice before - not ever!  As he screamed, his body was slammed by a grand mal seizure.  I watched helplessly as his apnea monitor indicated Stevie's heart rate  had spiked to 155.  We are to alert the RN when his heart rate goes above 135 so I was heading out the door to the nurses' station when the monitor went silent.  Total flat line ----------------- 

The nurses' station is right next door so I went around the corner as fast as my feet would carry me.  When I explained what had happened, she stood up and moved toward the door, but she wasn't in a hurry.  He's DNR, (Do Not Resuscitate), so nothing would have been done to try to save Stevie's life.  At most, she would have turned off the ventilator and called the coroner.  We walked toward Stevie's room together fully expecting him to be gone.  But as we entered Stevie's room, we found him resting quietly with a normal heart rate. 

Some days, I don't enjoy this part of my job very much.  I left the skilled nursing facility with tears in my eyes this afternoon.  Who wouldn't have?! 

Compassion is a difficult lesson to learn because with Compassion comes Pain.  We cannot feel someone else's pain unless we have experienced hurt of our own.  I think about how God felt as Jesus hung there dying on the Cross.  He knew He could have stopped the death of His Son at any moment, but He loved us too much to do that.  Our God does understand pain - more than we ever will.  And though I cannot understand the purpose God has for Stevie here on Earth, I have no doubt that Stevie's purpose hasn't yet been completed. 

God restarted Stevie's heart because He wasn't ready for Stevie to join Him in Heaven today.  When will God call Stevie Home?  No one knows except Father God.  I will continue to pray for Stevie's purpose here to be completed so that he can be made healthy and whole.

Afterthoughts -

God and I had a conversation after I posted this today.  And I realized that I needed to revise my attitude a bit.  Maybe I'm part of the reason Stevie needs to stick around a little longer - maybe I still have more to learn from him.  Maybe today was a test for me - or a dress rehearsal.

Except for when the Adapted P. E. Teacher and I have Stevie for school - 4 hours a week - he is confined to his bed.  He has no roommate, so he is totally alone most of the time.  Nurses come in to dispense medications which keep him "comfortable" and to give him nutrition through bolus feedings.  Custodial staff come in once a day to empty trash and mop the floor.  CNAs come in several times a day to change his diaper, give him a bath, and change his bedding.  He's a ward of the state, so he has no family members who visit.  Mostly, Stevie is alone.

Do I really want to be there when Stevie exchanges my hand for that of a Death Angel?  No - because that would be exceedingly painful for me.  Do I really want Stevie to pass from this life all alone?  Absolutely not!  The thought of that happening would be painful too. 

What God wanted to hear from me tonight is that I surrender to His Will.  That means if God chooses for me to be at Stevie's side when his heart stops for the final time, then I will stay by  his side as he crosses over.  I will sroke his face, hold his hand, and give thanks for the time we've had together, though my tears will fall.  I will rejoice in knowing that Stevie will be waiting for me in Heaven.  And most of all, I will thank God for all that loving Stevie has taught me. 

A Song of Sacrificial Praise

Through Him [Jesus], therefore, let us constantly and all times offer up to God a sacrifice of praise, which is the fruit of lips that thankfully acknowledge and confess and glorify His name.  Hebrews 13:15 Amplified Bible

Okay, I get that it is very easy to offer praise when things are going well in our lives.  there are Family Celebrations like weddings, anniversaries, births. There are Life Celebrations like graduations, new jobs, promotions, retirements, new cars, new homes.  And there are so many other joyful reasons to lift our praise both great and small.  But the Bible doesn't tell us to praise God only when things are going well.

So what happens when we are crushed by circumstances?  What happens when our hearts have been shattered by the devastating choices of loved ones or others?  What happens when praising God is the absolutely last thing on our minds - and in our hearts?  Not only do we find it difficult to praise Him - we just don't want to.  That's a real emotion - we don't have it within our humanness to praise God when our world is lying in shards at our feet. 

Another question I have is this:  Is something really a sacrifice if we find it easy to do.  And not even just easy, but almost mindless - meaning that it's so easily and quickly done that we don't even have to stop and consider making the deliberate choice to praise.  It's not a sacrifice when our hearts automatically offer that praise without it costing us something.

According to the writer of Hebrews, we're supposed to praise Him anyway.  But wait, we don't have to do that in our own strength because we simply don't have the breath, the strength, or the will to do so.  Look at the verse again.  It says "Through Him" - we aren't being asked to do the impossible.  God has provided us a way to do what He has commanded us to do.  That Way is Jesus.  Through Him we live and move and have our meaning.  Through Him we can praise when praise is impossible.  Maybe you don't ever struggle with this; but, oh I do! 

A few days ago, I mentioned my Prodigal Daughter and said that she was facing harsh consequences because of her choices.  That post was written on October 4, my son's 30th birthday.  What I didn't realize is that just a few hours after that post was published, my daughter was arrested by federal marshalls.  I knew that her arrest was imminent because her probation officer had told us he was getting a warrant for that purpose.  I believe that's why I needed to put what I was feeling down in blog form that day - for myself, to help me with my struggles.

I knew that this was God's answer to my prayers because the road she has been traveling for nearly 7 years would have ended in something much worse if she hadn't been stopped.  My greatest fear was that her step-father and I would get a call in the middle of the night and have to go identify her body.  (I started to clean that last sentence up and use the word "concern" instead of fear, but that would have been a lie. And if my pain is to help someone else through theirs, I have to be honest with how I feel.)

On a day which should have been celebratory, I had to tell my son about her arrest.  Our phone conversation sounded a bit like this - "Happy Birthday, Son!!!  I can't believe I'm old enough to have a 30-year-old son.  I'm so proud of you, and of the way your life has turned out. (He too had been a Prodigal for a time.)  I love the woman you married and I adore my grandchildren.  You are such a good husband, father, and provider.  By the way, your sister was arrested this afternoon."

Since the day of that first post, my daughter has gone before the judge for sentencing.  She will spend the next year in a federal penentiary for women, 10 months of which will be in a drug treatment program.  And following her release, she will have another year of probation.  I don't even know where she will be sent yet - but it will not be anywhere near where we live.  We learned that there are 7 main sites which are scattered across the 48 states.  One is in an adjacent state, but that facility is almost always filled beyond capacity.  It is more likely that she will be too far away for us to visit.  She is 21-years-old and was a semester and a half from graduating with a college degree. 

So, I am struggling with being obedient in praising God right now.  Yet, I hold on to the fact that my prayer had been, "Do whatever it takes, no matter how my heart breaks, to bring her back to You, Oh Lord."  And that's all I prayed - because that's all He allowed me to pray.  I tried to pray for her safety - but God stopped me.  I tried to pray that she would be able to finish this semester so that she wouldn't lose all those hours and all that money - but God stopped me.  I tried to pray that she would turn around without having to go back to prison - but God stopped me.  I tried to pray that she would choose different friends, different activities, have a different attitude - but again, God stopped me.  What He wanted was for me to surrender my precious baby girl to Him.

I am grieving the death of many dreams I had for her.  I am grieving for the baby I carried in my womb; the infant who loved singing with me during those wee-hours feedings; the toddler whose knees and elbows I "kissed and made better"; the elementary school child who would sneak "I love you, Mommy!" notes into my purse so that I would find them later in the day.  I know that she's still in there somewhere and I hope to see her again someday.  But I have to trust God to do what I prayed for - and what He wants to do in her life.  But He can't work in her life if I get in His way.

As parents, we want to shelter our children from anything harmful.  But there are times that we have to allow them to feel the consequences of their choices in order to teach them what is good and right and true.  Do you remember teaching your baby the meaning of "hot, don't touch"?  I have bandaged tiny hands that touched anyway; so did my own mother when I didn't listen.  I can't rescue her.  I can't save her.  I can't do anything in this situation but to tell her that my love for her is unchanged - it's unconditional. 

If anyone had asked me a few years ago if my daughter's salvation experience at age seven was true, I would have answered, "Yes!"  Now, after talking with our Ministers and viewing her choices honestly, I have to answer that I am not sure.  So that's the only prayer that makes sense right now - that God would either draw her to Himself and that she would ask Jesus to be her Savior and Lord; or that God would draw her back to Himself from where she has strayed. I know that it is His Will for all of us come to Him through Jesus and become adopted sons and daughters.

So today I simply ask God to help me leave my daughter in His hands.  And I choose to offer the sacrifice of praise believing that He will have the victory in her life.  Does it hurt to praise Him for what is happening in her life right now?  Yes.  Do I have moments when the grief overtakes me?  Yes.  Is praising Him in this situation one of the hardest things I've ever had to do.  Yes. But I am not offering praise in my own strength.  I am able to offer praise because of Jesus - through Jesus' strength, I can and I will.

"We bring the sacrifice of praise into the House of the Lord;
We bring the sacrifice of praise into the House of the Lord.
And we offer up to You the sacrifices of Thanksgiving.
And we offer up to You the sacrifices of Joy."

A Song of Joy

On October 6, 2010, I met a precious little Cherub. As part of the many "hats" I wear as a Special Educator, one of the most difficult and at the same time most rewarding, is serving as a Hospital/Homebound Instructor for children with significant disabilities or catastrophic illnesses.  My current roster includes several children in a local skilled nursing facility, most of whom are terminally ill.  [As always, the names of the children have been changed to protect their privacy.]

When you teach terminally ill children, you go in the door knowing you're going to lose them sooner rather than later. That knowledge doesn't stop me from wondering "Why?", even though I know the theological answer.  "We are born into a fallen world with the stain of Original Sin upon us, which is why we need a Savior."  I do understand that and I trust Father God to always do what is best according to His Plan.  Yet when I'm standing at the bedside of a dying child, I find myself wondering what possible reason there could be for the suffering I witness.  When machines are the only link between life and death, what purpose could there be for this kind of life?

Leigh was 6 days away from her 1st birthday when I met her and I was saddened to learn that she was DNR. (Do Not Resusicate) She had ebony skin with milk chocolate cheeks. When her eyes were open, I could see that they were dark like coals, but there was no sparkle in them.  One of the CNA's had bathed her, braided her hair with bright red ponytail holders, and dressed her in a ruffled red and white dress.  Tiny red socks with a white lace ruffle and black patent leather "mary janes" completed her ensemble.  But the perfect picture was marred by the trach tube in her throat and the telltale PEG tube (for feeding her) running underneath her ruffles.

It broke my heart to stand by her crib, hold her tiny hand and stroke her soft cheek.  Her eyes only opened half way because she was so weak, but she looked at me when I called her by name.  One of the nursing staff told me her history which was another heartbreaker.  {How many times, O Lord, must I hear of men who rape defenseless girls?  The very young mother of this child was raped by her uncle.}  A judge had ordered that Leigh be allowed to die naturally because there was nothing medically that could be done to cure her or to make her quality of life better.

That day, I didn't know how long she would be with us on earth, but I told Leigh that I'd meet her at the big tree with a swing in Heaven so we could take turns swinging.  That's where I tell all of my terminally ill kids we'll meet one day.  Okay, so there's no theological basis for that - but I know that the Bible tells us we will know others and be known in Heaven, so allow me to hold onto that pleasant thought in this situation. 

As I stood by Leigh's bed that day, I prayed for her and asked God for His mercy in her life.  I asked God not to let her linger one moment past when her purpose here on earth had been completed.  And I told God that for as long as I have her, I will praise Him for how He is using Leigh to refine me to be more like Him.

When I went back on Monday, her crib was empty.  Leigh didn't live long enough to celebrate her first birthday on earth - but make no mistake, she's celebrating Eternal Life in Heaven!  She has been reborn into a perfect body and will never again know pain or struggle to take a breath. 

Did I shed tears for my precious Leigh?  Oh, of course I did.  My tears are falling now as I tell you about her song.  The sight of her empty, stripped crib took my breath away.  A small part of me was thankful that I did not have months or years to love her because the pain of her loss would have multiplied with every additional day she was "mine".  But, oh how my heart rejoiced from the assurance that she was now in Heaven with Jesus.  Little Ones do indeed belong to Him.

I have another precious child whose time on earth is growing shorter.  {His mother was a resident in a facility for mentally retarded adults and she was raped by another resident there.}  His name is Stevie and he is in a permanent vegetative state.  I am told by medical staff that this is much worse than being in a coma.  He is cortically blind, but even if he had perfect sight, he would be unable to see me.  Although his hearing is normal, he can no longer hear my voice.  Stevie, too, has never been able to breathe on his own.  Unlike Leigh, he relies on a ventilator for every breath.  Like Leigh, he has a PEG tube for nutrition and he is attached to an apnea monitor which continually diplays his Oxygen Saturation and Heart Rate.  Because he's on the ventilator, his O2 sats stay at 100%.  His heart rate is the critical number to watch.

When I first met 5-year-old Stevie a little over a year ago, his heart rate stayed between 70 and 80 beats per minute.  Over the months, his heart rate has steadily increased.  The past couple of weeks, it has stayed between 125 and 135.  This is one of the signs that his little heart is in more distress.  He used to have a few small seizures - maybe one or two during the hour and a half that I "teach" him.  Now he is in "status epilepticus" which means that one seizure doesn't end before the next one begins.  His entire body continually twitches.  It is so painful to watch the seizures twist and jerk his body.

Maybe you're wondering what I could possibly teach him.  That's okay, I wonder too.  I spend our time reading children's books aloud and talking to him.  I also spend part of our time praying for him.  Just as I prayed for Leigh, I pray that Stevie won't have to spend one more moment on earth beyond the fullfillment of God's purpose for his life.  Although I know my time with Stevie is drawing ever closer to the end, I cannot know when I will walk into his room to find his bed stripped and empty.  I cannot even be assured that his heart won't stop while I'm there holding his hand, stroking his arm or caressing his face. 

I won't lie to you and say that it is easy, because it most definitely is not.  Losing one of "my children" is indefinably painful, yet I cannot describe what a blessing they are in my life.  God must have a reason for allowing children like Leigh and Stevie to survive - there must be a purpose or a lesson in their lives.  But the lesson can't be for them; therefore, the lesson must be for those of us God brings into their lives.  God must be doing something in us that can only be accomplished through them.  God must be changing my heart in some way through them. 

For that reason, I will sing a song of joy for their lives and for the privilege of knowing and loving them - no matter how brief or how long our time together may be.  Before you attribute some sort of special ability to me, please STOP and give the Praise and Glory to Our Heavenly Father instead because that is where it rightfully belongs.  If you see Jesus in me or in the lives of Leigh or Stevie, then their journey has accomplished what God intended in you.

"Change my heart, O God; make it ever true. 
Change my heart, O God, may I be like you.

You are the Potter, I am the Clay. 
Mold me and make me; this is what I pray.

Change my heart, O God; make it ever true. 
Change my heart, O God, may I be like you."

A Song of Provision

During the 1985-86 school year, I served as Special Education Homebound Teacher to a five-year-old minx.  {Names have been changed to ensure privacy.}

Catey was raped by her father at the age of 3, contracted Hepatitis B, and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder which often manifested in episodes of rage.  After 25 foster homes in 18 months, she was placed with Jane and Artie, a couple in whom God had placed the desire to become foster parents to children with special needs.  Jane had been my paraprofessional in a preschool class for students with significant disabilities several years earlier, so she was confident that they would be able to help Catey.

Back then, there was a lot of misinformation about how Hep B was passed from one person to another.  There was much fear among parents of other students and the faculty at the school she would have attended.  Even after talking with doctors in New Orleans and providing information to parents and teachers, there were still threats of a mass exodus of students and faculty if Catey was allowed to attend school on campus.

I don't know if I can adequately describe how freaked out people were about Hep B in those days.  One of the secretaries in our office was undergoing chemo treatment at the time and she was concerned about contracting it from me simply because I was in the home and touched  Catey or things that she had touched.  My husband at that time was concerned that I would bring it home to our children or to him.  There were "Letters to the Editor", calls to the School Board Office, news cameras and news hounds hovering.  It was intense!  They didn't see Catey as a precious child who wanted to go to school and learn; they saw her as a threat to life and health.

When Catey's IEP Team met to determine how to serve her needs, we considered her emotional and physical health as well as her educational needs.  It was our belief that because Catey had been been in so many different foster situations and exhibited such severe emotional and behavioral problems, serving her in the Homebound setting would be best for at least this one year.  Yes, the medical diagnosis played a role in our decision - but it was certainly not the main factor, no matter how loud the furor. 

I was privileged to be her teacher.  Yes, I really mean that it was a privilege and a joy to teach her.  She had beautiful olive skin, a mop top full of dark bouncy curls and chocolate brown eyes that sparkled with mischief.  Catey had some slight articulation deficits and pronounced all of her "r's" as "w's" which endeared her to me all the more. The biggest blessing for Catey was that Jane and Artie were Christians who truly lived what they believed.  Catey went to church at a local Assembly of God Church with them, she was learning about Jesus in Rainbow Girls, and she believed in the power of prayer.

One afternoon when I arrived for our class session, I had the most awful sinus headache.  What I really wanted to do was to go home and crawl under the covers till it went away.  When I sat down at the dining room table with Catey, she said, "What's ah mattah Miss Mawsha?  You not 'miling today."  I explained about my headache and before I could finish, she crawled on top of the table, placed her chubby little hands on my forehead and said, "Let's pway foe it."  Then she began to pray for me.  I don't remember all the things she said, but I do remember feeling the presence of the Lord surrounding us and that my headache went away immediately.  God listened to this tiny tot.

Sometimes while we worked, she would experience flashbacks from the abuse.  Like a domino effect, the flashbacks triggered rage, and rage turned into torn or thrown books and materials.  I don't remember her ever physically attacking anyone, but anything that could be raked onto the floor or ripped was subject to the rage.  She would shriek as if the very hounds of hell were about to devour her.  Whenever that would happen, Jane would come over to the table and we would stop to pray together for Catey.  One of us would hold her closely on our lap and the other would lay hands on her as we prayed.  We simply asked for God to blanket Catey with calm and peace and to replace those horrible memories with something wonderful.  God listened to our prayers too.

One afternoon as Jane went about her daily household tasks, Catey and I began our lessons at the table.  Jane was in the living area vacuuming when Catey indicated she needed to use the bathroom.  I asked if she needed any help but she said she was a big girl.  So I waited at the table and prepared our next activity.  As suddenly as thick fog rolling in from the sea, I felt the presence of the Lord so strongly that I couldn't move. The weight of His presence very tangibly held me in place and bid me to bow my head and close my eyes. Just as suddenly, Jane turned off the vacuum and went to her knees.  She felt Him too.

In the stillness of the apartment, we could hear Catey's sing-song voice.  "Aww, tha's so pwetty!  Look at all the spawkles! "  When she came into view from the hallway, we could see that Catey appeared to be holding someone's hand, but no one was there.  As she walked, she looked around as if she was seeing things we couldn't see.  She enthusiastically described her stroll and pointed out objects of interest as she walked through the streets of Heaven holding hands with her Friend.

As Catey reached the table and began climbing up into her chair, the Lord's Presence lifted but Jane and I were frozen a few moments longer - savoring His sweet Presence.  Catey, clearly ready to get back to work, said, "Okay, Miss Mawsha.  What we doin' now?"  Class resumed - but I was forever changed.

Jane and I talked later about our experience and both of us know that for those precious moments, our Catey was transported to Heaven.  We believe that something triggered a memory so horrible that her mind could not bear it.  So that memory was replaced by a walk through Heaven's streets.  God knew her need and He Provided for her. 

What makes us, as adults, think God loves us less or provides for us less than He did for Catey?  God is the same yesterday, today and tomorrow.  He's ever faithful and never changing.  His attention doesn't stray and He never sleeps.  He's always watching and caring for His Children.

Whenever I feel that God is far away or I can't figure out how to pray, I remember Catey.  I don't know how much I taught her that year because so much of our time was spent on behaviors and emotions that bubbled out of her.  But she taught me so much about God's Love and and His Provision.  He always gives us more than we could ever ask or hope for.

I will bless you with a future filled with hope - a future of success, not of suffering.  Jeremiah 29:11  Contemporary English Version

A Song of Promises

In the spring of  '98, my daughter and I moved from the only home she had known.  Apartment living was necessary following a divorce and the dissolution of our family.  We were recovering from Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome resulting from prolonged abuse.  Though funds were meager, we needed to put our "handprints" on the apartment walls.  She found a clock at Wal-Mart that she *had* to have.  Different photos of North American Birds replaced the numbers; and the clock chirped each hour with the corresponding bird's signature song. It wasn't long before we recognized the time by birdsong. 

An included pamphlet described the male and female birds, the nest, the eggs, and the hatchlings.  It also described each bird's song.  For eleven of the birds, there was only one song.  Some birds, like Whip-or-wills or Bobwhites, sang their names.  Others, like Crows, mearly squawked.  But one bird had multiple songs - the little sparrow. 

I find it amazing that God chose to bestow such a gift on a nondescript little bird.  The sparrow isn't beautiful to look at like a Cardinal, and none of its songs are the stuff of legends like a  Nightingale's.   Sparrows aren't even popular for Bird Watching, but they are precious to God.

Our first days in the apartment were dark and difficult - filled with counseling and prayer.  Eight months after her father's arrest, we both still trembled and cried out in the night from flashbacks and nightmares. She was so terrified of a tiny sprinkling rain, she would run to my bed shaking so hard that the whole bed quaked.   Through it all, we  felt God's love through the prayers and hugs of family and friends.

Gradually tears and terrors were replaced by joy and laughter.  God didn't forget us or forsake us.  He held our shattered hearts together and taught them to beat again.  He filled our lungs with breath when we didn't have the strength or will to breathe on our own.  He didn't promise our path would be easy, but He promised to go before us and make our paths straight.  He didn't promise to put back together that which had been shattered, but He promised to make all things new and restore what was lost.  He gave us new songs to sing.

My little girl is now my Prodigal Daughter.  In her quest for independence, she has turned away from God and faces harsh consequences because of her choices.  "I'm grown and I can do what I want to!" has replaced her Godsong.  My heart is shattered again and I find it difficult to sing.  But I trust God to bring us through.  I am like the sparrow.  He promises not to forget about me or to push me aside as being unimportant.  He knows my name and He will place a new song in my heart.