Strange Gifts

I have appreciated all the encouragement “to keep it real” in telling our family’s story.

But as ‘real’ as we’ve been, (which is a natural propensity, rather than a virtue, in my case) our writings have revealed just the tip of the iceberg. A huge, dark, frozen mass, like the one that sank the Titanic, still lurks beneath the surface of our words.

What has happened to Katherine is simply unspeakable in many ways.

Monstrous, outrageous…

Unreal, unfair, unnatural, unimaginable…inacceptable, inconceivable, incomprehensible.

In addition to Blind Faith, Denial and Avoidance have been faithful friends. So much of this is simply not to be borne that many times I’ve kind of shut down, flaked out, numbed over. I live primarily on the surface, just doing the next thing that needs doing. Most of the time it’s better that way. There is plenty to do.

Still, there are times when the unanswerable questions clamor to be addressed.

Like, HOW COULD A GOOD GOD ALLOW THIS TO HAPPEN TO ONE OF HIS BIGGEST FANS???

(As St. Theresa joked with the Almighty, “Lord, if this is how you treat your friends, no wonder you have so few of them.”)

***************

A verse haunts me. I remember the first time I read it. I thought, “Well, thanks, but no thanks. Better pick someone else for that job. Don’t think I’ll be cashing in that particular favor anytime soon.”

The verse was, “For it has been granted to you that for the sake of Christ you should not only believe in him but also suffer for his sake.” (Phil.1:29)

(To grant: 1 a: to consent to carry out for a person: allow fulfillment of; b: to permit as a right, privilege, or favor 2: to bestow)

Lord, please don’t grant me this favor. Don’t even think about bestowing this honor upon me. I give up all my rights for this privilege. Give it to someone more worthy. I’ll wash their feet in heaven….or anything else that needs washing. I’ll sit at the back of the bus, stand at the end of the line, gladly accept the smallest, dingiest halo. I’m just not far enough along for this honor. Why don’t you let me grow a little more? Get a little more spiritually mature? (By the time I’m mature enough, I’ll be dead…transported straight to Bliss.) Let this particular cup just pass me right on by....

Suffering’s not my bag, baby, as Austin Powers might say.

***************

Catching Katherine in a rare weak moment was the impetus for my most recent metaphysical query. Following the trans-facial nerve graft, she and Jay stayed at UCLA’s Tiverton House for recuperation until her initial checkup and stitch removal. (The Tiverton House had been our first lodging in the aftermath of Katherine’s AVM rupture, so it returned us emotionally to that time even more vividly than did the surgery alone.) Grace and I kept the baby at our apartment just down the street. On the second day, we strolled him up for a visit with Mom and Dad, but he was too wild to be around the patient. I took him upstairs to the indoor playground to run some energy out. When James and I returned to the room a little later, I could hear sobbing from out in the hallway. “I don’t know how much more I can endure,” Katherine was crying as we entered the room. I handed the baby off to Jay and sat down on the bed with Katherine and her sister. “Look at me…Any one thing would be bad enough, but to have all of this...”she gestured from the top of her head to the bottom of her feet. I hugged her gingerly, trying not to touch anything painful. She looked like Poor Pitiful Pearl: Frankenstein stitches down each side of her neck and the length of her left leg....lips swollen up like Octomom’s...matted, unwashable hair. Her whole body throbbing with pain, Katherine seemed terribly fragile...almost breakable. The shaking of her shoulders just made things worse. By this point, Grace was crying, too. But when I started in, Katherine instantly reverted back to Family Cheerleader: “But I’m okay. I really am.” I think she may even have patted my arm.

Adding insult to injury, James acted like a brat...I mean a baby...as we were leaving. When I asked him to blow Mommy a kiss bye-bye, he yelled “NO!” Then, to rub it in, he looked at her and gave me a hug and a kiss instead.

I was pretty mad at God for the rest of the day. Well, maybe not mad...just really hurt.

There sure is a whole lot of hurt down here.


But hasn’t my child suffered enough?

***************

“For it has been granted to you that for the sake of Christ you should not only believe in him but also suffer for his sake.” (Phil.1:29)

I struggle with this troubling verse. It indicates that some (certainly not all) suffering is a privilege...an honor...a boon. The inference: Katherine has been chosen for a special mission.

He must really, really trust her.

It is human instinct not only to avoid suffering at all costs, but to actively pursue our own comfort. Currently, I have a front-row seat in the lecture hall for lessons to be learned from the lives and mouths of babes. I have been reminded of our most essential, in-born human nature: I do not want to be hungry, thirsty, wet, dirty, hurt, bored or ignored. I WANT food! Drink! A dry diaper! Comfort! Stimulation! Attention! Love! And stuff. More Stuff! MY Stuff!!!!” (Ditto all that for me.)

I go to my instruction manual searching for answers. I’m trying to figure this out here....wrap my mind around a concept so completely contrary to our human nature. I dig this up in Acts:.“The apostles left the Sanhedrin, rejoicing because they had been counted worthy of suffering disgrace for the Name.” (Acts 5:41)

Why??? Were they sick masochists? Like the frat pledge in Animal House who begs for another spanking, “Thank you, sir, may I have another?” Could this be the origin of the Medieval practice of self-flagellation? I am reminded of Dame Julian of Norwich, who prayed that God would allow her to experience corporally the physical agonies of Christ. She almost died. And the beautiful Madame Guyon, who prayed that God would take away her beauty so that men (other than her mean husband) wouldn’t be tempted to hit on her. She got disfiguring smallpox that left her marred for life.

What is the secret? Why are there those who not only don’t shrink away from suffering, but embrace it, invite it? Where is the joy in suffering?

Recently, I reread some accounts of the persecuted church. Stories of the underground churches that operated under Communism particularly intrigue me. Betrayed, beaten, imprisoned, and matyred for their faith, the Eastern Bloc Christians nevertheless emanated a supernatural joy that greatly perplexed their Western brothers and sisters. It almost seemed that the worse things got, the greater the ineffable joy abounded. I think of the 1st and 2nd Century martyrs who went to the lions singing hymns and praising God. The earliest disciples were so filled with joy that on at least one occasion they were accused of being drunk at 10 in the morning. Persecution, torture, imprisonment, and death were just around the bend. What were they thinking?

There must be some hidden benefits. Paul wrote to the believers in Rome,“...we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.” (Rom 5:3-4) Peter sheds some more light on the source of the joy: “Dear friends, do not be surprised at the painful trial you are suffering, as though something strange were happening to you. But rejoice that you participate in the sufferings of Christ, so that you may be overjoyed when his glory is revealed.” (I Peter 4:12-13)

I have never fully understood this “participation” concept. In Phil. 3:10, Paul declares, “I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death.” Is that a key? We become more like him through our suffering? Isn’t that the goal of sanctification? Can we only truly come to know him and become like him by sharing in his human experience in its totality? I do know that if I want to become more like him, parts of me will have to die. The parts that are selfish, self-serving, self-preserving, self-protecting, self-aggrandizing…even those parts that are merely self-comforting. The willing acceptance of suffering is a type of death: death to my own wishes and desires....not my will, but Yours.

There was a 2-year period during which I experienced severe, unrelenting, chronic pain. The pain was so violent at times that it was all I could do to survive the day. Some days I didn’t want to. During that time, I ran across this:“Therefore, since Christ suffered in his body, arm yourselves also with the same attitude, because he who has suffered in the body is done with sin.” (I Peter 4:1) Intense suffering has the ability to burn the self out of you. It can cause you to look beneath the surface, behind the veil, beyond yourself. I have to confess that I am not yet “done with sin,” but, then, I am a particularly tough case. I did, however, have some of the most beautifully intense spiritual encounters of my life during that nightmare of physical suffering. There were “treasures in the dark.”

"I will give you the treasures of darkness, riches stored in secret places, so that you may know that I am the LORD, the God of Israel, who summons you by name." (Isaiah 45:3)

My experience showed me that, through suffering, we can come to know God in the secret recesses of our hearts in a much deeper, more profound way than is possible when we’re content to exist on the anesthesized surface of life. And the light that we bring with us from these encounters in the darkest places may illuminate those around us. We bring the treasure out with us, and willingly share it.

I am reminding myself of this now.

But that was me; this time it’s my child.

Still, as hard as it is to witness the pain, I have to admit that the Katherine Light has never shone more brightly than now.

***************

I keep trying to reason away the emotions. Get some peace. Understand. Concluding my research on suffering’s silver linings, I find these verses:

For just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows. (2 Cor. 1:5)

But those who suffer he delivers in their suffering; he speaks to them in their affliction. (Job 36:15)

My comfort in my suffering is this: Your promise preserves my life.(Ps. 119:50)

He said to her, "Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering."(Mark 5:34)

“Now if we are children, then we are heirs—heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ, if indeed we share in his sufferings in order that we may also share in his glory.”(Rom. 8:17)


Unearthly comfort…deliverance….preservation…peace….freedom. The voice of God himself speaking promises of abundant life. Glory.

Good Lord, Glory!!!

(Glory: praise, honor, or distinction…distinguished quality or brilliant asset…great beauty…SPLENDOR… the bliss of heaven…a height of prosperity or achievement…a state of great gratification or exaltation…)

I'm gonna let it rest now. Too much thinking can wear you out.

***************

Today was an exquisite California day. Actually, you could call it a glorious day. The kind of day that helps you understand why California real estate is still so insanely high: warm sun, dry air, brilliant light, cool flirty breeze.

I went to therapy with Katherine in the morning, then Grace strolled the baby over at lunchtime for a changing of the guard. On the way back to the house, James and I stopped by the playground of the children’s wing. As James entertained himself by moving dirt from one place to another, I wandered around the garden space having a little interior monologue, still not feeling a conclusion to my questioning. Finally, I made a direct address to Heaven: “Okay, would you just help me really understand the suffering thing now?” I felt an invitation to be still. I sat on the cool grass in the shade of a big, beautiful tree. I tried to reason things out in my head again, but images of the tragically broken people I’d just witnessed in therapy kept coming to mind. So much seemingly senseless suffering....lives destroyed by accident, violence, or, most senseless of all, drunk drivers. Leaning against the comfortable old tree, I looked up at its’ delicate emerald leaves dancing in patterns above my head. Translucent with sunlight, they made a kaleidoscope of every kind of green. My favorite color. The color of life.

Words drifted down:

“The gifts are much greater than the grief.”


Somehow, that was enough.

***************

"I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us." (Romans 8:18)

"And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast."* (1 Peter 5:10)

(*The by-word on all of Katherine’s emails.)

...More of Grandma's Bragbook

Dear Family (and interested Friends),

Here are the most recent pictures of (mostly) the ChunkMonk:

http://picasaweb.google.com/kta2754/Spring#

love, kim

Moving

Well, I don’t know about you, but I’ve had a hell of a week.

If there’s anything closer to a mini-vacation to Hades than a MOVE, then I don’t know what it is.

(Of course I’m kidding. We’ve learned that there are many, many things worse. Some things are even worse than death.)

Let’s just say that it’s one of the worst elective tortures there is. But then I haven’t had a facelift or gotten adult braces. (Yet.) I have, however, lived through a kitchen remodeling.

Anyway, the day finally came when a family of our size could no longer pretend to be camping out in California in a tiny (but ridiculously expensive, by Georgia standards) 1-bedroom, 1-bath apartment. With Katherine having an increasing number of medical appointments at UCLA, and a decreasing number of therapy days in Pomona per week, there were more frequent occasions when 4 or 5 of us would be crawling all over each other in our little “home-away-from-home.” The bedroom was so small that it was hard for two people to stand up in it at the same time...especially with a baby bed crammed in. And there are obstacles involved in sleeping (trying to sleep) in the same room as a 19-month-old. Hard to let him just cry himself back to sleep when he’s two feet away from your bed, staring at you with stricken, streaming, big, brown eyes...calling your name in a pitiful voice.

Plus, we wanted to make an even greater contribution to Southern California’s faltering economy. So we took the plunge, bit the bullet, and tightened the belt in order to move on up in the world... to a two-bedroom in the same building. Actually, we moved almost directly up, to the floor above.

It might as well have been China.

***************

At first, it was kind of fun. My son-in-law Jay is as efficient as I am inefficient. He found a cart somewhere in the building and, with my youngest daughter’s help, carted up a good deal of the furniture and larger items in no time flat. My middle daughter also happened to be moving the same weekend, so she loaned us two brawny men to help with the bed and sofa. Then everyone else went back to work and therapy. I thought I’d finish up in the next day or so, no prob. Management had graciously given me a week in which to complete the transition.

By the third day of “finishing up the move” alone, I was ready to jump off the balcony on the fifth floor.

I’d started out in an organized manner, filling up the maintenance man’s cart with nicely packed dishes and such. I hummed happy hymns as I pushed the heavy cart around tight corners and down long halls to the elevator, went up a floor, and did it again. I took the time to arrange items in their new home upstairs, a jigsaw-puzzle type of endeavor because of a reduction in kitchen storage space. (There’s always a trade-off.) I even hung a couple of pictures on the wall and threw the throw pillows around to make things homey right off the bat.

At the end, I was emptying bathroom drawers into grocery bags, throwing them on the cart with toilet plungers, old cocktail sauce, and piles of clothes, and careening down the halls knocking chunks out of the walls. Neighbors stared at me as I did lap after lap of the Death March, ThermaCare patch stuck on my neck, and wild, greasy hair piled on top of my head like Cyndi Lauper on a Bad Hair Day. Instead of praise music, I alternated humming the monkey dirge from The Wizard of Oz and The Volga Boatman’s Song.

It’s incredible what an amazing accumulation of clutter occurred in less than a year. The junk had multiplied like mold. Every cabinet, drawer, and closet was crammed full of fresh nightmares to be dealt with. The inner child of Depression-Era parents battled the modern woman with tree-hugger sensibilities, while the voice of Reason argued against both of them. (Should I cart this crusty condiment upstairs? It’s been moved from Malibu to Jay’s apartment to ours. Should I grant it space one more time? It’s still half full, the voice of the parents intones. I should take the time to empty it out and wash the bottle and take it to the recycling center, the tree-hugger piously suggests. Just trash it, you’re in a hurry, the voice of practicality yells in frustration.)

Getting to the bottom of the mound in the corner of the cramped closet was like an archeological dig. Oh, here are the puppets that were used in a 2-minute puppet show at James’ first birthday party after most of the guests had already left. A Victoria’s Secret bag with a bra that didn’t fit last May, receipt and all. Gifts for nurses never delivered. Gadgets loaned to us to make life more convenient.

And, everywhere, PAPERS. “Too many paypuhs,” as we say in our family, quoting our kindergartner who suddenly refused to go to school one day. (“But you LOVE school,” we coaxed as she clung to the doorframe. She sobbed even harder. “Not any more. Now there’s TOO MANY PAYPUHS!!!”) We all sympathize. It’s a family problem. Medical information, sweet cards from well-wishers, take-out menus from walking-distance restaurants, old receipts, bills, bills, and bills. How can I throw any of this stuff out??? I need to go through it first! (Yes, and when will that day come, Kim?)

CD’s never listened to, books never read, clothes with the tags still on....all ended up being hauled.

Then I had to put my big girl pants on and deal with the gory details...getting things like gas, electric, water, cable , and internet switched over. Endless minutes listening to Muzak on speaker phone, pushing button after button after button....only to finally reach a human being whose English you can’t understand. Visits from an international assembly of men-in-a-big-hurry-to-get-to-the-next-job. (Wait, why do I have to have another remote control? We didn’t need it downstairs! Did I just sign up for something new? How much is this gonna cost???)

Speaking of downstairs...with the mess gone, I noticed all the things that needed fixing if we wanted our security deposit back. So I went nuts patching up nail holes, painting, cleaning like a madwoman. I realized that I’d become completely unhinged when I tried to restore the hair bleach spots on the carpet with Rit dye and a paintbrush minutes before we had to finish evacuating. Definitely over the edge. By this point, my husband had arrived from Georgia, so at least he made me laugh about it. We turned in our old keys and went out for a beer to celebrate.

But back upstairs, everything seemed lost, broken, and out of control. We soon discovered stuff that needs fixing in the new apartment. Our youngest child dumped all the contents of her dorm room in on us before heading to Pomona; our middle child sent us the overflow from her old apartment. I couldn’t find anything because of the lack of sorting at the end. Unrelated items were dumped in bags together. (Face wash with toilet bowl cleaner.) Then, I suddenly realized I’d lost my wedding ring and my other favorite ring. I had a flashback to a time during the move when there was an opportunity for someone to help them go missing. I was convinced I’d never see them again. Within 4 days, I had mentally let them go.

By the end of the week, stress had escalated to the Danger Zone. I finally got my computer back, just to discover that something new is wrong with it. Several other unpleasant situations arose. The last straw was when I tried to email myself a blog I’d tried to write on various borrowed computers, only to find that the last (almost finished) version had been lost.

I drug myself back out to Pomona for nanny duty feeling completely defeated, frustrated, and comatose-tired.

My eternally optimistic (Thank God!!!) child Katherine didn’t understand why I wasn’t my usual jolly self. We got in a snit. (No, we’re not perfect. We still fight.)

Feeling like a victim, I went to the kitchen and started washing the first of an endless stream of dishes. (No dishwasher in the rental house.) I stared out the window at the fire station across the street, fighting back tears of self-pity. I decided it was time to pray.

“What am I supposed to learn from this?”

This is the gist of what came to me:

Life is like one of those human conveyor belt things in the Atlanta airport. There’s really no such thing as standing still. Even with your feet firmly planted on what you assume to be terra firma, you are constantly moving towards another destination.

Sometimes it’s the wrong destination. Not the one I’ve chosen for you. During those times, I may ask you to pack up your little red wagon and move. It may feel like running up the down escalator with a sleeper sofa on your back....competing in the New York marathon while toting a queen-size bed.

And sometimes you’re the one that wants to move. Remember, you were just complaining about the desert. There’s only one way out. It is not an easy way. The path is narrow.

A move is painful, messy, inconvenient, and exhausting. There is chaos and confusion. Things always get broken and misplaced. It’s unsettling and uncomfortable. Letting go of the familiar is frightening.

It may mean losing things you love...leaving even very precious things behind.

But it will be worth it in the end.

I will help you. I’ll even tell you what to pack.

And when you just can’t make the trip one more time, I’ll carry you and your little red wagon, too.

***************

My reverie was interrupted by loud laughter exploding from the den. I heard my middle child whoop, my husband teasing James. The little rental house across from the fire station suddenly felt like home.

Our family’s love is a moveable feast.

****************

“One day Terah took his son Abram, his daughter-in-law Sarai, and his grandson Lot and moved away from Ur of the Chaldeans. He was headed for the land of Canaan, but they stopped at Haran and settled there...
The Lord had said to Abram, “Leave your native country, your relatives, and your father’s family, and go to the land that I will show you. I will make you into a great nation. I will bless you and make you famous, and you will be a blessing to others...All the families on earth will be blessed through you.”
So Abram departed as the Lord had instructed...” (Gen. 11:31-12:4, nlt)

**************

(p.s. since writing this, both the rings and the blog have been recovered. God is so good.)

YAY!

We're back in business!


Just got the little black mystery box back from BestBuy!


Hopefully, I'll be able to post something soon........as soon as we finish moving.


(please keep praying in the meantime.....many "challenges.")


Thank you so much!

Love,
Kim

P.S.

...I forgot to say that every "comment" is like a Christmas present. 

An Old Crack(ed) Pot Like Me

All I can say is thank you, thank you, thank you.

Your words of encouragement have given me renewed focus and “fresh fire.” I feel humbled and honored. Your comments brought out some very hard, healthy, refreshing, needed tears…followed by a sense of peace and purpose.

I appreciate everyone who took the time to write…but especially those for whom it meant abandoning their comfort zones. I just love it when this blog becomes a forum for the exchanging of ideas, rather than an on-going monologue. I get sick and tired of myself. I love to hear your stories, too.  They bless us all in many ways. 

Thank you so much for your input on the blog entries. I thought everybody would probably pick the same few.  It was interesting to see how many different ones struck chords with people…which must bring me back to the conclusion that these musings were not written by my hand alone. (Further evidence that God does indeed use his ‘cracked pots’, as Patsy Clairmont says, not just his gorgeous porcelain vases!) It is amazing to hear accounts of how God has used my faulty human words “for His greater purpose in all of our lives,” as “masterdesigned” put it.  It comforts Katherine to know that her devastating situation has been used for good and growth in the lives of others.

Early on, a close friend (who is more spiritually mature than I am) tried to help me understand the phenomenon of this thing. She explained, “This is what happens when a natural ability is ignited by the Holy Spirit.” I hope my quoting that statement will not lead to confusion. My point is that I know myself pretty well, and I know that this wouldn’t have happened without a great deal of supernatural help. I don’t believe my words alone would have had the impact your comments indicate. I thank God that he has somehow broken through, in spite of my weaknesses. But I do believe that every single member of the family is called to be his eyes, his lips, his hands. Even me.

Even you.

I feel that I’ve come to know some very compassionate “kindred spirits” through this vehicle. I am grateful for that. This crazy planet can feel like hostile territory sometimes. You have helped to restore my shaken faith in mankind.

Last, I thank those of you who acknowledged the difficulties in keeping any kind of consistent posting schedule. Technical difficulties aren’t the only challenge. Sometimes it seems like all the forces of hell are trying to prevent me from writing.* But I will when I can.

One day at a time…

I love you!

Gratefully,                                                                                                                                                Kim

 *For instance, as I was typing those very words, the apartment fire alarm went off. Being California, it sounds kind of like a Banshee woman in extended labor. It makes dogs go insane, and one older lady in the complex has mentioned a lawsuit having to do with hearing loss. In this case, it just woke James up, about 15 minutes after I put him down.  Oh well, I was almost finished.

 …except for the P.S.: If you haven’t had a chance, the polls are still open on the blog survey. Just follow instructions on previous blog.

Oh, and since I’m probably going to have to return this laptop to its owner this afternoon :(, I'm going to go ahead and post something I wrote a few days ago in the aftermath of Katherine’s 13-hour facial re-animation surgery. 

Just a sec...

Wasteland Grace

Sometimes this doesn’t feel like a miracle at all.

It feels more like a slo-mo nightmare.

Or it feels dull and gray, like a drizzly day.

When it’s like that, I just want to go to sleep and maybe not wake up for a couple of years.

…Wake me up when it gets interesting again…when we get to the climax of the story...

Wake me up when God “shows up and shows off,” as they said he did at the beginning of this odyssey.

I’m not big on the persevering-with-joy thing. I tire out too easily. My bones ache. I hurt all over. Then I become like my grandson when he’s tired…grumpy, whiny, petulant, and impatient. Sometimes I even have a meltdown, too.

I start forgetting the Red Sea, and focus instead on the hot, dry, boring desert. Oh, it stretches out in front of us forever, I think. How long will we have to plod through this arid wasteland, dragging our feet in the sand? Shoulders slumped, staring down at the creepy crawly things. Looking for a little idol or two to clutch…anything to numb the pain for a while.

Then the coyotes start howling: This is it. There’s no oasis. You’re just going to stumble around in circles for the next forty years. (By that point, they’ll be carrying you on a stretcher.) You’ll never live to see the Promised Land. Your family will never inherit the promises. It was all in your imagination, anyway.

But then I stub my toe on a sharp stone, and it reminds me of my little rock collection. (Okay, God, now I remember why you make me carry those rough gems around in my pocket.) I take one out and rub its smooth, cool surface. It feels reassuring in my hand, like a rosary must feel to a committed Catholic. A reminder.

I am not strong or brave or disciplined or particularly wise. But somehow the small stone of remembrance revives my strength, and I look up.

Just ahead, I see a little yellow flower of hope, peeping out from beneath a desert rock.

And I set my face like flint towards Jerusalem.

***

“See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland.” (Isaiah 43:19)

“The LORD will surely comfort Zion and will look with compassion on all her ruins;
 he will make her deserts like Eden, her wastelands like the garden of the LORD. 
Joy and gladness will be found in her, thanksgiving and the sound of singing.” (Isaiah 51:3)

Deja vu

Anxious waiting in a hospital waiting room....typing on a borrowed laptop....friends dropping by to encourage....standing in cafeteria lines for another cup of mediocre coffee.....pacing down long white halls....jumping up each time the desk phone rings....

Deja vu. 

The facilities may be new and improved, but it was all eerily familiar.

One year later, and here we are again. 

More WAITING.

Waiting to heal, waiting to know, waiting for things to get better.

Waiting for broken things to be fixed.  (Soooooo many broken things to be fixed.)

Waiting to go home.

********************

As the anniversary of Katherine's AVM rupture approached, I did something I've not done before: 

I read through all the blogs in chronological order. 

I have to tell you, that was a pretty intense trip for me. 

It was also a little embarrassing.  There were few entries I wasn't tempted to tinker with....several I'd just like to delete. So far, I've resisted the temptation. (But I'm not making any promises.)

In spite of my own insecurities, however, the suggestion continues to be made that some of the entries be compiled for print.  I have no idea whether or not that is an actual possibility. Actually, during this time without a laptop, I have been contemplating whether or not this might be my exit cue. Has this sharing of personal stories and meditations run its natural course? 

I would like to ask for your help as we consider what the future holds. It would be very helpful to know which blogs were the most meaningful to you. My powers of discernment are not very great; some of the ones of which I felt the least embarrassed received the fewest comments. (And vice versa.) So I would love to get some feedback from you.

I'm not techno-savvy enough to figure out how to take an internet poll. So I just invite you to hit "comment" and share with me the 2 or 3 posts that spoke to you the most. 

OKAY....this invitation is also for people like me, who would not have been able to figure out how to do something like this before the necessity of emergency. So I'll try to walk you through it:

1. Hit "comments" at the bottom of this post.

2. Under "Choose an identity," enter your google account (gmail, etc.) if you have one. If you do not have a google account, hit "sign up here."

3. Type in your existing email and password. (2x)

4. Under "Display name" you can put your real name or a fake one...I don't care.

5. Try to decipher the squiggly letters under "Word Verification" and type them in.

6. Check "Terms of Service."

7. Hit "continue."

At this point, I believe you should be able to post comments. If you got the word thing wrong, they will give you another chance.

(Note for dummies like me: You are not setting up a gmail account...just using your regular email. If you are not comfortable using your real name, please don't.  Just make up a "nom de plume" like "HotMama," for instance.)

As always, I thank you for your faithful support....especially now that we're waiting again.

Love,

Kim

A Letter to Katherine

I have debated about whether or not the following is too personal to share, but decided that the significance of this day is too great to let it pass without some acknowledgment and reflection. One year ago today, I was told that it was very likely that our daughter Katherine would be "on a machine" or in a coma following her catastrophic AVM rupture. Thank God we didn't realize at the time that the much greater possibility was death.

To commemorate the day that "Katherine Lived," Jay has asked those of us who were still in the lobby of UCLA Hospital in the wee morning hours of April 22 to write a brief letter to her about that time. Since I am currently without a laptop, there is no opportunity for me to write an in-depth blog reflecting back on the experience. Because of that, I have decided to share this personal letter to Katherine, quickly written yesterday on a borrowed laptop.

For those of you reading this today (the 22nd), please do not say anything to Katherine about it, as Jay is planning on printing the letters out and giving them all to her tonight.

As I write these words, Katherine and Jay are at UCLA meeting with the doctor who will perform the very intricate and complicated surgery next Wednesday. With God's help, we have come very far from where we were a year ago...but there are still many miles of wilderness ahead. Our entire family sends you our deepest thanks for your consistent concern and prayers during the course of this journey.

Bless you!

*****************************

Dear Katherine,

It seems like 100 years ago...and like yesterday. April 21, 2008...our last ordinary day.

Some parts of it are blurred into a hazy dream-like recollection, but other parts are crystal clear. I remember hanging up the phone after talking to Big J, and walking around the end of the bed. As clearly as if someone had spoken to me, I heard the words, "Talitha Cumi" in my head.

I wonder what was going on in the heavenlies at that exact moment.

I wonder if that was when Jesus said "No!" to Satan's plan to take your life.

He exercised his God-given authority over all of creation and poured his life back into your body, as it was pouring out its life's blood.

Just yesterday, my daily reading "happened" to be Luke 8. "...But the crowd laughed at him because they all knew she had died. Then Jesus took her by the hand and said in a loud voice, "My child, get up!" And at that moment her life returned, and she immediately stood up!"

You did not stand up immediately, as did Jairus' daughter, but I believe that you received healing at that moment. Obviously, you are coming into a complete healing "little by little, so that faith may increase." It has not been easy. You have had to endure many unendurable things.

But I do know that the night of April 21, 2008, was full of miracles. I don't think we will know about all of them until heaven.

Even though the morning of April 22 seemed horrific beyond our worst imagining, the real battle had already been won. The Lord proclaimed that you would rise again and "declare the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living."

And that is exactly what you have done. You have reached more people with the Good News of God's love from this position of weakness than you ever could have from a position of strength. What Satan meant for evil, God has used for good.

There are many things I (thankfully) don't remember about the morning of April 22, 2008. I remember our conversation with Dr. Gonzalez like a strange nightmare. I remember hearing a loud screaming in the lobby, and then realizing it was me. Then, Amie waking up and screaming "Is she dead???" in a horrible, hoarse voice. Mia holding her. I remember lying on the floor of the chapel, collapsing on the floor of your room in ICU. I remember prayers being sobbed outloud, people watching us.

I also remember being surrounded by a circle of love like a soft cocoon.

But, most vividly, I remember all the prophetic words that were spoken...by Andrew and JT and Big J and many more....

Katherine WILL rise up again...she WILL have a ministry...she WILL have abundant LIFE!!!

All Praise to God, our dear Father, who always keeps his promises!

How grateful I am to Him today for giving me the gift of Katherine not once, but twice....even though He himself "did not spare his own son..."

I am so very thankful that He spared my precious daughter.

INTILYTM,IJTILYTL

Love you forever,

Mommy

Incommunicado

Dear Friends,

Just a note to let you know that my computer is broken and is being sent off to the hospital for...(gasp)...4 weeks. I was just about to post a spring photo album when it died. 

As if that weren't enough, our phone service in the apartment, which is extremely inconsistent, is back to VERY BAD. You have to hang off the balcony to get a signal. And James has evidently thrown away my new bluetooth, which at least enabled me to put the phone outside on the ledge and have a conversation indoors. 

This is why women my age hate technology. Too many complications.

Amie has very graciously loaned me her Mac for the day so that I can check my email. I just had to make a solemn vow not to look at her Facebook pictures.

Hmmmm.....

Anyway, I just had the opportunity to read Katherine's latest caringbridge entry on her difficulties in communicating. It has been such a sad thing for all of us, but, of course, especially for her. How I miss the sound of her voice! I fervently pray that I will hear it again one day.

Communication is something we take for granted until deprived of it. 

Perhaps we're supposed to learn to listen better during those times. 

********************

In the meantime, please forgive me for being incommunicado. 

(And maybe someone could pray that BestBuy's prognosis was overly pessimistic?)

Thank you for your faithfulness.

Love,

Kim 

Messes

(Note: This one is not for the squeamish, the prudish, or the easily-offended.)


********************


Pardon my (Old) French,*

(*Medieval Latin)

but I’ve been dealing with a lot of crap lately.


Literally.


The highlight of last week may have been when I was scooping poop off the freshly-professionally-cleaned carpet with a serving spoon. Employing a diversionary tactic to stave off the dry heaves, I started thinking about what great lyrics that would be for a country song. “I’m just sittin’ here scoopin’ up poop with a servin’ spoon...” Feel free to make up your own tune.

Sometimes it seems like that’s just what life is. One fine mess to clean up after the next.

It was my own fault, actually.

We were trying a new experiment, where James lived at the apartment in LA with me for a week, while Katherine and Jay went back to Casa Colina for therapy. We had a grand old time together, grandma and grandboy. We went on outings to the beach, to the park, to UCLA...we read books and watched Sesame Street and went swimming....we took naps and ate snacks together...and we played housekeeping tug-of-war. This is where the grandboy does things like turns over the trash can and starts eating stuff out of it while the grandmother is cleaning up the shampoo he emptied out on the bathroom floor. Then, while she’s cleaning up the trash, he sneaks back in the bathroom and starts flushing her earrings down the toilet. While she tries to fish out the earrings, he runs back to the kitchen and brandishes a knife from the dishwasher. When she (calmly) retrieves the knife and resumes cleaning up the trash, she discovers a stash of silverware hidden in it...purloined from the same source. By that point, he’s pulled the placemats off of the dining table, the books off the bookshelf, and is playing with matches. It’s an action-packed game that can go on all day. (17-month-olds are fast little buggers, whereas grandmas are 'slowing down,' so he usually won.)

I think there are many reasons why it should be deemed medically unethical for doctors to artificially inseminate 50-somethings.

Anyway, we kind of had a routine and a flow going. I knew the ground rules. The existing condition was that James was teething molars. Four of them at the same time. Evidently that provokes the development of several unsavory symptoms. They include the production of a unique type of diarrhea multiple times a day, a constantly running nose, and a personality change so severe that, at one point, I was looking in the Yellow Pages under “Exorcists.” (Thanks, George.) James was a Mean, Green, Poopin’ Machine.

I’d already made the mistake once. I had impulsively pulled off a dirty diaper in the living room without first checking to see if there were any wipes around. I instructed James to lie on the floor without moving and continue watching “Yeah-yo.” I sprinted around to the bedroom and back in about 30 seconds...to discover a nice, fresh, juicy pile awaiting me. James scrunched up his face, sniffed loudly, and said, “Euuuuuwwwwhhhhhhhh” so adorably that I just had to laugh.

You’d think I’d learn from my mistakes. On the day in question, we were getting ready to get in the bathtub. In the amount of time it took to take the diaper off and test the water with my hand, James had produced a puddle on the bathroom floor the size of Lake Michigan and was happily splashing around in it. We slipped and slid our way into the tub and got nice and clean. As we were getting out, the phone rang. I wasn’t planning on answering it, but James was so excited at the thought that it might be his grandfather (“BigB!!! BigB!!! Hello! Hello!"), that I ran for it. After a sweet little conversation, I put him down for a second while I finished talking grownup talk. James ran around the corner in his monkey towel. Literally less than a minute later, I ran after him....to find a gushy volcanic eruption decorating the carpet, guilty little footprints trailing away from it. When James saw his grandmother’s face, he started wailing.

We got back in the bathtub.

After putting James down for his nap, I began my job with the serving spoon. About half way through the cleaning, I had an epiphany:

Life is full of messes.

Some are inevitable, but most are of our own creation. We want our freedom. We despise confinement. We want to do what we want to do, whenever and wherever we feel like doing it.

In addition to that high-schooler, I think there’s a 17-month-old that still resides inside us all.

I wish I could allow James all the freedom he desires. I’d love to let him run wild and free. (And naked as the day he came.) But when I do, he just makes another huge mess and then steps in it...leaving behind a trail of the tracks of his guilt. I find myself constantly having to confine him for his own good. Constantly having to deprive him of things he thinks he wants.

But my love for him is fierce and strong. I am willing to do whatever it takes to form the kind of character in him that is pleasing to his Maker...as his Maker does for me. Sometimes that causes conflict between us. Because of the unique set of circumstances in which our family is living right now, sometimes I have to discipline him in a way that grandmothers hate to do. (We’re just supposed to be doling out candy.)

Here’s the irony: after the discipline, through tears of anger and frustration at not getting his own way, to whom does he turn for comfort?? He buries his head in the policewoman’s shoulder, and hugs her neck. Sometimes I even get a little kiss.

Scooping up the poop that day, I realized that no matter how many messes I have to clean up, it is a joy because of how much I love the little mess himself. I can put up with his crap from now until the cows come home, but I’m not going to let him wallow in it. I will clean him up as many times as he gets dirty.

Praise be to God, my Father, who daily does the same for me....whatever mess I get myself into.

********************

Etymology:
2 British dialect crap, craps residue from rendered fat, from Middle English crappe, perhaps from Old French crappe chaff, residue, from Medieval Latin
nonsense , rubbish ; also : stuff

“His winnowing fork is in his hand to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his barn, but he will burn up the chaff..." (Luke 3:17)

"God renders the working of grace slow and obscure, so that he may keep us in the darkness of faith......He frees us from self by revealing our weaknesses and corruptions in a multitude of backslidings. All this dealing seems perfectly natural, and it is by this succession of natural means that we are burnt as by a slow fire. We should like to be consumed at once by the flames of pure love, but such an end would scarcely cost us anything. It is only an excessive self-love that desires to become perfect in a moment and at so cheap a rate...

Is the surgeon cruel because he cuts to the quick? No, on the contrary, it is both love and skill. He would treat his only and well-beloved son.

It is the same way with God. He never afflicts us except against his own inclination. His fatherly heart is not gladdened at the sight of our misery, but he cuts to the quick, that he may heal the disease in our soul. He must snatch away from us whatever we cling to too fondly, and all that we love inordinately, contrary to his claim upon us. He acts in this as we do by our children. They cry because we take away the knife which was their amusement but might have been their death. We weep, we become discouraged, we cry aloud. We are ready to murmur against God, as children get angry with their mothers. But God lets us weep and secures our salvation. He afflicts only to amend. Even when he seems to overwhelm, he means nothing but good: it is only to spare us the evils we were preparing for ourselves. The things we now lament for a little while would have caused us to mourn forever..."

Francois Fenelon (1651-1715)

Home

One thing I’ve learned for sure living in Tinseltown is that all that glitters ain’t gold.

The “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous” aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

I used to be envious of those people with multiple addresses you’d read about in Town and Country. “Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Astorbutt of New York, Palm Beach, and Nantucket announce the engagement of their daughter Abigail to Mr. Gregory Q. Gottrocks, IV, son of Mr. and Mrs. Gregory Q. Gottrocks, III of Washington, D.C., Martha’s Vineyard, and Paris, France.”

Or movie stars you’d read about in People: “Brangelina (or whoever) just purchased a $22.5 million villa on the Cote d’Azur. They also have residences in Beverly Hills, New York, and a 2,500 acre spread in Wyoming...”

Well, Mrs. F. Brooks Arnold of Athens, Georgia, Los Angeles, and Pomona, California thinks they might be crazy.

***************

As is usually the case, the reality is far removed from the illusion. The vagabond life is not as carefree as it seems. You can’t just call Mayflower and have the movers show up each time a change in locale is necessitated. Personal belongings are strewn across the country. In this constant state of flux, just getting dressed in the morning poses a challenge. Throwing on a pair of pants in Athens, I realize that the only belt that works with them is still in Pomona. The shoes with the right heel height are in LA. In LA, I get dressed for church on a cold day, and go to grab my coat before running out the door. No coat in that closet. God only knows where the lipliner that matches that shade of lipstick is hiding. Probably in a purse in the pile on the closet floor in Georgia. And forget keeping up with little things like glasses and phone chargers and checkbooks.

Books are probably the worst, though. I’m usually messing around in 5 or 6 at a time. There are a few that are like security blankets...I lug them around with me wherever I go just in case I need a quick fix of Mr. Lewis or Dame Julian or Brennan Manning. Old friends.

It gets heavy carting all this stuff around.

I constantly feel unsettled, scattered, fragmented.

Even a little homesick.

It’s strange that I can manage to feel that way wherever I happen to be at the time. When I’m in California, I miss Athens. When I’m in Athens, I can’t wait to get back to California. I feel like the curious Rum Tum Tugger in T. S. Eliot’s Cats:

The Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat:
If you offer him pheasant he would rather have grouse.
If you put him in a house he would much prefer a flat,
If you put him in a flat then he'd rather have a house...
The Rum Tum Tugger is a terrible bore:
When you let him in, then he wants to be out;
He's always on the wrong side of every door,
And as soon as he's at home, then he'd like to get about.

No matter where I am, there’s always someone to miss...and something missing.

Shortly after Katherine’s AVM rupture, our wise friend Howard said to Brooks, “Well, you can be miserable both places. When you’re in Athens, you can worry about Katherine. When you’re in California, you can worry about Grace!” (She was finishing up high school last spring.) I guess you have to know Howard to get this...it was actually a subtle reminder that we all need to trust more, worry less. I think he was also offering empathy for that feeling of being ripped apart that parents occasionally suffer.

The experience of the past 11 months has crystallized a thought for me:

I want to learn to live more lightly.

I want to be less weighed down by baggage of every kind...less “possessed by my possessions.” I want to get rid of STUFF. I want to clean out all my closets...both tangible and intangible. Like the detritus in the pile going to Goodwill, I want to lay down things like worry and expectations and bondage to old habits and thought patterns. I want to live more freely, less attached to this world and its systems and its junk. I want to be less entrenched here.

I’ve been trying to clean out one closet at home for years. I (abashedly) admit that it is larger than my bedroom in LA. I was standing in it the last time I was home, utterly confounded about where to begin. I must have rolled my eyes to the heavens in desperation. An old Victorian sampler perched on the top shelf caught my eye: “Heaven Is My Home.”

...a subtle reminder that this is not my natural habitat.

We are as ‘strangers and aliens’ on this earth.

Because of that, I think we must carry a little homesickness with us wherever we are. We will always have a secret ache for that place where we feel completely safe, loved, protected, and fully known. Those places simply don’t last on earth. People die...houses crumble.

As C.S. Lewis expresses it: “The settled happiness and security which we all desire, God withholds from us by the very nature of the world...We are never safe, but we have plenty of fun and some ecstasy. It is not hard to see why. The security we crave would teach us to rest our hearts in this world and oppose an obstacle to our return to God...Our Father refreshes us on the journey with some pleasant inns, but will not encourage us to mistake them for home.” (The Problem of Pain)

Heaven is my home?

Surely it is my destination.

But what about now? How do I banish those feelings of homesickness here...before I arrive at my true home, where every tear will be wiped away?

This is where I feel the most at home now:

I lie in bed, with a pillow over my face. I still myself and shut out all the loud voices in my head. I inhale, slowly, the peace of God. I exhale the unrelenting demands of Self. I invite. I wait. And sometimes wait a while longer. Maybe I need to confess something first, get rid of a barrier.

And He comes.

He in me and I in Him.

“Abide* in Me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in Me. I am the vine, you are the branches. He who abides in Me, and I in him, bears much fruit; for without Me you can do nothing.....As the Father loved Me, I also have loved you; abide in My love.” (from John 15)

He is my home.

***************

(*dwell, live)

After beginning these thoughts on “home,” I happened to run across this excerpt from the writings of Brennan Manning. He is one of my favorites, and Katherine and I were privileged to hear him speak at Belair Presbyterian a couple of years (different lifetime) ago. When the crowd gave him a standing ovation, he turned around and lifted his arms in homage to the large cross behind him.

“Jesus says simply, “make your home in me, as I make mine in you.” Home is not a heavenly mansion in the afterlife, but a safe place right in the midst of our anxious world...
Home is that sacred place-external or internal- where we don’t have to be afraid, were we are confident of hospitality and love. In our society we have not only many homeless people sleeping on the streets...but also vagabonds who are in flight, who never come home to themselves. They seek a safe place through alcohol or drugs, or security in success, competence, friends, pleasure, notoriety, knowledge, or even a little religion. They have become strangers to themselves, people who have an address but are never home, who never hear the voice of love or experience the freedom of God’s children. To those of us who are in flight, who are afraid to turn around lest we run into ourselves, Jesus says: “You have a home...I am your home...claim me as your home...you will find it to be the intimate place where I have found my home...it is right where you are...in your innermost being...in your heart."

Amen.

Hi Friends,

We've been having internet connection problems ever since we got back to California. Hopefully, this will soon be remedied.

In the meantime, I would just like to ask for prayers for wisdom for us in the coming weeks. We face many complicated decisions. There are many unknowns. Fear lurks around, waiting for a chance to settle in.

Please pray that we will receive divine guidance and assurance...and a peace that passes understanding.

Thank you so much for your faithful concern, support, love, and prayers.

May blessings rain upon your head...

Love,
Kim

Til We Have Faces

The world is a much uglier place without Katherine’s smile.

I have never let myself consider the possibility that its absence could be a permanent state of affairs. That would be too, too cruel.

I haven’t allowed myself to grieve the loss of her former face at all.

It is a loss.

Twenty seven years ago today, I saw those enormous blue eyes for the first time. Two huge, aqua pools stared at me as she latched on, full of questions and immediate, intense love. The nurses commented that this was no ordinary baby. She was born looking much older than a newborn....almost a Benjamin Button baby. She had the face of a sage. Her hair was already quite long, and she reminded me a little of a wise, old man. It’s hard to describe. She was different...unique....special.

To say that Katherine was “full of life” is a ridiculous understatement. Even as a baby, her face was a constantly changeable mask of animation. We realized that she was probably going to be an actress by age two. What drama those big eyes could express...what pathos, what ecstasy, what righteous indignation! That little face was never still unless she was asleep...especially the mouth. I’ve never seen a baby that could talk so much, so early. Illustration: When I was pregnant with my second one, Katherine went up to some poor woman at the grocery store and tugged at her skirt. When the woman looked around, she said, “See my mommy over dere? She has a baby in her tummy. She’s goin’ to the hospital and the doctor’s gonna help her PUUUUUUSSSSSSSSSSHHHH it out!” It was only after having two others that I realized how unusual that was for a 21- or 22-month-old. (I have a hard time imagining James making a speech like that in a couple of months.)

Most of you who know Katherine will probably agree that she was one of the most ‘animated’ people of your acquaintance. (Those of you who don’t can verify this statement by watching her appearance on Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader? She almost blew Jeff Foxworthy off the stage.) But although Katherine’s speech was highly expressive, her face could speak volumes without a word. Her face was an open book, an invitation into her passionate soul. She went through a particularly awkward Awkward Stage, gawkily towering over all the boys in her grade for a couple of years. But as Katherine grew up, she grew into her body and grew to be beautiful. Her face was particularly so. It opened many doors for her. Beauty seems to do that in our culture. It ultimately provided a livelihood.

But Katherine has always been one of the least vain people on the planet. Unlike the rest of the female family members, she hates buying clothes, putting on makeup, jewelry, any of the girly stuff. She just doesn’t like to waste the time when she could be doing something more constructive...usually something having to do with ministering to other people. I used to beg her to at least put on a little makeup before heading out the door....in ironical imitation of my mother beseeching me to “Just put on a little lipstick...” in the zipper-part hippie days of the early 70’s.

“The sins of the mothers.......”

As a culture, we are obsessed with physical beauty. (Dear Lord, what have I spent on creams and potions and camouflage in the past few years??? Please forgive me...) Interestingly, Katherine and Jay gave me the book, You, Being Beautiful by Drs. Oz (Oprah fame) and Roizen, as one of my Christmas presents. Although I haven’t had time to read it yet, I was intrigued by some of the information in the first chapter. The authors write,

“Beauty is not as much a physical property of the person, but an end product of a complex mental process that translates millions of meaningless dots of light on the back of our retinas into 3D shapes, objects, and faces. Embedded in the software of the mind is a set of rules that are used to decode these real “bytes” of visual information. These observations are automatic—a beauty reflex, if you will.” (The docs go on to explain “phi” and the golden ratio that exists in nature. )“Phi is also a driving force in human attraction—men and women around the globe prefer a mate whose face is symmetrical and follows this ratio....The most information-dense visible area in nature is the human face, so we process a small area of the face and extend our conclusions to the entire surface. The richest connection of nerve and muscle density in the body is actually around the larynx (voice box) and the face is second—underscoring how important it is that you read subtle messages through speech and body language. The theory is that the more symmetrical a face, the healthier it is. ...Scientists also believe that symmetry is equated with a strong immune system—indicating that more robust genes make a person more attractive.”

...So, there is a scientific explanation for why our first impulse is to judge a book by its cover.

Intellectually, we know that all beauty is transitory, fleeting, ephemeral. “The grass withers, and the flowers fade...” But Katherine’s face, rather than enduring the gradual ravaging of time that most suffer, was altered abruptly, violently. Its symmetry has been destroyed. It is as if Katherine awakened from a dream to find that a cruel joke had been played on her: Her face has been stolen, replaced by a strange mask she doesn’t recognize. How terrifyingly vertiginous, to stare in the mirror at a complete stranger.

It’s a very good thing Katherine’s greatest strength is in knowing where her identity truly lies. Although this core belief has been tested beyond the breaking point, it has held fast.

Still, she is human. She particularly hates seeing pictures of herself now. Every Christmas morning (for 20-something years now) we always make the kids sit on the stairs in descending order of age for a photo op before the mad dash into the family room. This year, just as I snapped the shot, Katherine grabbed the right corner of her mouth and forceably held it up in a smile. It makes her angry that it won’t behave.

It makes me very angry, too.

I’ve been thinking about a line from a Dylan Thomas poem: “Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” He was talking about the process of aging and death. But I am raging against the dying of the light in Katherine’s eyes, the light that entered a room with her brilliant smile.

I know someone who creates light, however. I am asking the creator of light and beauty to restore his ravaged work of art, his marred creation. I don’t think it’s inappropriate to ask. I believe he hates it even more than I do when the other side messes up his good works.

I believe he loves to restore, rebuild, recreate. The whole Book is the story of that. From page 1 to page 1000+something, it is the story of the restoration of a marred creation. The restoration of all good and beautiful things.

I know that he will accomplish his purposes. I know that he will ultimately restore everything that has been lost, including Katherine’s smile. But I don’t know when. It may serve his greater purposes for this prayer to be answered later than I would like. Perhaps it may not be until Katherine sees him face to face. I pray that it will be before then. But I believe she—and all of us who miss that smile the most--will be given the grace to accept his timing.

In the meantime, her inner radiance suffuses the surface so that, in reality, she has never been more beautiful.

***************

“Show me your face, let me hear your voice; for your voice is sweet, and your face is lovely. (Song of Songs 2:14) Those who look to him are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame. (Ps. 34:5) ...and her face was no longer downcast.(I Samuel 1:18)

Dear friends, we are already God’s children, but he has not yet shown us what we will be like when Christ appears. But we do know that we will be like him, for we will see him as he really is.(I John 3:2) Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. (I Cor. 13:12) And we, who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord's glory, are being transformed into his likeness with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit.(II Cor. 3:2)


(Although I began this on Katherine’s birthday, March 8, I am finishing it on the 11th, which is the day she happens to be going for a facial surgery consultation. Please join us in praying for wisdom.)

Some Thoughts on Snow Day

We’ve been going Medieval for the past couple of days.

Of course, we never believe the weatherman when he says it’s going to snow in Georgia. There have been far too many devastating disappointments in our collective pasts. Far too many little flakes that disappeared before morning’s light, turning a possible glorious Snow Day into just another boring School Day. (One with a quiz, most likely, to add insult to injury.)

So when they talked of snow coming on Sunday, we thought, "Yeah, yeah...maybe in Dahlonega or Brasstown Bald. It never sticks in Athens.”

It looked like Narnia by Sunday afternoon.

Jay’s mom Mary Ruth has been doing the nanny shift, so I’m in Georgia now, trying to finish some of the things I left undone last April 21. The “to-do” list is staggering...exhausting. Life here is much more complicated because there are so many choices and players and jigsaw pieces that won’t fit. Life in California is tough, but simple.

So... I was secretly elated by that beautiful blanket of white stillness that brought everything to a screeching halt. I acted like a child, running out in my fancy high-heeled ‘church’ boots to take too many pictures. Our visiting niece from Connecticut thought I was nuts. This is the kind of weather she is trying to escape, moving ever further south of the Mason Dixon line in her educational pursuits. (She was down here checking out Emory and UGA law schools.)

But after a while, Liz admitted that this was a heck of a snowstorm, even by Connecticut standards. So we raided her cousins’ abandoned closets and the old ski clothes box for warm castoffs, and ventured out into the icy beauty of it all...until breaking limbs started splintering off of trees with explosive cracks. Then we high-tailed it back to the warmth of fake logs, real fire. The power had gone off in our absence.

No light. No noise. No TV, CD’s, DVD’s, internet, radio. No oven, range top, microwave. Just quiet and dark. And the gas logs.

For that night and the next.

We lit every candle we could find and huddled around the fireplace, while Brooks found something to grill out in the still-cascading snow. We read by candlelight.

It was beautiful.

Eventually, the cell phones died along with the cordless house phones, so communication with the outside world was curtailed. Many of our friends knew about Katherine’s latest Caringbridge entry before we did.

But that was okay.

Why are we so afraid of quiet and stillness?

It is only then that we can hear the still, small voice.

***************

silken snow
spills from the sky
like salt sprinkled
from celestial shaker

crystalline purity
pours over dark, dank earth,
covering the rankness
of rotting leaves and dirt
like soothing salve
on a bloody hurt

through the quiet,
a loud crack-
as another tree falls
from the terrible
unbearable weight
of it all

then, like a kiss,
not a slap,
a fluffy flake
stings my frozen face:

scarlet sins
completely covered
by pure white

grace

"Come now, let us reason together," says the LORD. "Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow...” (Isaiah 1:18)