Hmmmm.....

I'm trying to keep an open mind, but I'm not in love yet.

Several things were lost in translation.

(Such as all of my Itunes playlists and all of my contacts. But those 2846 undeleted messages in my Inbox made it over just fine!)

SOOOOO.......

I'm going to go out on a limb and ask that friends and family please email me at kta2754@gmail.com. (Just say "hi.") Then I can add you back. If you've ever written me, you were on the lost list.

As completely unreliable as I am in returning calls or emails, I do love hearing from you. I just have one tiny request:

Although I wish I could read all of the funny (etc.) forwards, current circumstances simply don't permit the time. But there is something neurotic in me that hates to delete something someone has bothered to send me. This is partial explanation for why there are almost 3,000 items in my Inbox...I scan through for personal messages, and think I'll get 'a round tuit' to come back and read the generic forwards later. But later never comes.

So, I respectfully ask that my friends not automatically put me on large group email lists at this time. If it's something that you feel would specifically speak to me, please just forward it to me individually.

We have to keep things very, very simple right now.

And I have to fight for computer time. (James is paging me as I type!)

Hope to publish some thoughts soon, though. I'm learning my way around this new territory... igniting some fresh brain cells.

Thank you, thank you, thank you for your patience, understanding, and faithfulness.

Much love,

Kim

Hi, Friends!

Another of life's many ironies:

I had actually made appointments with myself this week to do some writing. Written it on the calendar. Scheduled some alone time.

The first day of my mini-retreat, my beleaguered little laptop died.

DIED. No CPR...couldn't be revived. Warranty expired.

(Why do they make things that can't be fixed???)

Two of the topics I was working on: "broken things" and "flexibility." I guess someone thought I needed some more personal experience.

As I grieve the loss of my old HP friend, please pray for flexibility in learning a whole new system on a Mac.

It is hard to teach an old dog new tricks.

And, in general, machines hate me.

(It is so mutual.)

But, Patience is a virtue.

Thanks for hanging with me!

Love, Kim

summertime

As, little by little, the freshness of fall starts to peak it's head through summer's muggy blanket, I feel a stirring of fresh hope that it heralds a new season in our lives.

A season of healing.

New beginnings. Fresh starts.

But also a season of completions, conclusions, consummations.


"He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion."*


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


In marking the conclusion of summer, I've assembled another ubiquitous family photo album. It helps me to remind myself that tragedy does not preclude joy. That laughter can penetrate a heavy weight of sadness. That the glass is MUCH MORE than half full.

And, by golly, we still know how to have fun.

If you happen to be one who enjoys looking at other people's boring pictures...or one for whom a picture is an excellent intercessory prayer aid...you're invited to click on the link below:






OH wow, I just imprinted a slide show by mistake. How cool is that??

Grandma learned a new trick!

I'll go back and try the link thing again in case it doesn't end up working:


http://picasaweb.google.com/kta2754/Summer


I don't think that's right, either. I'll keep playing with it.

Maybe click on this?

In the meantime, enjoy the slide show before I mess that up.

May blessings fall upon your head!

Love, Kim

(*Phil. 1:6)

Out of the Mouths of Babes?

This is a true story.

Yesterday Katherine went back for another follow-up appointment following her eye surgery. I drove her (and Jay) to UCLA, then returned to the apartment to face the dreaded Monday morning clean-up. I felt exhausted and very drained.

When Jay and Katherine returned with complicated news, I had to sit down.

James was eating his lunch at the little folding bamboo table that serves as a dining table in our apartment/camp. I joined him at the table as Jay and Katherine continued explaining the next options, each accompanied by both advantages and disadvantages. Katherine and Jay both looked so tired. I felt overwhelmed and sad that they were being forced to make more serious decisions. Katherine asked me what I thought. I thought, "Well, we could just go eeny-meeny-mieny-moe. Or we could pray."

I said, "Sit down. Let's pray."

James looked at us curiously as we held hands and bowed our heads. Katherine prayed first. At one point, James let out his little grunt/yell thing that means "Hey, look at me. I'm not pleased." But Katherine kept praying...actually, she was mostly praising. Jay followed her, and then it was my turn. As soon as I opened my mouth, I lost it. I reminded God of how much Katherine has already been through. Tears were plopping down in my lap like a leaky showerhead.

I was not aware of anything other than the words I pleaded. Then Katherine kind of nudged us. I peaked one eye open. Covered in peanut butter, James sat across from me with head bowed, eyes scrunched closed, and a very sad look on his face.

When I finally finished, we looked up at James. He still sat there with his eyes closed, apparently praying.

For the next few magical minutes, we watched his precious little face. He looked like someone "entering into the agony of intercession." He shook his head every now and then, letting out a few little whimpers and an occasional cry. Jay and I fumbled around for cameras. I finally found my phone and captured this image. Jay grabbed Grace's computer, turned the web cam around, and recorded the unique sight. It was one of the weirdest things I've ever seen.

Was he asleep and dreaming?

Was he in a trance?

Was he receiving a "word of knowledge?"

Or was he praying for his mommy in "groans too deep for words???"

Maybe we'll find out one day.

katherine's eyes

“But it is her eyes that make me want to wail like those women whose “weeping was heard in Ramah.” Those big beautiful aqua eyes, clear as a pristine sea, are out of Katherine’s control. Eyes that could pierce straight through you, eyes that focused in on you as if you’re the only one that matters, now roll around the sockets like big blue-green glass marbles. The right one is infected, red, and suppurating. The pupil hides in the inner corner for the most part, like it’s afraid of what it will see if it comes out. The left is constantly jumping around, but I know she can see out of it. A tear rolled down her cheek when I showed her a picture of James. (But, tough chick that she is, she let me know she wanted to see more.) Most of the time a black patch covers one eye (alternating sides), so she looks like a battered little pirate.” (“A Bruised Reed,” April 29, 2008)

I couldn’t sleep last night, so I snuck out to the living room for some early-morning quiet time. We have a full house in the aftermath of Katherine’s most recent surgery, so time alone is a gift.

With a click and a scroll, I time-traveled back to where we were 16 months ago.

Perspective is everything, we keep telling ourselves. I needed some perspective after yesterday.

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

Several months back, my mother said something like, “Well, I’m just glad I didn’t know how my family was going to turn out. We used to be so happy!” Of course, I took it the wrong way at the time. But now I understand what she meant.

I am so very, very grateful that the future is hidden from us. People that consult mediums and psychics must be masochists. (Among other things.)

I am filled with gratitude that I couldn’t comprehend how severe and utterly life-changing Katherine’s brain rupture was at the time. The revelation came slowly, an onion unpeeling layer by layer. The mind possesses an amazing resiliency in protecting itself. I simply could not have wrapped mine around the devastating reality all at once. Each day’s trouble WAS enough. Dear Lord, please let Katherine live through the night. Dear Lord, please heal the pneumonia. Dear Lord, please don’t let the brain swell anymore... bleed anymore... Please help her to stop shaking... hurting... freezing... burning. Please let her move... speak... walk... eat...

see.

As I said in April, 2008, it was her eyes that got to me the most.

Katherine’s eyes were the very first thing I noticed about her. She gave me a good, long stare just as soon as she popped out, as my mother says I did to her the first time we saw each other. (Babies aren’t supposed to be able to see at that point, but we don’t believe it.)

Katherine’s eyes took up half her face.

They were always her defining feature.

Katherine’s eyes were the most expressive eyes I’ve ever seen.

Katherine’s eyes...

...sparkled with the joy of life

...flashed with anger at injustice

...narrowed at hypocrisy

...moistened with compassion

...crinkled with laughter

...widened with wonder

...saw deep beneath the surface into the very heart.

We blithely escorted Katherine to surgery on Thursday, naively expecting a presto-chango quick-fix restoration of her eyes. I was more excited than nervous about the surgery. I imagined that the surgeon would remove her bandages the next day, and her eyes would be miraculously back to normal, both aesthetically and functionally.

But that was not the case.


"What fresh hell is this?” Dorothy Parker once wondered sardonically.

Katherine’s ‘fresh hell’ is that, for now, the double vision is worse, not better.

Her world is grayer, not rosier.



It is hard for all of us to bear.



But I know that many times, things have to get worse before they get better.

And most times, prayers are answered in stages, so that faith has an opportunity to stretch and grow.

I thought of this story:

“They came to Bethsaida, and some people brought a blind man and begged Jesus to touch him. He took the blind man by the hand and led him outside the village. When he had spit on the man's eyes and put his hands on him, Jesus asked, "Do you see anything?"

He looked up and said, "I see people; they look like trees walking around."
Once more Jesus put his hands on the man's eyes. Then his eyes were opened, his sight was restored, and he saw everything clearly." (Mark 8:22-25)


I’m praying for some Celestial Spit.


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


“I will not drive them (enemies) out from before you in one year, lest the land become desolate and the wild beasts multiply against you. Little by little I will drive them out from before you, until you have increased and possess the land.” (Exodus 23:29-30)

“It is here promised that they should be guided and kept in their way through the wilderness to the land of promise... How rich are the particulars of this promise! The comfort of their food, the continuance of their health, the increase of their wealth, the prolonging their lives to old age. Thus hath godliness the promise of the life that now is. It is promised that they should subdue their enemies....Enemies are subdued by little and little; thus we are kept on our guard, and in continual dependence on God. Corruptions are driven out of the hearts of God's people, not all at once, but by little and little. (from Matthew Henry’s Commentary)

“I love the LORD, for he heard my voice; he heard my cry for mercy. Because he turned his ear to me, I will call on him as long as I live.” (Psalm 116:1-2)

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

*This was written early Saturday morning, after a rough day on Friday. This morning (Monday) Katherine goes back to see her wonderful surgeon, where the next step will be discussed. This is just the beginning. We have great hope that “little by little” the healing will continue. Jay will post the details on caringbridge when time permits. Thank you for continuing to pray!

Bittersweet

We’ve just returned from the first real family vacation we’ve had since the summer of 2007.

As my husband says, “IT WORKED.”

For our family, that’s saying a lot. Some of our past vacations have made a Griswold trip look like a perfectly perfect fortnight at the Ritz in Paris.

On this trip, no one got deathly ill or injured, lost their passport, or developed poison ivy. There weren’t even any little dramas or family fights. No one argued about what channel to watch or which restaurant to choose.

It was, strangely enough, actually relaxing...a perfect balance between activity and rest. We rented a townhouse on Coronado Island, off the coast of San Diego. There were sightseeing outings...chilltimes on the patio...requisite trip to the famous Zoo...lazy afternoons reading or napping. A picnic at the beach...dinner at the famous “Del”...swimming, biking, walking. Resting. Restoring. Regenerating.

(I believe the last three are almost lost arts. My husband’s grandparents had an old mountain house in South Carolina with a Victorian wicker chaise lounge tucked in a corner. Still covered in the kitschy 1940’s fabric, it had a pillow embroidered with these words: “How wonderful it is to do nothing, and rest afterwards.” It has become one of my lifegoals to relearn how to live that way on appropriate occasions.)

Our peace was marred only by the unexpected arrival of painters for 3 days, who, at one point, plastic-wrapped all the doors and windows of the townhouse from the outside. (No AC at the beach where the high is usually in the low 70’s!) But even that little glitch provided a bit of humor. Very early one morning, I lay on top of the covers in my somewhat scanty nightie watching “Cars” with James. Just imagine my surprise when I looked up to see a man painting the (open) doorframe on the balcony. Like, in the room with us.

Must have had a really long ladder. Or a very quiet crane.

Other than that, it was a pretty perfect trip. But I wasn’t perfectly happy. There was a vague little sadness hanging around the periphery of joy. When I couldn’t shake it, I analyzed it.

I realized that I was internally contrasting the then with the now.

The “Ghosts of Beach-Trips Past” came haunting, shaking their long chains of memory at me.

Playing in the sand with James one day, I looked up at his mother in her cool beach-buggie wheelchair. She was just sitting there (of course), looking out to sea. Very still.

But I had a vision of a beautiful blonde girl riding the waves on a sailboard, laughing joyfully at the amazing incongruity of the “unathletic one” accomplishing what her more physical sisters could not.

I saw the oldest sister leading the kitchen clean-up after dinner. I saw the family organizer planning the day for us. I saw my eldest child giving me a lovely massage at the end of the day, walking with her father along the shore, snuggling with her sisters in a hotel bed.

I got angry that it was the grandmother who was playing in the sand with the little one instead of his mommy. I was angry that Katherine couldn’t join us on a bike ride or a beach walk. The anger made me feel a little hollow and hopeless inside.

Then, I started projecting into the future. Always a very bad idea. (“Let each day’s trouble be sufficient for the day..”) Looking at James, I began wondering when this little boy might have a sibling. If...

James could be an only grandchild for a long, long time.

I started feeling sorry for all of us.

Later, I asked Katherine if she was having any fun. “Everything’s wonderful,” she answered. To reassure myself more than her, I said, “You just have to focus on what you can do, not on what you can’t.” Arching her left eyebrow, she looked at me like I was a blithering idiot. “Well, of course I do. How else would I survive??”

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

Recently, I received an email from a dear friend catching me up on her family’s news. She wrote of their recent beach trip: “It was great but bittersweet.” Her youngest child was flying off to college a few days later.

That word has stayed with me.

It seems to me that all of life is bittersweet.

The very sweetest moments carry within them the intrinsic sadness of impermanence and mutability. I can no more hold on to the crystalline grains of earthly happiness that come my way than I can to the sand that leaks from my hands as I try to cover James’ feet with it. We cannot really keep anything. Everything is passing away. Everyone is passing away. I remind myself that I am, too.

Picking up this year’s winner as Chosen Beachbook, Conroy’s South of Broad, I find my musings strangely echoed in his inimitable way:

“The moment you are born your death is foretold in your newly minted cells, as your mother holds you up then hands you to your father, who gently tickles the stomach where the cancer will one day form, studies the eyes where melanomas dark signature is already written along the optic nerve, touches the back where the liver will one day house the cirrhosis, feels the bloodstream that will one day sweeten itself into diabetes, admires the shape of the head where the brain will fall to the ax-handle of stroke, or listens to your heart, which, exhausted by the fearful ways and humiliations and indecencies of life, will explode in your chest like a light going out in the world. Death lives in each of us and begins its countdown on our birthdays and makes its rough entrance at the last hour and the perfect time.”

This summer has been that “perfect time” for an unusual number of fixtures of the community in which I grew up. My mother told me yesterday that she’s already been to 6 funerals, with more on the horizon. Sweet people I’ve known from childhood, slipping away, one by one. Precious parents of close friends. Role models. People who lived large and well.

The funeral of a gentleman who was a big influence in Katherine’s life was held on Sunday. It is frustrating for us to be so far away when people we love are going through sad times. Earlier this summer, I had to miss the funeral of the father of one of my very closest friends....one who’s been there for me countless times in the past. It hurts, especially because some of those that have experienced recent losses are the ones who have given us the most love and support when we’ve gone through our sorrows.

So on Sunday, as his funeral was taking place in Athens, we had our own little memorial for the gentleman in question. We looked up his obituary online, and then read the comments people had left in his guestbook. Someone wrote of him, “(He) was a visionary, and put death in the middle of his plans, not at the end.”

Now that’s perspective.

It helps to have one like that at times like these.

Life goes on...


From that perspective, the bittersweet taste of even life's richest pleasures makes more sense to me. The contrasting mix of flavors is what makes a dish or a wine more interesting and complex.

I've always liked Key Lime Pie much better than chocolate, anyway.

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

On Saturday, the party was over and we went our separate ways...Brooks back to Athens; Kat and Jay to Pomona; Amie, Grace, James and I to LA.

Back to laundry and mail and regular life.

That night, I got a wild text from Katherine.

I wrote her back, “Nanny nanny booboo...I told you so!”


It seems that there is evidence that James won’t necessarily have to be an only child for the rest of his life after all.*


Oh blah dee, oh blah dah...

LIFE goes on.

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

Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on, brah!...

Lala how the life goes on...
Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on, brah!...
Lala how the life goes on...
(The Beatles)

"I came that they may have life and have it abundantly."
(John 10:10)

(* in the 10 minutes since I first posted this, I've been made aware that the indicated sentence could be a bit misleading. Please check Katherine's caringbridge update for a more explicit explanation of our life-affirming news.)

His Watchful Eye

My friend Miss Betty told me I needed to share this little story, so here goes...

Recently, I was unexpectedly blessed with a few days of recuperation at the beach.

The ocean has always been a place of peace and healing for me. A yearly beach trip is a sanity-saver. I’m not one to lie in a lounge chair by the pool, however. I don’t let a little sand and wind keep me from the edge of the world.

After several days of rain, we finally saw a patch of blue sky. I grabbed a towel and ran out and plopped it down on the soaking wet, hard sand. I tried reading, but it bothered my neck...so I just lay flat on my wet towel and watched the sky. The action was lively. Blue, gray, and white swirled together like some exotic ice/whipped cream concoction. Shapes formed and dispersed.

Then I saw the face of God.

No kidding...that’s what it looked like, beard and all.

I contemplated the visual. I stared at the gentle eyes, and wondered for a moment what God really looks like. The image was sweet and comforting, even if stereotypical. He seemed to be looking at me with a little smile on his face. I fumbled around for my cell phone to take a picture, but the clouds had morphed into a different shape by the time I managed to dig it out of the beach bag.

They had formed a huge eye, like the one in Great Gatsby.

The eye of God “going to and fro over all the earth?”

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

I can’t stay still for long, so I started walking down the familiar shoreline to the inlet. Families were out on the sandbars together, playing in the surf. Adorable children were everywhere, making me long for James.

As the sun began to shine more brightly, it got hot. Before long, I couldn’t resist the urge to plunge into the ocean. I love the buoyancy of salt water, the rocking of waves. I played for a while, then began walking back to shore, moving slowly against the tide. As I got within a few feet of shoreline, I felt my foot hit something heavy. A silent, sickening thud...then something long and slick slowly moving across the top of my instep. I couldn’t move.

When the churning water cleared, I saw a 4-foot shark swimming away from me in the shallow water. Sharp, triangular fin gleaming in the sunlight, he slowly curved his way back out to sea.

Breathless, I ran up to the nearest group of people. “Did you see that?” I panted. They looked at me like I was crazy when I told them I’d just kicked a shark.

I went back to my towel and lay down, shaken. I offered up a silent prayer of thanksgiving for Divine protection. When I opened my eyes, I was blinded by the sight I saw. The sun was a dazzling circle of diffused light, surrounded by a dramatic cloud formation on either side. The clouds formed the shape of huge wings.

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

At a time of such fear and uncertainty in our lives, I am grateful for this symbolic, but overt, reminder of God’s watchful eye and protective wings. Hints of his presence and intervention are scattered throughout creation.

God only knows how many mysteries we miss.

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

“Nothing in all creation is hidden from God's sight” (Hebrews 4:13)

Psalm 91

1 He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High
will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.

2 I will say of the LORD, "He is my refuge and my fortress,
my God, in whom I trust."

3 Surely he will save you from the fowler's snare
and from the deadly pestilence.

4 He will cover you with his feathers,
and under his wings you will find refuge;
his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.

5 You will not fear the terror of night,
nor the arrow that flies by day,

6 nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness,
nor the plague that destroys at midday.

7 A thousand may fall at your side,
ten thousand at your right hand,
but it will not come near you.

8 You will only observe with your eyes
and see the punishment of the wicked.

9 If you make the Most High your dwelling—
even the LORD, who is my refuge-

10 then no harm will befall you,
no disaster will come near your tent.

11 For he will command his angels concerning you
to guard you in all your ways;

12 they will lift you up in their hands,
so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.

13 You will tread upon the lion and the cobra;
you will trample the great lion and the serpent.

14 "Because he loves me," says the LORD, "I will rescue him;
I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name.

15 He will call upon me, and I will answer him;
I will be with him in trouble,
I will deliver him and honor him.

16 With long life will I satisfy him
and show him my salvation."

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

(p.s. In case it's hard to tell, the picture is of the tail-end of the 'wings' apparition. Of course by the time I pulled out the phone, it had already started to change. But you can still get the idea.)

Post Script

(Watching "Nemo" before our next lap around the plane.)




It was all preparation...

mine never even closed his eyes.

God's Laughter

God has the wildest sense of humor. Few people seem to know how funny He can be sometimes. So many think that He’s all stiff and serious and scary. No fun at all. Big Policeman–in-the-Sky. Mean Principal. Buzz-killer.

Perhaps because He relates so well to each of us on a uniquely individual basis, He reveals the jokester side only to those of us who have pretty sick senses of humor ourselves. He knows He can get through to us that way. We’ll get the joke.

I appreciated the one he played on me last week. It was pretty darn funny. A+.

I was traveling back to California after a brief hiatus. My loving husband upgraded my ticket to First Class because he worries about my bad back. (Actually, it’s mainly neck, but it travels south.) Anyway, I’d brought my laptop, my music, my magazines, my favorite pillow. Thought I’d do a little writing, reading, and resting.

I got settled into my cozy corner next to the window, and prepared for a relaxing flight. Got out my headset, put my mags where I could reach them, fluffed up my down pillow.

Then, she started coming down the aisle. The theme from Jaws was playing in the background as she slammed her way towards me, knocking passengers in the head with her gigantic carry-on, knocking their coffee all over them with her ample hips.

She plopped down in the seat next to me, hitting me with the carry on. Moaning and grumbling to herself/me under her breath, she grabbed the emergency instruction card in front of her and began fanning herself frantically. I politely greeted her, and immediately picked up my magazine.

From the front, the flight attendant addressed her. “Is he traveling with you?” I craned my neck to see a tiny boy several rows up, blocking the aisle while trying to climb up the side of a seat.

(“No way, God, no,” I entreated. “You’re kidding, right?”)

“Yeah, he’s with me,” my seatmate answered. “Well, is there someone else in your party? Who is in charge of this child?” The flight attendant seemed slightly out of sorts. My neighbor said something under her breath. The flight attendant misunderstood, and waited for the child’s mother to show up. When no one appeared, she brought him back to Grandma.

Grandma placed the wiggling little bundle of joy on the console/armrest between us. He immediately turned his body around until he faced me squarely, his cute little tootsies in my seat. I smiled at him, and he gave me back an adorable grin. My heart melted. Then, he started kicking me.  Hard.

As I’m saying, “No, no, honey,” Granny gets out a large Panda Bear. He takes the Panda bear and immediately hits me in the face with it. As I hold Panda Bear, little angel decides he wants to get down and play. He twists and turns and wiggles and kicks as Granny tries to restrain him, alternating threats of spanking with smothering embraces. Finally, she grabs a bag of potato chips out of the bag. (Which is taking up all the space under our feet...no way that puppy’s going under the seat!) Potato chip crumbles mingling with drippy nose matter are smeared on my sleeve as the Angel does 360’s in his granny’s lap. I fumble for my IPhone and try to get Sesame Street up on YouTube. Just as Elmo appears, the flight attendant announces that it’s time to turn off all electronic devices.

We haven’t even left the runway yet.

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

Okay, the idea here is that the infant or toddler gets to ride free if he shares the seat with an adult. Otherwise, you have to pay full-price for another ticket, when the likelihood is that the child will spend very little time in the seat.

But trying to hold on to a 20-month-old who doesn’t want to be held is like trying to hold on to an eel. He was in my seat half the time, playing with my hair, dumping my snack mix on the floor, spilling juice, hitting me with Panda. When Granny would grab him and try to make him settle down, he'd start screaming and kicking the seat in front of him.

Finally, the man in that seat speaks to the flight attendant. Everyone in the cabin has had enough.

The model-beautiful flight attendant comes back for a chat with my seatmate. She is not warm and fuzzy. She refers back to the fact that the child was unattended when boarding the plane. Then she pretends to speak to the child, saying things like, “We want to give the nice lady beside you her own space.” Grandma gets it.

When she leaves, Granny turns to me and says, “She’s getting on my nerves.” Then, with much greater volume, “She’s getting on my NERVES.” I’m thinking, “That should be singular.” It’s obvious that Granny is on her last one.

Granny fumes and mumbles under her breath for a few minutes. Then she (loudly) calls for the flight attendant to come back. My stomach starts hurting.

When the exasperated attendant returns, Granny starts giving it to her. She’s in her face. The flight attendant starts turning a little red, but stays completely under control as she replies to the accusations flung at her in rapid order.

Then Granny snaps.

“Shut up! You just shut up!” Granny screams. “Who do you think you are, Miss High-and-Mighty? You better just SHUT UP!”

“You are not helping your case,” ‘Miss High-and-Mighty’ replies, as she returns to the front of the plane to fill out a report on Granny. You could hear a pin drop in the cabin.

The man across the aisle removes his earphones, which have been of no help in blocking out the unpleasant exchange, and bravely taps Granny on the arm. “I know you’re upset,” he tells her, “but I was on a flight recently where the police were waiting at the gate for a passenger. You’d better be careful.” Granny starts to rev up again, so the man quickly puts his headset back on and pretends to be working on some important business project.

I’m totally tachycardic by this point. Ignoring little Kobe’s kicks, I lean against the window and pretend to be asleep.

Twenty minutes before the end of our almost-5-hour flight, the little boy finally goes to sleep in his grandmother’s lap. He looks absolutely angelic. A beautiful child.

The last thing in the world I want to do is disturb him. But, unfortunately, I can’t hold it any longer. I have to hike up my skirt, stand up in my seat, and pole vault across the pair to go to the bathroom.

“Why me, God?” I ask on the way to the toilet.

I hear God chuckling up a storm. The angels can’t contain their grins.

“Judge not, lest ye be judged” echoes through the heavens.

Even I have to admit it’s pretty funny. I try to smooth things out with the flight attendant when I come out of the bathcloset. I tell her I have empathy for the woman.

Tomorrow, I’m going to be the granny traveling cross country by myself with a 20-month-old male child.

Pray for me.


Actually, you’d better pray for the person sitting next to us.

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

“And the Father will laugh,
Laugh ‘til He cries...” Sarah Masen

The Sweetest Words

It’s not hard for me to feel guilty about something all the time.

I feel guilty about not being a better daughter.

I feel guilty about not being a better mother.

I feel guilty about not being a better wife...

friend,

neighbor,

correspondent,

philanthropist,

recycler,

exerciser,

housekeeper,

human being.

To paraphrase Brennan Manning: “I can feel bad about feeling good....I feel guilty about not feeling guilty enough!”

I’d say that it’s the curse of the Southern Woman, passed down through the generations like a prized antique, but I’ve learned that we don’t own exclusive rights. Just watch an old Woody Allen movie.

Subconsciously, a lot of us labor under a heavy load of existential guilt for not being perfect people...for not measuring up to some impossibly high external standard. No matter how hard we try, we never seem to be able to rack up enough points on the Great Scorecard In the Sky. Our best just isn’t good enough.

The seductive inner whisperers taunt us with lengthy accounts of our inadequacies. Behind the confident put-together exterior, an ashamed child hides in the dark corner of the mind. Eve’s lurking in there, too, still trying, unsuccessfully, to cover herself with a fig leaf.

Guilt.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not talking about everybody. I’m sure there are lots of people who are spiritually and emotionally healthier. Still others don’t feel guilty enough... like sociopaths, for example. A sense of guilt isn’t always a bad thing. There are times when we may even need to let ourselves wallow in it for a while.

There’s a huge difference between false guilt and true guilt. As human beings, each of us is deeply, truly guilty at one time or another, because we are all flawed. None of us is perfect, “no, not even one.” (Me least of all. The only reason why St. Paul was able to refer to himself as “the chief of sinners” is because I wasn’t born yet.) Sometimes we have to allow ourselves to experience fully the sharp stab of conviction which leads to acknowledgement and change. That type of guilt is good and necessary. In our society, the pendulum has swung so far in the opposite direction of our Puritan forebears that the far greater danger lies in rationalizing and glossing over our wrongdoing (or even wrongthinking), rather than repenting of it.

“Or do you show contempt for the riches of his kindness, tolerance and patience, not realizing that God's kindness leads you toward repentance?”(Rom. 2:4) Without true repentance, there can be no restoration of broken relationship.

Nothing is more damaging than that.

But let’s get back to good old neurotic guilt. Of that genre, none is more lethal than the proverbial Mother’s Guilt. Whatever it is, it’s always the Mother’s fault: “Oh, if only I’d made little Johnny join Cub Scouts, maybe he wouldn’t be in San Quentin now”...“If only I’d let Susie get braces, maybe she wouldn’t have become a pole dancer”...“If I hadn’t taken his pacifier away too soon, maybe Junior wouldn’t be in rehab ”...“Should’ve breast-fed”...“Shouldn’t have breast-fed so long”...“Why didn’t I make her marry a doctor????”.... “Should have forced them to take piano!”..."Why’d I make her clean her plate every night?”...“Why oh why oh why did I make him wear that monogrammed john-john to his 6th birthday party???”

Just in case we’re not already hard enough on ourselves, our children make sure that we know it’s all our fault if they turn out warped. “NOBODY else’s Mother makes them do that!!!!!” “EVERYBODY else on the whole planet gets to do XYZ.” And my personal favorite: “My friends all think you’re crazy!!!”

Kidding aside, I think that most of us wonder at one time or another whether we couldn’t have been better role models of the type of virtues we’d like for our children to exhibit. We ask ourselves how often our unspoken message was, “Do as I say, not as I do!” When our children grow up to reflect those characteristics we like least in ourselves, there’s a tendency to place the blame exclusively on our faulty parenting skills, rather than on simple DNA. Could a trait like innate stubbornness be a matter of chromosomes? Impatience? Shyness? Melancholia? Hyperactivity? Addiction? Lefthandedness?

Nature or Nurture?

I’ll never forget the story about the woman who went to her preacher to ask advice about her prodigal son. “I tried my best, I really did,” she whimpered. “I taught him manners and morals. I read him the Bible every night, made him go to church every time the doors were open. I went to every ball game, every school play, every everything! I gave him all I could...everything I had. But he still rebelled and ran off. Now he’s on drugs and doing God knows what with God knows whom. Please tell me, Pastor, what did I do wrong???” The preacher looked her straight in the eye, but not without compassion. “Who was God’s first child?” he queried. “Adam?” “Un-hunh. How’d he turn out?” A pause.

“What did God do wrong?” the pastor asked her. “How’d He screw up?”

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

Classic “Mother’s Guilt” takes on a whole new dimension when there’s a sick child involved.

Indescribable.

Not long before Katherine’s AVM rupture, a child we know was diagnosed with cancer. When I asked a mutual friend how the mother was doing, she told me something I found shocking at the time. She said the mother felt as if it were her fault in some way. The actual words were, “She thinks it’s because of her sin.”

Now this mother is not, to my knowledge, some big world-class sinner. (Not even close to my category.) She is a sweet, gentle, caring soul. A wonderful, conscientious mother.

But it is tempting to feel that you are being punished in some way when your child gets sick. And when some of us examine our lives, we see plenty that might deserve punishment. Remember, everything’s always the mother’s fault. A couple of remarks I received seemed to reinforce this idea in my head. People can say the strangest things at the strangest times. But the seed was planted.

After Katherine’s initial crisis (life or death?) had passed, I had time to get on the internet and try to learn a little about this monstrosity that almost killed her. I had never heard of an “AVM” before. Actually, I didn’t even really understand the effects of a brain bleed.

On the National Institutes of Health site, I read that “Brain AVMs occur in less than 1% of the population. They are more common in males than females.” Wow, how’d we win those odds? Then, the killer: “Arteriovenous malformations (AVMs) are defects of the circulatory system that are generally believed to arise during embryonic or fetal development or soon after birth.”

There’s a whole truckload of potential in-your-face guilt just in that one sentence. The “WHAT-DID-I-DO-WRONG” question reverberates with hideous, fresh meaning in this scenario.

Did I take too many aspirin or drink too much wine before I knew I was pregnant??? Did I sniff some toxic fumes...inhale second-hand smoke...get too close to the gas pump??? Did I think negative thoughts that were transmitted to the little baby bud in utero??? Did I work out too hard? Not take enough vitamins? Eat something I shouldn’t have eaten? Did I throw up too much? Not gain enough weight? Maybe that was some kind of terrible virus instead of morning (i.e. “All Day”) sickness. Did I pass along something damaging through my breast milk? WHAT DID I DO WRONG?????

IS THIS SOMEHOW BECAUSE OF MY SIN?

I have a vague memory of the first time poisonous thoughts like those started churning around in my head like squirrels in a cage. I think I was walking back to the hotel from the hospital...a frequent time for reflection in those days. I guess God got sick of listening to all that garbage. Suddenly, a version of this story bolted into my brain:

“As he went along, he saw a man blind from birth. His disciples asked him, "Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?"
"Neither this man nor his parents sinned," said Jesus, "but this happened so that the work of God might be displayed in his life.” (John 9:1-3)

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

Sometimes I wish I had a magic wand that I could wave over all of my children and instantaneously fix everything that’s wrong with them. But the fight and the victory are ultimately more enriching for them, and more glorifying to God, than the quick-fix of my imagination. Recently, I learned that you have to tear muscle down in order to build it up. The falling down and the getting back up again...the failures and the little triumphs...these are what build spiritual muscle. The thought occurred to me that sometimes our own strength must be torn down in order for us to be able to accept and embrace His far greater strength. So...maybe even our worst parenting failures are like barbells that God can use to get our children in shape. When we try to make everything easy for them...lift everything for them...we prevent their progress. Our need to think of ourselves as ‘perfect parents’ may even impede “the work of God from being displayed in their lives.”

I have to continuously remind myself that I’m just a temporary guardian, anyway.

They’re His forever.

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

Okay, here’s one last thing I’ve felt a little guilty about: I never clarified the whole Romans 8 thing.

This is what really happened. For a number of reasons, I decided to home school my middle daughter in the 8th grade. She may not have learned a darn thing, but, to this day, we both consider it to have been a successful endeavor. One of the subjects was “Bible.” I was gleeful about having this opportunity to pour some Word into her head. She had to listen to me, because I was the teacher and I got to grade her! After rambling around for a while, I decided we both needed to develop some mental and spiritual discipline through memorization. The book of Romans has always been very special to me, because it was during the study of that book that I finally GOT IT...the light bulb switched on. So it was a natural choice for our study.

Using flash cards, we memorized a verse at a time. We started with the last third, beginning with my favorite verse: “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” Then we tackled the second third. (“I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us.”) We never made it to the first...school was out for summer before we got to it.

Katherine was jealous that her sister knew something she didn’t...or maybe it was just that she thought the whole thing was a good idea. For whatever reason, Katherine memorized the latter part of Romans, too. After the AVM rupture, the story got out that we could all recite the entire chapter by heart. Thus was the “Romans 8 Movement” begun in Katherine’s honor, started by J.T. and Syd, some dear friends who are wonderful musicians.

I’ve always felt a wee bit guilty that I never explained that we can’t recite the WHOLE chapter. I’ve thought about all those sweet people, slaving away to remember it all.

But I don’t feel guilty about it anymore. They have received a wonderful gift.

The very first verse of that chapter contains the sweetest words I’ve ever heard. These are the words that come to comfort whenever those sickening little guilt goblins try to haunt me now:

"THERE IS THEREFORE NOW NO CONDEMNATION..."

However we condemn ourselves...whatever lies we believe...whatever baggage we carry around like it’s vintage Louis Vuitton...

There is no condemnation.

God does not condemn us.

Our guilt has already been paid for.


May these words echo through our minds until they reverberate down into our very souls...


no condemnation...

NO condemnation....

NO CONDEMNATION.



Whom the Son sets free is free indeed.


Alleluia.

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

“When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, "If any one of you is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone at her." Again he stooped down and wrote on the ground. At this, those who heard began to go away one at a time, the older ones first, until only Jesus was left, with the woman still standing there. Jesus straightened up and asked her, "Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?" "No one, sir," she said. "Then neither do I condemn you," Jesus declared." (John 8:9-11)

“I have discovered this principle of life—that when I want to do what is right, I inevitably do what is wrong. I love God’s law with all my heart. But there is another power within me that is at war with my mind. This power makes me a slave to the sin that is still within me. Oh, what a miserable person I am! Who will free me from this life that is dominated by sin and death?

Thank God! The answer is in Jesus Christ our Lord. So you see how it is: In my mind I really want to obey God’s law, but because of my sinful nature I am a slave to sin.

So now there is no condemnation for those who belong to Christ Jesus. And because you belong to him, the power of the life-giving Spirit has freed you from the power of sin that leads to death. The law of Moses was unable to save us because of the weakness of our sinful nature. So God did what the law could not do. He sent his own Son in a body like the bodies we sinners have. And in that body God declared an end to sin’s control over us by giving his Son as a sacrifice for our sins.” (Romans 7:21-8:3 NLT)

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

A couple of notes:

*After 90-something blog posts, this is the first time I've felt led to do anything like this: I'd like to encourage you to forward the post to someone who might need to hear it...maybe someone who doesn't know us from Adam, and has never visited the sites before. I can't shake the impression that I need to ask that favor this time.

*Thank you so much, Laurel and Angie, for trying to help this old technophobe! I played around with it forever....can't even remember now what finally did the trick. (I need a computer class!) But the difficulty in posting just reinforced the idea that I needed to make the above request.

*If you haven't already done so, please visit J.T. and Syd's "Romans 8 Movement" site. They are fantastic musicians and wonderful, faithful friends. The site is:

www.romans8movement.com

Life. Support. Music.

A few nights ago, I came across a wonderful PBS documentary called Life. Support. Music. It is the story of Jason Crigler, a young musician who collapsed on stage after suffering a severe AVM rupture. His case is similar to Katherine's in many ways, although her long-term effects were more severe because of the number of cranial nerves that were damaged or severed in her surgery.

Parts of the movie were hard to watch, as it brought back some painful memories. But the overall tone is full of love, hope, and courage. It is an amazing story.

L.S.M. is a very graphic depiction of the effects of this often tragic medical condition. I recommend the following PBS link to anyone who is interested in learning more about AVMs. There is a trailer from the film, plus other valuable information and resources.

http://www.pbs.org/pov/lifesupportmusic/background.php

If anyone knows how to put a song from your ITunes library on the blog, let me know. I downloaded a good song by Jason called, "She Waits For An Answer." (Where is my technology assistant, anyway??)


Hope everyone had a good holiday, and is savoring the joys of summertime!

Love, Kim


(p.s. I'm hoping to publish a new blog sometime in the next day or two, God willing.)

A Case of Mistaken Identity

(This was started on June 26. I know everyone is probably WAY oversaturated by now, but I'm still going to post it for some reason.)

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

Yesterday, I had a Forest Gump moment.

My husband and I took James out to lunch at "The Stand," our favorite college dive in Westwood. As we ate our burgers, we heard what seemed to be an unusual number of helicopters hovering overhead. We thought that: a.) either a lot of folks were getting new hearts or lungs, or b.) there must be some major celebs in the neighborhood because of the LA Film Festival. (Johnny Dep and Christian Bale had visited just the day before.) Then we heard something about Michael Jackson being rushed to UCLA on the restaurant TV.

After lunch, we strolled James through the neighborhood. People were running towards the hospital. A crazy man ran by screaming profanity at the crowds on the sidewalk. As we neared Ronald Reagan, we could see newsvans screeching up to the curb. My husband told me to get up close to see what was going on.....probably because he knew I would, anyway. Somehow, I ended up directly in front of the press conference mikes, just behind the cameramen. I felt like Forrest at the White House. No one asked me to move. I guess they thought I had a reason to be there, as it was obvious I was neither a student nor a hospital employee. It was a fascinating spot for observation.

A line of recognizable reporters from every major (and some minor) networks stood or sat on the grass three feet in front of me. The women were powdering their shiny noses, fluffing their hair, and licking their lips. Rumors swirled around.... cardiac arrest, coma, death??? A sea of cell phones and cameras of all shapes and sizes were swaying in the air. New crews arrived continuously, holding up badges and pressing their way through the crowd. There was an air of excitement and anticipation.

I stood there like a little mouse with my mental tape recorder going, pressing words and images into my mind. My husband laughed at me from the periphery, where he was entertaining James. He lifted him up over the crowd to see me, and then motioned for me to get back to playing reporter. Sometimes he likes to egg me on.

“F*** this, f*** that, f***the other” the cameraman closest to me spat out to an executive-looking type. He was venting about something that had happened earlier in the day. As he shook his head in disgust, he saw me looking at him. By this point, the crowd had swelled from behind, pushing those of us in the front closer together. He gave me a little shrug of apology. “I guess it’s been a pretty intense day for you,” I said, “First Farrah, and now this.” “It always comes in three’s,” he sagely replied. “Ed McMahon,” another observer threw out. “That was yesterday,” the cameraman and I answered simultaneously. “But it’s always in three’s,” the jaded cameraman repeated direly.

A skinny newsreporter, sweating from the intensity of it all, looked around at those of us in her vicinity, obviously desperate for something...anything...to put on the air. At this point, no official hospital spokesperson had come out to confirm the death reports. “Would any of you be willing to share your feelings right now? I know it’s a very difficult time,” she pleaded. I looked down at the ground. My mama always taught me, “If you can’t say something nice...” As a young woman enthusiastically emoted her grief and adulation into the mike, I said to myself, “The tragedy of this life began long before today.”

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

It was hard to avoid juxtaposing that scene against another:

A crowd at UCLA Hospital. A patient in critical condition...maybe dying. People waiting for news...any news.

But this crowd was praying, not licking its chops in anticipation of titillating fodder for our celebrity-obsessed world to feast upon....waiting for some juicy ratings-boosting morsel. Instead of standing up on tiptoes to catch a glimpse of the elements of a tragic demise, that crowd was down on its knees...or prostrate....pleading heaven to stop it in its tracks. Instead of pushing each other to get closer to the center of action, people gently held each other in comforting embrace, or held hands in fervent prayer.

Katherine lived.

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

To me, the pivotal tragedy of Michael Jackson’s life was one of identity.

He never knew who he really was.

He lived behind masks and veils. He was so uncomfortable in his own skin that he permanently changed the hue with which God had embued it. He hated the image of the man in the mirror so much that he inalterably altered it.

He seemed to have absolutely everything in the world except for peace, self-acceptance, and freedom. Everything money could buy, yet nothing at all.

Like Michael’s, Katherine’s visage has also been dramatically altered, but not of her own choosing. She was just fine with the face she had, although its contemplation was not a top priority for her. As I've said before, she spent less time in front of a mirror than almost any woman I know.

In a bit of fortuitous foreshadowing, Katherine was led to teach a lesson on “Identity” shortly before her AVM rupture. Teachers know that no one learns the lesson as well as the one who prepares it. It is a great fringe benefit of teaching. I love to teach on subjects about which I know very little, as it forces me to learn something new. (I’m lazy, and probably wouldn’t do it otherwise.)

So, I thank God that Katherine learned her lessons well. Her head knowledge has been put to the test by her life experiences, and has held true for her. She knows that her identity is not based on her physical appearance, her abilities, her talents, or even her God-given gifts. Her identity is, first and foremost, this: The very, very well-beloved, beautiful, precious, special child of a lovely, loving, merciful Father. She is the daughter of a King. And Katherine has had a unique opportunity to learn first-hand that she is loved totally unconditionally, just exactly as she is: whether strong or weak, rich or poor, capable or incapable, functional or nonfunctional, “doing” or not doing.

My experience of the 25th was a good reminder for me. Sometimes it’s easy to feel envious of those who “have it all,” according to the standards of the world. To wish that we, too, had the ability to go wherever we want to go, do whatever we want to do, buy whatever we want to buy whenever we want to buy it. As a culture, we love to put people who can up on pedestals. (And love toppling them down even more.) But Death is the Great Democratizer. The ground is level there. We enter the world naked, helpless, and alone, and we exit the same way. Celebrities and homeless people, movie stars and prostitutes, billionaires and trash collectors...average housewives from Georgia...

I think that the greatest tragedy of Michael Jackson’s life was that he didn’t seem to know how completely loved he was by the one who made him. The adoration of millions and millions of fans couldn’t make up for that.


Nothing can.

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

“For what does it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses or forfeits himself?” (Luke 9:25,esv)

“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. 3:18,niv)

“...in Heaven everything is turned upside-down,
cuz the last will be first in that celestial town...” (excerpt from The Jesus Rap)

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

(*A final note: Please know that I intend no disrespect or judgment of any kind. I am simply making observations and stating personal opinions. I'm not God, and I certainly don't know everything. I believe that every life is sacred. I pray that, at the end, Mr. Jackson found the peace which seemed to elude him during his lifetime.)

One picture's worth a thousand...

I'm sorry that I've had no time to finish writing anything lately.

Sometimes "Full Time Job" is an inadequate description.

In the meantime, I wanted to share this amazing picture with you. It was sent to me by Lyndsey Williams, a friend of my daughter Amie. She took it at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. After she returned home from her trip, she read the blog entitled "Wasteland Grace." Shortly after, I received a package of beautiful cards with the picture and these words from the post on the front: "Just ahead, I see a little yellow flower of hope, peeping out from beneath a desert rock."

I cried when I saw them.

The by-word on Lyndsey's email is "Hope dies last."

Amen and amen.

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

"And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us." (Rom. 5:5)

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