“Married to Amazement”

I was reading again on the blog you didn’t know I was reading.  The one that inspired me here and here.  The one I’ve written a post about — complimenting it, explaining my enjoyment of it, paying attention to its point of view.  Ok. I’ve written it in my HEAD and hope to soon commit it to keyboard and hit “publish.”

Yesterday she posted a remarkable poetic tribute to the nephew she lost to cancer four years ago. And, I found myself in that place.  That horrible place of dual gratitude: Thank You for my life and let me live it completely.  And… thank You that it was them and not me saying goodbye.

It’s hard to resolve in my spirit, but her subsequent pledge to “live my life and my parenthood with my eyes and heart as wide open as possible” so echos my own desire to soak up every second of this day with those that have made my life so rich, that I wanted to reprint the poem here.  “So teach us to number our days, so that we may present to You a heart of wisdom.” (psalm 90:12)

“When Death Comes”
by Mary Oliver
from New and Selected Poems

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measles-pox;

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

Give and Take

As foretold:
“Blessed are those who can give without remembering and take without forgetting.”
~ Elizabeth Bibesco

Still Dad, and Still God

One month ago today, my dad had his stroke.  Although he doesn’t have some of the same skills he did (yet), Dad is still the same dad he was one month ago plus a day.  And, God is still the same God he was on February 7.

My dad and my family are in a season of change–again.  He’s been in the hospital for the last month undergoing physical and occupational therapy to regain movement in his left leg and arm which were primarily affected.  We and the doctors are very hopeful that in time he will be able to do many of the things he’s always done.  Each day he is making improvements and becoming more like “himself”, shifting again the reality of what his daily life is like.  Regardless of how close he gets to his full potential with additional therapy and sheer will of character, life has inevitably changed.  Dad’s can dos have changed.  His schedule has changed.  His independence has changed.  Both Dad and Mom’s jobs have changed.  How they spend their time has changed.  Where they can go has changed.  The scale of their lives has changed, time and energy focused on more basic tasks.  The appearance of their home has changed.  Their ability to visit in my home has changed.  The ease of holding my children has changed.  Their presence in our lives has changed.

Throughout this month, two thoughts have persisted in rising above the din of confusion and adjustment, of sickness and care-giving, of schedules and sleeplessness.  Despite the changes, a family is a family regardless of time, abilities, presence and the space between.  And, we will remain a family.  We will adjust, and life and love will continue.

And this:
“I, the Lord, do not change; therefore, you, O sons of Jacob, are not consumed.” (malachi 3:6)

Right now, Dad can’t move as he once did.  But, God is still moving in strong support of His own. Therefore, we are not consumed by helplessness.

Though we are beginning to see movement in his shoulder, Dad’s arm has been greatly weakened.  But, the same outstretched arm of God that made the heavens and the earth is still reaching.  Therefore, we are not consumed by impossibilities.

In the days after the stroke, Dad had a slight slurred speech that has thankfully subsided.  But, the words of God were and are crisp and sharp.  They stand forever.  Therefore, we are not consumed by the silent unknown.

Next week, Dad will come home sitting in a wheelchair, at least for a time.  But, God is still sitting on the same throne of righteousness He inhabited 29 days ago.  Therefore, we are not consumed by paralyzing fear.

It will be some time before Dad may be able to enjoy the same activities he once did.  But, the uncommon joy of God is our strength.  Therefore, we are not consumed by sorrow.

Dad may not be able to work again.  But, God has not stopped working in us for His good pleasure.  Therefore, we are not consumed by inactivity.

Dad is slowly relearning to put one foot in front of the other.  But, the rock of our God still enables sure footing.  Therefore, we are not consumed by dark stumbling.

The comfortable assumption of a parent I’ve relied upon to be strong has been weakened.  But, the God of comfort is still the abundant Father of mercies.  Therefore, we are not consumed by anxious unrest.

God has not changed. He remains. Our healer. Our protector. Our light. His love and His reach will continue as it always has.  In this, alone, are we steadied from the consuming tide of change.

Saturday Evening, Uncomposed

The loss of our ordinary.

Baby Girl and I drove home at sunset tonight.

A brilliant ball of yellow-hot fire melting into a stoic treeline.  Radiating red giving way to lavender and a nearly cloudless subtle blue sky–the last vestiges of a waning day.  A day representing change.  Complete sentences are hard to muster.

It’s Saturday night.  The night we’ve come to take for granted as a night for family suppers.  Most recently wedged in between loads of laundry, mop sponges and Barney movies.  As has become our habit.  

But this night is different.  Last Saturday my father rocked Baby Girl to sleep in his special way, and then drove home.  The next morning, he had a stroke.  This night, we are not enjoying a family supper.  This night, he’s in a hospital room.  My mother is by his side.  They are not with us.  As had become our habit.  Though, he thinks and speaks more like himself each day, he cannot move in the way he did six days ago.  We hope and plan that he’ll regain most of his skills, but I’m still numbed by the sudden change in reality.  The servant, for the moment, becoming the served.  The strength I’ve assumed my whole life in a weakened state.    The final release of any tightly-held fragments of childhood.  I’ve already begun the thought- and writing-process of recording my testimony of God’s steadfastness, but this comes first.  The mourning of the loss of our ordinary.

I covet the mundane reality of Dreft and Gain alongside conversation and ballgames. In the span of six days, I’ve come to covet the ordinary of a walk down the hall, a drive down the street, sitting at the table for a meal, an unencumbered smile, the familiarity of blue jeans, the sop of bread against your green bean juice, the hand-off of a sleeping baby, the balancing act of carrying five full take-out cups and a drink box, the simplicity of a kiss on the cheek.

The blazing sunset–an ordinary occurence–this night, signals a new ordinary for me and mine.  Maybe temporary, maybe not, but we hope.  In this moment, near is made far by the lack of a physical presence we’ve come to assume.  But, oddly, far of spirit is made near by readjusted priorities and the loss of the ordinary time together we almost forgot to cherish.

It’s Saturday night.  The night that marks the shifting of our ordinary.  The sun setting on the complacency of extraordinary habits that had come to be ordinary.  In the span of 20 miles, the solar spectacular giving way to halogen beams marking the yellow lines to home.  A reminder of the invariable constants.  The comfort of the familiar.  The hope and promise of rising in the morning.  To embrace a renewed ordinary.

It’s not that unusual 
When everything is beautiful 
It’s just another 
Ordinary miracle today 

The sky knows when it’s time to snow 
Don’t need to teach a seed to grow 
It’s just another 
Ordinary miracle today …

Sun comes out and shines so bright 
And disappears again at night 
It’s just another 
Ordinary miracle today 

It’s just another 
Ordinary miracle today

~ from Ordinary Miracle by Sarah McLachlan

Gift Tag: Cars, Rain and Manna

From Little Drummer Boy’s first driving to daycare “Good Morning Prayer” of 2009:

Dear God
Thank you for today.
Thank you for the sunshine [although it's cloudy/drizzly today] and everything You have made.
Thank you for the cars that drive [in response to Squiggle's insistence that we look for a bus going by?]
and the rain that pours
and the drops that pour
and manna…

I didn’t catch the rest because I was scrambling in my purse (while navigating the green arrow light) for a pen to write down the words of wisdom from my 3 1/2 year old…

Cars. Thank You, God, for the vehicles you park before us to get us to the place you want us to be. Thank You that You’ve continually kept the engine running on your plan while we go back in to take care of this and that.

Rain. Thank You, God, for the downpours that wash away the excess and the unnecessary–the stacked up clutter of our lives and spirits that slows us down as we get to where you want us to be. Thank You for nourishment disguised as storms, inducing the growth needed to put down roots where you want us to be.

Manna. Thank You, God, for shining the light on this day’s provision, this day’s step toward where you want us to be.  Thank You that enough is sweet like honey and ripe for savoring.  Thank You that though we are not yet where You want us to be, Your provision in the wandering is steadfast.

And, thank You for the countless bedtime Bible stories that have incorporated “manna” into my baby’s vocabulary. Thank You for for the sponge-like stage that calls such a word to his mind unexpectedly.  Thank You for the innocence found in the unlikeliest of teachers.

Gift Tags are the tiny messages God continues to include with our gifts — 2 little joys of boys and 1 little jewel of a girl, each with open eyes, open ears, open hearts, and much to teach. “Behold children are a gift of the Lord…” (psalm 127:1)