Behold the Lion!

I am moving deeper into the subterranean world of the medical healthcare system. Yesterday two young nurses blew in with the wind. Now it is out in the open, I can no longer take care of my husband. The authorities have been called in. It is official, the recording of his vital signs started today. 

Somehow recording it makes it more official that he IS  terminally ill. He has a sickness unto death. After evaluating him they determined that he has a fever, swollen feet, stage one bedsores, low blood pressure and most likely dehydration. They want to order a bed commode and a physical therapist and send out a LVN every two weeks.  They ask,  "Do we want a hospital bed? A wheelchair?" Then I sign the forms and they leave. 

Later, health care worker, Homer, comes to bathe Hans, but his fever is higher and his blood pressure is lower, so the shower is called off.  Then the physical therapist comes. Questions fly like snow flakes in a blizzard. Now that he has been removed from his blood thinners who is monitoring his DVT? I don't know. What had been decided about the fever? I don't know. Why are we still giving him BP meds when his blood pressure ia dangerously low? I don't know. Is anything being done to alleviate his dehydration? I don't know. Suddenly I began to feel really really bad. We had just seen the doctor a few days ago thinking we were on track with treatments and all our corners were covered. Now..the covers are unraveling. 

Though I appreciated the gentleman's expertise and skill, I wanted him to leave. I wanted to be left alone. I couldn't answer and therefore wasn't in control. Furthermore my soul doubted whether anyone in the world would take these matters seriously.  My immediate feeling was one of powerlessness and  being trapped. Trapped by the protocols of  the medical profession, by their "rules" and by their hardness of heart. I felt dizzy and thought I would faint. Would H. die sooner rather than later because no one would give him an IV and some antibiotics? My panic escalated throughout the day. Around five Emmie had a melt down and was inconsolable. She cried or rather, wailed endlessly. She had awoken from a nap while her mother was at the store. She mourned for the return of her mother, desperate and panicky to have her within reach again. I saw in her actions a symbolic presentation of how everyone was feeling. I told Julianne, "I believe we have lost control over our home."

My panic arose because somehow I childishly believed that if Hans was hydrated that the problems would somehow go away. Like Hans who thinks if he avoids sugar and animal fat that he will be healed. The brain is trying to stave off death. Without divine intervention the inevitable will happen. Without the governor's stay of execution, the criminal will die. This is how it feels. The hour is late, and Hans' strong 74 year old body is being beaten down, taken over. Will the Savior, redeemer kinsman come to our relief, will the stay be granted? I don't want remission, I want healing. I need a King.  I need a great high priest who can approach the throne of God with boldness and power, whose colors I can wear against Goliath. 

 I hear a voice, saying "Who is worthy to open the scroll and break the seals? And no one in heaven or on earth or under the earth was able to open the book or to look into it.  And then I began to weep greatly because no one was found worthy to open the book or to look into it. And one of the elders said to me, "Stop weeping; behold the Lion that is from the tribe of Judah, the Root of David has overcome....talitha kuom!"

It's Tulip Time!

March 30, 2011

They say that every time a baby is born you should plant a fruit tree and when the tree is mature, eating of it will cause you to remember the lovely person you have sent into the world—to bless it with its own unique seed of goodness. But when a person dies, what is done? I am planting dozens of tulips today. They are in a see-through bag and are already sprouting stems. They are straining for a piece of ground, sun and water. "Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit." John 12:24

Today we are looking for a piece of ground to bury my husband. For when he has been sown into the ground he will no longer be alone, he will be with all the Angels, his mother, his sisters Anne and Lyda and little brother Sam. He will see Frank Fueille for whom he prayed so hard. He will see Lyn's daddy too. He will see my Dad, though in the distant crowd. He will see little cousin Hector and the myriad of saints who have prayed for us down the centuries. He will enter into that great cloud ....of God and those who loved not the world. 

Part of me is incredulous,  I cannot imagine life without Hans?  We have been like two peas in a divine pod for so long—like conjoined twins of the heart. We have grown from infancy to maturity together into oaks of righteousness, strengthened by the underground waters of the Spirit. The shade we provide in the wilderness is made up of two sets of arms—strong from use and scarred from warfare. Will I be a mutilated tree now?  I know you will think, why is she carrying on so? Don't you see? We (together) are God's handiwork. He made us in His image. Our union was a work of God in the flesh. I weep for the beauty of that. We (Hans and Judy) were God's idea. We did not call ourselves together. He did it and for that I am profoundly grateful.  I know that God will  take care of me through the final untying of our souls.  God made us one and now will make something new from our  labors. This is the legacy of the servants of the Lord. 

I laugh because I always thought our "work" was teaching, instructing, giving light in the darkness, but our true work was in loving God with all our hearts, mind and souls. Isn't that hilarious? We thought it was A but in the end it turned out to be Z. No wonder there can be no regret. 

I told a friend recently that death is not retreat for a Christian, nor is it even sadness. It is truly  a celebration. Hans MUST put off mortality so that he can put on immortality. Jesus said to the women of Jerusalem,..."Daughters of Jerusalem, stop weeping for Me, but weep for yourselves and for your children." A Christian moves from glory to glory so perhaps we only weep for ourselves?

Today is a marker day. The coldness of his feet has reached to his legs, hands to arms. Sleep is the  body entering coma, that is the technical name for it. The nurse is coming today. If he remains like this for a few more days,  it will soon be  time to call the kids in from the fields. He will be 75 on April 8. They have planned to come that day. Wouldn't it be great if....


And having said all that (by faith) when we leave this healing cottage, I'm uprooting the tulips and taking them with me.

Instruct Patient to Expectorate

March 29, 2011

The delivery process of medical resources is dismal. My doctor says, "If you like, I can call someone for you." She can call someone for me? A maid? A yardman?  It is apparent that I am woefully ignorant of modern healthcare systems.  Why would I not be?  As a faith missionary we avoid all such conventional healing centers. (Please don't make a theology out of this).  If she called someone is there a charge? How can I pay them? Later my mom gives me a word of advice—about a wonderful agency that took care of my dad. It is fully funded by Medicare, at least for the time being. They can come out and do vitals, give pain meds and bathe him.  I can call them direct or have my doctor call them. Ohh...I am beginning to understand what my doctor meant. But does H. need that now? Is it that bad? I have a flashback to first day of school. I don't even know where the bathrooms are or how much is lunch. All my slick adulthood moxy is out the window and I am reduced to groping my way around this huge industrial complex called healthcare and learning the nuances of their language. For instance, a key medical report says that the ribs 9 and 10 show some "involvement." What is that? Are they having an affair? They are "compromised." That's dirty talk to a preacher. I am giving Hans one pill prophylactically. The dictionary says it is a rubber sheath, used to prevent venereal diseases, or infection. I am learning the subtext of medicine, but I am learning it the hard way. Every word from the doctors hits me like a two by four. Don't they know that they hold my heart in their hands?

I have also been mislead  by the cemetery guy who reminded me and Julianne of a slick car salesman. (No offense to the auto group). The bill will be 3 times higher than he mentioned a month ago. What I thought was the total bill has now become the down payment.  Just like that, my room with a view is gone. It would have been for both of us. Even a single room is too much now. That is just wrong.

Someone says that I am entitled to a social worker. How do I find one? Do I just call them up and say I am entitled to a home visit because I am terribly confused? I am near tears because I am overwhelmed and because I am vulnerable. I cannot navigate these choppy waters. And I'm mad too. Mad because life is not an adventure anymore. Portents of being a widow. There is a reason why they don't call widows "single gals." They are not "single." They are "uncovered." Marriage protected them from the underbelly of culture, of demonic activities in the world, nestled in the grace of God by a partner who cares for their well being and acts as a witness to their pitiable little lives. Marriage says, "I matter to someone." A couple can "worry" together, pray together, but most of all, humanly speaking,  they can "emote" together. I have led a soft life, a sheltered life and it will take some time to get my night vision back. 

We (Jules and I) gave H. a sponge bath tonight. She did the top half I did the bottom half. We washed his hair, gave him a deep heat facial spa, soaked his  blistered head in baby oil, lathered his belly with body ointments and swished his mouth with hydrogen peroxide after flossing his teeth. Unsure how to swish we read the directions. After cleaning, it said, "Instruct the patient to expectorate." Huh? Does that mean "tell the patient to spit?" What is wrong with using the word "spit?"

My left thigh and buttock hurt from lifting Hans all week. I am popping as many pills as he is. One for you, two for me. It is a confusing time for me and my bridegroom. He said tonight, "Well, you've never taken such intimate care of me before this, have you? Flashbacks of thirty years of life with an extremely private man swirl before my eyes. So I say with laughter, "Well, there is nothing left to hide is there?" We both laugh. Mission accomplished. 

Cowbells in the Night

March 29, 2011

The handheld cowbell goes off at 8AM. I am in a deep sleep, exhausted and dead to this world. My short gig as a home health nurse is over. I cannot do another bathroom call, another "1-2-3 lift" for my big man, or another fruitless discussion about how he must eat food. He is anorexic. He has eaten almost nothing in two weeks time.   Everyday it gets less and less. He is also irrational about food. He only wants to eat cold-pressed orange juice. They don't make cold pressed orange juice to my knowledge. His usual diet of flax seeds and cottage cheese is down to one bite a day. 

Two days ago his feet were icy cold. This morning so are his hands. His first words are "I am weaker than yesterday." We gave him a sleeping pill last night that knocked him out. In moving him from his chair to the bed he accused us of trying to murder him. "You're trying to murder me" he said. Then he looked directly at me and said, "Do you even know what you're doing?" I finally broke down and played the old nurse role, "Yes Mr. Weerstra, we know what we're doing... you have to get in bed now Mr. Weerstra." He obeyed. I hated using that deeply impersonal "Mr. Weerstra" routine. It brought back so many bad memories of the nurses calling my Dad, "Mr. Thomas, you have to open your mouth, Mr. Thomas." At the most intimate and painful times of life, do you really want someone to be calling you, Mr. Weerstra? Mr. Thomas? But here I was calling him Mr. I should have at least called him, "Reverent Doctor Mr. Weerstra."  To call him Mr. is to depersonalize him and rob him of his human persona—turning him into  just a  man among a thousand other men. I reject this. His real name is Brother Hans, the abbot, caretaker of souls, servant of God and even more precious, Honey, Dad, Grandpa.  I resolve that next time I shall say, "Servant of God, you must eat your food" or "O most useful servant of the Most High, you must get in bed now" or even "Grandfather of many... you must take your meds." 

Today he asks me, "So what do you think of what is happening." I say to him, "You are dying." He shakes his head. "No, this is the effect of the radiation, it will wear off soon." I pray that he is right. Meanwhile, to me, he is dying. He has all the signs of imminent death. It is so peaceful...just a gradual decline. Very little pain to speak of. Unlike my daughter's friend, whose mother died in agony. My prayer has been answered—there  is no fear, no anxiety, no worry. Just a wonderful recognition that God has been good to us and that great has been His faithfulness to us. How?

By taking us off the beaten path and forcing us to live the hidden life of the Christ. We were so ambitious, wanting to build the house of God, wanting to call down fire from heaven, but He wanted to build us as His house! All those who have been gripped by the spirit of ambition and earthly zeal have been shipwrecked in their ministries and in their personal lives. "Better to live as a doorkeeper in the house of the Lord...."  No one willingly picks obscurity, God must call them to this and here is where His sovereignty is displayed, there is no breaking through it. All of his servants will learn this lesson, one way or another. We just did it first. Thou shalt have no other gods before Me." And so it is. We have been both broken and weaned...and are just now fit for service. Ha!

Thanks be to God, as the whiskypalians say, that the wilderness ends here at the Jordan. The waters will be parted and we will pass through and we will have sown much seed. Now God must water. 

For my part, I am glad to hear cowbells in the middle of the night, for it means that he still needs me, and that he is still alive. 

The Wobbly Bits of Humanity

March 28, 2011

Hans is upset. In response to someone's worry he held up a bony finger and with a raspy voice said, "Please don't worry. You can pray for me, but do not worry, for in six weeks I will be out of this chair." I am embarrassed and so are our visitors. What if he is right? Wouldn't I be ashamed. I don't know how to live in this dual reality of faith and materialism. Together we have seen bigger miracles than the healing of advanced cancer,  that is why he speaks so audaciously in the face of his deterioration.  Still, he has not been healed. My mind drifts toward Sarah and the promise of a child. Which is more difficult? To forgive sins or to tell this man to get up and walk? My mind is formed by the stories of faith in the Bible. The truth of His faithfulness is the reservoir of my strength. 

Explaining to them, he went on to say, that the cottage on 45 Half Moon was his place of recovery and that the chair he was sitting in was his "healing chair." And after he was healed did they want to buy it? Quieres comprarlo? He put them at ease with his late hour humor. I do not know. I do not live by principles alone, but by the word of the Lord. Yet the Lord has spoken to me some audacious words regarding his healing. I ponder them in my heart, like Mary. How can they come to pass? Is He just taking Hans for a late night swim in the murky waters of death? Hans has changed in the last three weeks. There is a profound gratefulness in his heart that shames me. He is grateful for the men who washed our car, thanking them for helping him in his hour of need. He is thankful for blankets and doctors and the internet. He is thankful for Benjamin's (grandson) hugs. He is grateful for hot tea and hand lotion.He is profoundly emotional—seeing things from a new perspective. He is thankful to God for all these seemingly mundane things, like his life. 

I think when you have been through the trauma of war, the occupation of an enemy power over your land, the bloated stomach of poverty, the third child in a big family, the ridicule of American kids to your wooden shoes, the agony of being an immigrant student in the rise of the Elvis Presley years, the turbulent times on the mission field, the tragic demise of a marriage, and the stressful years as a "faith missionary," its pretty hard to be grateful for your "life." But he doesn't remember any of those things now. They have faded into the past like an old stretch mark. They were indeed the ways in which God stretched him, transforming him. He says now, "I wouldn't change a thing." Gone is the stubborn Dutchman...replaced by the sweetest soul I have ever known. I hear Dr. Brown and him talking while she examines his swollen feet...his voice is soft and endearing. He allows her to see his feet and lift his pajamas. How humiliating, but he is grateful. He is developing bed sores and we had to address how to anoint them. Like a boy he bent over, grateful that his companion of years was attending to him. I remember my father's last days, when the nurses would move us out of his room, while they administered to him the magic potion. Surely it must have been magic since there was so much secrecy about the act. But I remember glancing away from his private parts lest I be guilty of the sin of Cain. But that's when I realized that those parts are holy and precious and not the sordid carnal expression of fallen man, but the sweet wobbly bits (dangly bits) of childhood, boyhood and then finally adult male to bring about the propagation of the human race and that they too will someday "retire" to the back pasture where they will be fed oats and honey until they die. 

I loved my dad so much, even though for many years he and I occupied the same emotional level of two ten year olds. My mom was a grown up but we fought like cats and dogs. But at the end of the day, that is not what you remember...as a Christian, you see a priceless human being, not for his intrinsic worth but because he was fearfully and wonderfully made by God. 

Perhaps I too am a bit unhinged with all this gratefulness going on. My heart is like a tres leches cake right now...all soft and doughy from the liquid drenching its integrity as a cake. Perhaps I too am changing.

Jesus in Hiking Boots

 March 26, 2011 

And what of the Lord? After a 34 year relationship with Him what do I say? I have a hard time keeping the persons of the Trinity in unity anymore. Of course that's a faulty perception of the Trinity, as if they were one person. They are not, they are three, yet they are one in purpose, one in love, one in their perfections and attributes. But they do have different roles and functions in the redemptive drama that is unfolding on earth. So even though Jesus has been my redeemer, I don't perceive Him mainly as Savior anymore. Yes, He rescued me, released me from the bondages of sin, opened my eyes from the absolute darkness  and paved the way to the Father's fellowship, but I haven't known Him like that for years.  

For me He is the man just ahead of me on the rocky climb up Mt. Zion. He is always a man on the move. Though He is dressed like a shepherd—He is determined to lead me into dangerous and uncomfortable places... convincing me that I can do it. How does He convince me? With the radiance of His smile and personality. I WANT TO FOLLOW THIS MAN. He alone is worthy, He is exciting, He is thrilling, He is truth. He is every delightful mortal man I have ever known all rolled up into one. I am in love and that love draws me to Him and through the underbrush of life. When He  disappears too far up ahead of me, I am scared and shadows loom over my life. I stop walking and like a child I remain paralyzed, desperately trying to remember His smile, His gentle coaxing words. But in fact, I am alone on the mountain side and there is no way down and there is no "mama" to comfort me. 

But I am not alone for a gentle unseen voice reminds me that the Shepherd is aware of precisely where I am. I take a hidden pleasure in the fact that I am in His mind now more than ever. That somehow my circumstances have propelled me to the forefront of His mind. When I finally arrive at the fork in the road, I see Him. He does not greet me like a parent would. He just resumes His walk. He never makes me feel like a child... but like a growing mature teenager that wants to be validated as an adult. Only then do I realize that the next step requires that I go underwater and I am terrified of drowning. He goes in without saying a word. 

God, I have been here at the water's edge so many times. The savior has gone on and has left me alone with my fears. There is no where to go. Only a nudge from that invisible presence that says, "Hurry...." My thoughts are not of His radiant smile, but of the water. How long can I hold my breath? Will I sink to the caverns below? Will I be lost forever in some unknown moment of terror? I am not careless with my life, I want to save it. It feels like Jesus is careless with it... how can He be so callous, doesn't He know that I am terrified? Lose my life or save it? This is the moment when I ratify my part of the covenant, my part of the marriage vow as the bride of Christ. I must obey. I must obey because I love, I have given myself to Him.  I have no other choice really. I can return and be lost forever in the thickets of life, losing my grip on reality as I tumble down Mt. Zion, or go on, remembering that He loves me, that He knows what He is doing.

This is the essence of my relationship with him...His call, my obedience. I do not know Him as King, try as I might. He is simply not that to me. Later on, in the secret currents of the dark waters, He will teach me how to swim and breathe under water revealing the mysteries of the oceans. Wisdom. I am free from fear, I am free. In a true new age reality, I am one with the creatures of the depths. And then suddenly, we are back on dry land and He has walked on ahead. I am not going this time. I am staying behind to dry my hair, eat some cheetos and drink a margarita. Maybe two. 

I don't know where He went and I don't care. I am full of life and having fun with my friends, only vaguely aware that He has gone on. Oh the horrors of the flesh...and of the world....soon I will become bored and go looking for Him. He laughs out loud when I find him, my face flushed with shame. "If you drink of those waters you will thirst again.." He is so confident in the process. He is not afraid of losing me, nor I Him. We are a couple and we are in love.

But here today, I am at the edge of the waters again. I am afraid. The man God gave me lingers on the threshold between  life and death. How can He not know this? He is, after all, just ahead of us on the mountain, beckoning us with that irritating toxic-to-the-flesh smile.  This time I cannot go. I am confused. I am paralyzed because He has not warned me, He has not held my hand through this, He has not given me a consent form to sign. He just does it, with or without my permission. Because He is King perhaps? No, I just totally reject that Calvinistic heresy. It is because He is the Shepherd and He knows that we need a bath, and He will take us around the curve and cut our nails, remove the matted hair from our frame and set us on the road again. I believe this with my whole heart. My tears are captured in a cup somewhere in heaven, and they will be the diamonds in my ears at the marriage feast. 

The Glory Mantle

Last night, with the help of some medical friends, I found an old prescription for pain given to H. at the beginning of his treatment. He never had any significant pain in the beginning so it went unused. It also had a small narcotic and I didn't want him to experience nausea so I overlooked it. But the pain in his ribs returned on the right side and he could not lay down comfortably. SO...he popped the pills. Within an hour he began to experience some brief hallucinations..the furniture was misplaced in his room. ...the door was on the wrong side...but finally he got sleepy...and he laid down in his comfortable bed. I stayed with him for an hour or two until Julianne found us both asleep. His bedroom door remained opened throughout the night. No one moved, not even a mouse. Deep rest came to the house, no midnight calls, no wandering around sleeplessly, just deep quiet rest for everyone, even the cat. I was too tired to write the blog, and nothing had come together anyway....just random unrelated events. The many wonderful emails we have received lately floated endlessly through my mind and heart like a heavenly tonic for the soul. Hans had read each one. So much is going on in the lives of God's people. He was grateful for each having taken the time to write.

In the morning I felt the tender mercies of God. There was hope in the thin air of the Spirit. There was that Saturday "I'm going to clean the garage" type feeling... the time of youth, jean shorts, baggy t-shirts and tennis shoes.  In the old days it would have been coffee at the breakfast table...newspaper and mom in an apron. Now it is yahoo on my laptop. Then I remembered my companion in the next room. He has gone from 221 to 200 in six days, his tummy is flat again but his legs are like reeds. 

But for the first time, I saw Hans walk from his bedroom to the kitchen without holding on to the walls, or the walker. He was still bent over and dragging his prayer shawl behind him looking every bit like Gandhi—bald head, thin pointed nose, protruding thoughtful eyes. All he needed was his white muslin or cotton gown. Lately he will not part with a small wooden cross on a metal chain. He wears it remembering  Galatians 2:20-1; 6:14 and Romans 6. It is TAU cross and I am unaware of its significance. Does anyone know? 

As we drink coffee together he asks, "Do you think I am living in self denial?" He laughs and says "I know I am in self denial, but do you think I am in denial regarding cancer?" His voice is raspy and he sounds like an extremely old man. The year and a half coughing jags have left his vocal cords wounded. It is an extremely dangerous question for me to try to answer. Here is a man who will not help me plan his funeral, nor even talk about funerals or heaven. He is a man on mission and death is far from the door of his mind. I say, "It is a thin line, for a Christian, between denial and faith. What appears to the world as denial is really waiting on God in hope and faith. To talk about funerals is a capitulation to the obvious." But I went on to say, "There are some practical matters...should you die...where shall you be buried? How will we pay for it?" "And most of all, there is the spiritual component." Have you faced your failures? What is your legacy to the next generation? To the kingdom? Have you forgiven everyone and asked for your own sins to be forgiven? Are you at peace with yourself? He asks me if I will help him prepare for this, "just in case." My mind drifts toward the idea of "last rites..."

grateful that the central issue of salvation has long been established in his life and that we are really just talking about "putting one's house in order..." accounting, disposal, invitations, family....not the really big thing like facing the God of the universe...as a "goyim", naked—without the mantle of Christ covering you. Now my  mind drifts toward the "mercy seat" and the many times we have sung this song with its reality fresh in our hearts. "Christ died for your sins, take eat..." our mercy seat. 

He says "I want my funeral to be simple. I want to be observed as simply a servant of God. Graveyard services, a wooden box, and the Spirit of God." What? No golden chariots? That's what I want for my apostle husband. I want the glory mantle to be passed on to those who see him rise. But no, he wants the funeral of an anawim...those who possess the "mary mantle." (Hmmm..I make a note to myself, not even in death will the flesh be validated.)  No...the spirit alone is to be glorified, for what is a man except dust? So —it is graveside services. 

As we part for our morning devotions, I am shocked how much I revere this man. When did that happen? When did he stop being the guy who took out the garbage and fixed our wounds and made my overlarge furniture fit in a tiny tiny room? When did he stop being the handyman? When the strife of life ceased, when the burden of "ministry" was over, when the yoke of Christ was removed so that he could rest, did I really see him for who he is. I weep for I think, I could have been a better wife, a better companion. But no, we were like two oxen pulling a heavy cart up Mt. Zion and we didn't have time or opportunity for beauty or reverence. After all, it is the Reverend Dr. Weerstra. Oh yeah, somehow I forgot that appellation in the tyranny of life. And only now does my used up and overworked husband take on those heavenly attributes that are rightfully his. And I also ask, when did that homeless vagabond crucified nobody take on the reality of His kingship? It is a mysterious transformation, indeed.

Detox Mode

I am no longer sleeping with Hans. We have our own bedrooms. Jules gives tours and says casually, "This is Dad's room and this is Mom's." Does anyone find that unusual? Is anyone shocked by that? My parents slept separately for the last 25 years of their married life and I never got used to it. It's just not right. It speaks of separation, aloneness and distorts the meaning of marriage. Even in bad marriages. But I am no longer sleeping with H. It speaks of my impending widow hood. 

Sometimes I crawl into his bed while he is sleeping in his chair. I smell the sheets. I cover myself up in them. I wrap him around my body. It's the closest I can humanly get to him. For weeks after I moved out of his room, the Lord sent Emmie to sleep with me. Her warm little body and movement made me feel safe. Separation is hard. We are one on so many levels—hormonally, molecularly, his scent brings well being to my life. I am in detox mode today. 

I had a dream last night. It ended as most of my dreams do: unfinished and unfulfilled. I was in love. He was in love with me too. There were a thousand people in the last scene, I longed to reach him and hug him and be renewed, my spirit weakened by the lack of physical contact with him. Another woman suddenly appeared on the screen of my thoughts and took him away. He went with her sadly. Yearning overtook me. It was a done deal. Loss. I woke up with a headache, my heart heavy with need and emptiness. I knew that I needed God in that moment for He is my divine lover and my best friend. His face is kind, radiant and strong. He has already died and will live forever. Nothing can separate me from Him. Hans has been a picture of Jesus' love for me. Hans has leapt giant buildings and raced speeding trains for me. But at the end of the day, the love that compelled him was the love of my Lord, from whom I shall be forever bound. 

Apple Pie and Warmed Vanilla

I'm reading an autobiography of a friend of mine from high school. I'm hard pressed to describe its style. On the surface it is like getting a refreshing citrus flavored facial, making you feel clean and buoyant with new life. You finish the  chapter with a smile on your face and then the deeper current  of his life hits you like a tsunami, without warning, without mercy, surprising and overwhelming the tenuous hold we have on life. In an astute way he has wrapped the pain of abuse, loss, betrayal and the awkwardness of growing up— in a down home Mayberry garment. It comes to you as apple pie warmed and covered in vanilla ice cream, but in the end, it is like your first swallow of hard liquor delivering its intended punch.*


Grief is like that. Nothing is as it appears. What seems like a daylight activity is suddenly cloaked in darkness destabilizing the instruments of perception. It only lasts a moment. I think it is a heavenly reality that invades our veiled world. In the weakest of moments we see our fragility and like a friend of mine said, we see the sacredness of life and the sanctity of death and most of all we see the priceless treasure of a human being. We cannot bear this clear and undistorted vision for longer than a moment or two, so frail is our humanity. But this is what God sees for every lost person who is yet to be redeemed. Perhaps the tsunami is really God breaking in with His perception of the tragedy of the fall and our separation from Him.


Frankly I am ashamed to grieve. It shows my undisguised and unmasked self. I am afraid to receive love in this time because love disturbs the fragile balance of my little boat. I will break down somehow and be exposed as a human being. But Jesus wept. He wept over Lazarus and he wept over Jerusalem. Why? Why did he weep?  It's such a horror to see a person cry is it not? Men hate to see women cry it is said. But why? Because it exposes our powerlessness? No, it's because it expresses the importance of that other person to us, the immense worth of their being and an irreplaceable treasure. Grief is a reminder of the basic economy of human life and preciousness of all that was lost at the fall. Yes, there will be a time in which all our tears will be forgotten, but not today. Today it is time for reflection, for Lent, for the remembrance of the unborn, for each other and for forgiveness of the offenses that sin causes in our lives.  It is good.






*The Rise and Fall of Captain Methane by DA Wingo
  

Sunny but Partly Cloudy

Somehow I knew this day would come —as it will for everyone. Yesterday was spent taking care of my patient. We wobbled to the shower and sat him in the tub with his new chair. A chair my Dad had sat in only a few months ago. Warmth streams down and refreshes H.  I am bathing him, taking care of him, helping him to brush his teeth. But I remember him only as my extremely handsome bridegroom and consider it a privilege to care for him.  They want me to call hospice to wash and bathe him, but I refuse. It is my honor as long as I am able. Together we are able. He slips back into his jamies and feels "wonderful" again. Soon he is eating soup and I know he will feel stronger because of it. The soup is a gift from Julianne who besides taking care of three children has also made homemade soup and rice. She is gone when I get here, but the kids are watching TV quietly. There is a great deal of peace in the house.


As soon as H's ritual is finished, he resumes his daily reading of JFB...where the print is very very small. I can't believe it. He has found an interesting nugget of truth and is tracing it down. A piece of work that guy is.


The doctors report from the bone scan could have been worse. His 9th and 10th rib have been eaten away by the cancer. But it is no where else. Mysteriously the pain from the rib cage and neck have disappeared in the last few days. No explanation. It has been a steady companion for three weeks but now it's gone. They have given him new meds for new symptoms, dizziness, hunger, meds for the yeast infection in his mouth brought on by the steroids.  When I ask him how he is, he raises two thumbs. During the worst times it's only one thumb.


He says he feels pathetic. But he is grateful for everything. His true personality is showing through the sickness. His new self, his identity in Christ, is being firmly established in these last days. The doctor can't tell us if he will recover and go back to the way he was before whole brain radiation. Time will tell. Our radiologist wants to see him in three months.  Three months? Three months?  I say nothing.


My face looks pale today, I am emotionally spent but peaceful. Restless but calm. How can both be true? But they are. The exhaustion from grief is slow and covered by God's grace. The weather here is amazingly clear, cool and sunny all at the same time.  The sun's warmth is broken only by the cool breeze and feels like a paradox on the skin. First warm then cool. That's a good metaphor for our situation...the human response to death and disease and God's intravenous grace.

It's 6 o'clock in the Morning!

March 23, 2011

Its 6 o'clock in the morning and the roosters are crowing. Only in the lower valley do you get to hear the sounds of nature and the reality of life, I love it. Who is hiding roosters in this neighborhood? I must investigate tomorrow, Perhaps there are fresh eggs in the henhouse. 

My son arrives today. I need him. I didn't know how much I needed him until I heard his voice. 

My unspoken pain is manifold. Loss, disappointment and loneliness. I am lonely for the man who used to bring me coffee and now lies broken in a bed, shivering and sitting with his eyes closed for most of the day. He appears to be sliding downhill for a bit.  Life is slipping away from him during this time of legal poisoning. What a barbaric way of "healing." The worse part is that he does not talk. Only two weeks ago he exhausted me with his enthusiasm for the plans of God in the world. Today he is only contemplating heaven, I am not a part of that any more. It's just him and God, as it should be.  

It helps to write down the themes of one's life. It feels as if this shall never pass. We have been in limbo for over a year. But there are many God given comforts along the road. One is that I do not bear this burden alone, even my grandchildren and son in law are in silent prayer...the littlest one (5) does not know. She says, "Grandma, old things have to die. It's just natural." If only she knew how unnatural it is. We were not meant to die  but to live in health and goodness forever. 

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My cat is my constant companion, does she know? She is Jesus' representative right now. . . reminding me...of something bigger than our sorrows...that God is creator and that He alone holds the keys to life and death.

Little Girl Arise

Though she was dead, Jesus came into the room and "taking her by the hand he said to her, "Talitha cumi," which means, "Little girl, I say to you, arise." But first he expelled those who laughed at Him. The Gospel—the life of the obedience of faith rewarded with the gift of wisdom for those who overcome. "For to him or her who overcomes, I will give him to eat of the fruit of the Tree of Life."


This blog, which is so aptly named Talitha Cum (i) (koum), is the story of the struggle of faith and like the Psalmist, overcomes. The glory does not go to the writer but to the Spirit who calls us forth from the dead. I pray for your sake that you are not offended, for the Gospel is dressed in bloody rags and not for the squeamish but for the brave and for the one who is worthy.