And this is what we call a genuine country i.v. pole:
And, lest I forget, that’s also what we call getting an i.v. in style: on a recliner with my husband, watching the Food Network, and sipping a fresh mojito. Let’s be honest: we’ve gotta make the best of all my medical treatments, so we’re trying hard. 🙂
1. A quote.
“We die daily. Happy those who daily come to life as well. ”
-George MacDonald
2. An article.
Supernatural Love
-Mrs. Wilson
Mercy darling, how I wish you were here in my arms today. It was so much fun to anticipate a summer birthday for you, with picnics and swimming parties and sundresses with barefeet.
For myself, I am sorry that your birthday was January instead of August as we had hoped.
For you, I am thankful that you have already been dancing in Paradise for over six months and that you went from the warmness of my womb to the beauty of Heaven. You didn’t know anything but comfort and love.
For myself, I wish I could be laboring today in the hospital, groaning and screaming and pushing. I wish your Daddy could be catching you in his hands, severing the cord that once tied your little body to mine, and announcing your name to the world. I wish your Grandmama could be taking pictures and crying with me and helping me count your tiny fingers & toes. I wish your Grandpapa could give you a clean bill of health and an official stamp of redhead approval, pray a blessing over you, and wrap you up like a little burrito. I wish your big brother could be meeting you today, poking you all over, saying bebe repeatedly to you & about you, fighting jealousy, loving on you, protecting you, kissing you.
For you, I wish nothing. I would never wish you away from praising our Father. I would never wish you back into this world of pain, sorrow, sin, and death.
I miss you, sweetheart, my own little Mercy. Mommy’s heart lives in a dichotomy of sorrow & rejoicing. Some days the contrast is starker. Today is one of those days.
My womb has ached for you for almost seven months. Today it is my arms and breasts that ache.
There are some days when a girl really needs to buy herself flowers and give herself a pedicure.
Yeppers. Check, check.
This morning I went outside and noticed that Victory’s roses burst into bloom! Aren’t they beautiful?! (Thanks, Jaclynn & Samantha!) The white rose is the Victory Rose, and I am not actually sure what the pink ones are called. The white roses smell like sweet perfume, and are big full blossoms; there are three of them at different stages of blooming. The pink roses are really small, there are lots of them in little clusters, and have occasional little white stripes in their bright pink petals. I love these roses. I love that they are in pots so we can take them with us to our new house once we build it. I love that they are for my children (while the white one is for Victory, I call the other one simply “my babies’ roses”).
I love that when I went out there this morning, the beauty of the roses was not hidden beneath the remaining raindrops left by a storm overnight. In fact, the drops on the petals seemed to make their fragrance stronger and their freshness more profound. It’s almost like the rain beautified something that was already beautiful.
And I thought that was perfect.
Because I needed that reminder today.
I just finished practicing music for the kids’ music camp concert tonight, and then tabbed my hymnal for playing tomorrow at church. So I’ve been reading lyrics. Good, stout, rich lyrics. Lyrics that encourage but challenge.
One of the songs we’ll be singing tomorrow is “Whate’er My God Ordains Is Right,” and the words both comfort and confuse me. For instance: “Whate’er my God ordains is right: Though now this cup, in drinking, may bitter seem to my faint heart, I take it, all unshrinking. My God is true; each morn anew sweet comfort yet shall fill my heart, and pain and sorrow shall depart.” Sometimes I take it very shrinkingly. There are days when I don’t feel any sweet comfort. And very often I wonder if pain and sorrow ever will depart.
Three days ago, a young woman we know drowned in a nearby lake while swimming with her younger siblings and some friends. Although we were not close friends, this has shaken me. Her name was Rachel, and we worked together for about a year right after I got married. Her sister still works for my dad a couple days a week. These sisters were best friends. And although I have never had a sister, I can not imagine the depth of anguish that is present now in the absence of this darling sister & friend. What a beautiful young woman of God she was.
One of my first thoughts upon hearing of her tragic death was, “I hope my kids gave her a beautiful welcome into heaven.” Now, I don’t actually have much of a clue about heaven or what it’s like. But what’s odd is that that thought was unsolicited, unplanned in my head; and as soon as it occurred, I felt this strange tinge. Usually people bemoan a death (especially of a young person – she was only 23) with things like, “she will never get married, never have kids, never finish Bible college and go to the mission field as she had planned.” But I was thinking, “how incredible that she was ushered to the glorious gates of heaven this week!” I’m not exactly jealous, because I don’t exactly want to die. But I can feel myself, more and more all the time, longing for heaven. I suppose I do more than most young mothers, because that is where most of my children are. But they aren’t the only pull for my heart. They’re a strong pull, but not the only one. To live in bliss — no more tears, no more sorrow, no more pain — and to spend eternity in praise and adoration of our King… who could ask for more? So I do not sorrow for Rachel. Death — although she was not expecting it when it came — was her gain and joy. But I do sorrow for her family. My heart just aches and throbs for them. I know grief. I am well acquainted with it. And yet I can not wrap my head around the depth of this anguish for them. Her parents. Her siblings (some of whom were with her when she drowned). Her sister Renee especially. Her friends.
Another song we frequently sing at church is “The Day Is Past And Gone,” and one of the lines says “So death will soon disrobe us all of what we here possess… And when our days are past and we from time remove, O may we in Thy bosom rest, the bosom of Thy love.” Rachel is disrobed of all ugliness and clothed now with the beautiful garments of heaven and glory. She rests in the bosom of her Heavenly Father.
A number of hours after I found out about her death, I stood in Hallmark staring at the section of sympathy cards. I know sympathy cards. I know how some words comfort and some words sting. I know how words like “sorry” and “sad” don’t even begin to plumb the depths of grief. I wept as I looked through different cards, trying to find something that was appropriate — something that could scratch the surface of what I want to say. Which is really just to say that I don’t have words, that I acknowledge that no words can take away their pain or numb their grief.
I recently finished reading the book, “Grieving The Child I Never Knew” and while it blessed me, I continue to gain the most encouragement from “The One Year Book Of Hope” and “Streams In The Desert.” These books acknowledge that my grief is not an isolated event. Grief overflows into so many, many aspects of our life. These are books that I would like to share with Rachel’s family as they must endure their remaining days on this earth without her — because these books are applicable no matter what type of grief a person is suffering.
This morning I mentioned to Steven that I eat, drink, sleep, and wake with the same thoughts all the time. Thoughts of grief. I am so anxious for this veil of grief to be lifted. Time goes by and the pain changes, but I am not sure I can truly say that it has yet lessened for me. As painful and awful as it is, I am somehow thankful that I am known as a young woman who is acquainted with grief. I want to be an example. I want to be approachable. I want to weep with others who are weeping. I want to proclaim Christ through my tears and even somehow through my empty womb & empty arms.
So this grief is different. It isn’t my own grief. It is grief for a family we know who are suffering. Who were surprised by death. Who must learn how to cling to God anew in their terrible anguish.
This grief is from the outside. And, different though it may be, I don’t like this kind of grief either.
2 Corinthians 2:16-17
“Now may our Lord Jesus Christ Himself, and God our Father,
who loved us and gave us eternal comfort and good hope through grace,
comfort your hearts and establish them in every good work and word.”
I’ve had people asking about our second treatment, so just wanted to update that yes, we did just travel for the second round of the treatment I had three weeks ago. The traveling went pretty well (even though we had to fly through thunderstorms) and we managed to make all our flights, even though we did almost miss one plane and had to run full-speed through an airport to squeak in before they shut the plane’s door. And yes, I survived the flying (including turbulence): I just kept my eyes closed on the planes and sang along to psalms in my head as I listened to Pure Words over and over and over. It kept me sane enough. Yes, the medical treatment went well, and now I am having the proper reaction (eight hives on my arms), so we are praying that my body is reacting internally as it ought to as well. May the Lord be pleased to use this treatment in mighty ways to prepare my body for nurturing children in the future!
So anyway, thank you for the prayers and for asking about all of this. What a blessing to know that we are loved and prayed for by our brethren.
In other news, music camp begins today at our church, so I will be busy accompanying dozens of little saints on the piano now through Saturday. I’m praying for grace and endurance, so that I will be skillful in aiding these children in their pursuit of musical excellence.
And lastly, I’d been asked to post an August photo of my garden… well, it’s August! And the garden is officially jungle-esque. Upon picking produce last evening and trying to pick some weeds (and pulling out the lettuce that had bolted), I realized that I was feeling fairly overwhelmed by my garden. It is, in fact, a rather large project for little ol’ me. I spoke with my father on the phone (asking about how to get rid of the little pests that are trying to eat my produce before I get it harvested!), he reminded me that it is okay to have a few weeds here and there (I am rather perfectionistic about having a perfectly weed-free garden), and that if I somehow can’t manage to keep up with the harvesting, none of us will go hungry & it’s okay to let the peas get too large or to let a squash rot accidentally. It was a good reminder: and I am working now to “let it go” (my perfectionism). But -oh yes- here is your glimpse at my backyard produce jungle. 🙂
And also: these are two rose bushes we received as a gift after Victory died. They are both about to bloom… and the one on the left is called a Victory Rose. I can’t wait until this bud opens!
