Healing

Yesterday marked a year since our son, Chase’s injury.

Ironically, and providentially, the day before, Chase was extensively evaluated and determined to be fully recovered.

This past week, my husband and son flew to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, for an assessment at the University Of Pittsburgh Medical Center Sports ConcussionProgram. Through an intensive series of tests and evaluations, a team of six specialists examined Chase thoroughly over a period of two full days.

The conclusion these physicians reached will always make me weep in gratitude. This final determination will forever remind me of  how far we have come.

Chase had completely healed.

The past year has been a struggle, but a good one. It has been full of worry and angst, yet also full of joy and abundant blessings.  I have grown, my son has grown – our family has grown.  While the lessons have been many with details we will continue to share,  the summary of it all can be best written as this:

I’ve learned that I can’t parent in fear because Chase can’t flourish in it.  But I can parent in faith and Chase can walk in it.

That result alone was worth every step of our journey.

Glory Days

I am reluctantly coaching basketball.

Previous unwillingness does not come from a lack of love for the sport, or love for the eight year old girls who don’t hesitate to compliment my nail polish in between dribbling drills.

It is because it reminds me of a time when the drive to become the most overshadowed my life’s calling to be the least.

Instincts to win are as ingrained in my fiber as instincts to avoid laundry. It is reflexive, it is trained, it is a physical impulse. As a high school basketball player, I spent my days after school practicing with the team, and then nights, climbing through an unlocked window of the gymnasium to practice some more. I was a solitary figure shooting in a darkened gym for hours, unconcerned about safety or the potential of a night in the pokey because of unauthorized entrance. Eventually, I was given the keys by my coach because he recognized how unflattering an orange jumpsuit would be to my complexion.

I went on to play college basketball, climbing ambitiously up an athletic ladder all the while missing Jesus as He climbed down right past me. Basketball was first, school was second and third place belonged to no one. Expectations only intensified, and the competition for recognition increased.

Glory days of athletic past only serve as a reminder of a time when honor was more for me than for Him. I have experienced the misguided feeling of the spotlight, where attention and accolades were in abundance, leaving an unquenchable desire for more. The more you have, the more you want, and the more you want, the more your identity depends on it.

The drive to be the best can become a dependence, whether through sport or endeavor.

If I am the best player, I will be found worthy.

If I am the best coach, I will be admired.

If I am the best volunteer, I will be appreciated.

If I am the most successful, I will be esteemed.

If I am the best mom, my advice will be sought.

I battle the lifetime of training I’ve had to win at all costs. It is a learned skill I have intentionally not passed on to my children, understanding fully the price paid for seeking to be the best for the sake of self and attention of others.  As a player, I missed the lessons in losing, the love for opponents, and chased after exaltation never intended for me.

I want my girls to love the game, but to love God way more. I want them to do their best, but only because He calls them to, not because I do. I want them to be worthy competitors in all that they do without losing compassion for those that they compete against. But mostly, I want their esteem, worth and joy to be found in the confidence of Christ, not in the confidence of a game.

So reluctantly, I coach basketball. I just don’t want my players to be like me.

Overcome

It was a senseless display of violence, an act so horrific that innate response is to squeeze eyes shut, all the while begging God to spare your loved ones from such viciousness.   Heartbreaking images were displayed across the world yesterday, causing a restriction in the chest that makes it difficult to breathe.

Those relying on a more cerebral approach to faith will be overcome by the illogical nature of this tragedy.

Those who practice a justice seeking mentality will be overcome by a sense that all is out of control.

Those who feel deeply for others will be overcome by the suffocation known as suffering.

Those who cope by denial will unexpectedly be overcome by sudden grief.

And those who can  identify with the loss as experienced by devastated parents will be overcome by a heart that physically hurts with each beat, desiring at times, for it to stop altogether.

Regardless of the severity of the response, natural tendency is to become buried under the enormity of such shocking tragedy. How do we continue forward while knowing that others can only stand paralyzed and still? How do we enjoy the birth and celebration of Christ as others grieve the death and devastation of small children? How do we lavish in the luxury of tucking our little ones in safely at night as other parents comfort themselves in too small blankets and in too small beds empty of the children that will never lay  there again? 

How do we do this? The answer is we can’t.

We can’t overcome the maliciousness and the wickedness of the world.  There will be times we can’t combat the criminal, the immoral or the depraved.  The hopelessness of this reality should bring about the bleakest of futures if not for the all-powerful, all-consuming, all-saving hope found in Jesus.

Not only does God see the vileness that happens to our children, He promises to correct every wrong. The same Hands that created the world – every human, tree, animal, star and sunset – are the same Hands that will repay those that inflict harm on the innocents.

Do not take revenge my friends, but leave room for God's wrath, for it is written,"It is mine to avenge; I will repay," says the Lord. (Romans 12:19)

 And even as we trust that God will punish the evil, we are told how to survive through the aftermath of violence that seems impossible to overcome:

Do not be overcome with evil, but overcome evil with good.  (Romans 12:21)

When the evil that surrounds us wants to smother us, counteract the suffocation with good. As the malevolence of our world knocks us to the ground, restore the fall with acts of benevolence. Only then will we be able to stand  again.

God overcame so that we would not be overcome.

And for a sad day like today, it is enough.

Stand Out

It was a rushed, chaotic morning.

Not only was it the last day of school, but also the long awaited graduating ceremony for our son’s fourth  grade class. Before you roll your eyes, or click the mean little red box in the right hand corner, please allow a moment of contrition, of true transparency from one scattered human being to a very capable another.

I get it.

Really.

I understand that end of year celebrations are a little much, and are appropriate grounds for moms to pop all kind of sedatives on their way to Kroger for the third time in one day to retrieve last minute cupcakes, mini cans of cokes or gift cards for the teacher you didn’t remember until it woke you in a panic in the middle of the night.

The last week of school entails parties, ceremonies, and final classroom productions, all crammed in together in such a way that guarantees you will indeed take your child home for the summer. School escapism lasts for at least six blissful days, sleeping late and lounging until noon in pajamas, and then summer reality hits when one of your offspring says the two words that can cause a mom’s head to spin into orbit:  “I’m bored.”  This is immediately echoed by the others who depend on you for fun and frivolity which causes you to grab the nearest phone, dial respective administrators and demand summer school programs.

We found ourselves a little out of sorts on the last day of school. Gathering teacher gifts, class party snacks and all manner of recording devices, I had little time to address the grooming and nutritional needs of my children. Instructing all three to choose something on their own out of closets, drawers, hampers or the kitchen pantry, I hurriedly loaded the car down with all of the mandatory last school day essentials.

Chandler, our graduating ten year old, had to wear Sunday church clothes for the ceremony that morning.  He chose appropriately, sporting long madras pants and white oxford shirt, looking so fantastically handsome that I had to pause and hug his soon to be fifth grade neck.

We pulled out of the driveway and I glanced in the rearview mirror to peer at the three children who had grown at record pace.  So big, so tall, so independent – as evidenced by the pop tarts and sprites each had chosen for breakfast.  Clearly, and thankfully, guidance was still needed by yours truly.

Chandler was the first to be dropped off for school. “I love you!” I called to him as he exited the car to walk with some of his well-dressed buddies. “I’ll see you in a few hours for graduation!”  It was then that I noticed that the group of boys that surrounded him were all wearing khaki pants.  

Oh, no. Yet another parental miscue that would cause embarrassment for my child.

After dropping off my other two children, I called a few friends to inquire about the dress code for graduation.  Sure enough - girls were to wear dresses and the  boys to wear dress shirts and KHAKI PANTS. Chandler was going to have to walk across the school stage wearing a pattern in sea blue madras among a wave of slacks the color of sand. He was going to stand out, be set apart from the norm, and I was going to cringe and feel horrible  because of my subpar parenting.

Fantastic.

I drove home to change from my carpool line uniform which includes bedhead, bedroom shoes and a runaway bosom. I also ironed a pair of khaki pants to take with me to the ceremony. My plan was to slip into Chandler’s classroom right before graduation was to begin so that he could rightfully fit in with his peers and I could sit in the audience without feeling so stinking inept.

When I arrived to his classroom, the students were on a final bathroom break, but I was able to hand the pants to the teacher. “If you don’t mind,” I said to sweet Mrs. Anthony, “could you please have Chandler change into these khakis before the ceremony? I wouldn’t want him to stand out or feel embarrassed about looking differently.”

“I don’t think he minds one bit,” responded Mrs. Anthony. “But I will certainly give him time to change.”

Breathing out a sigh of relief, I walked to the gymnasium to join my husband for the ceremony just minutes away. Another mommy disaster avoided. Good for me.

Soon the sounds of “Pomp and Circumstance” could be heard, and a processional of fourth graders entered the gym.  I hid watery eyes behind the lens of the camera, waiting to capture my son’s entrance, and suddenly there he was….

…in sea blue madras pants.

Chandler had not changed.  It apparently did not bother him in the least to look different than the others. 

Certificates were given, handshakes exchanged , and then the award ceremony began. Name after name was called, and as I clapped for each child honored, I was distracted by  thoughts of my son – how much he had matured, how confident he had become, how securely he was finding his own way – when the final accolade was announced.

It was the Spirit of Life Award,  a recognition to be given to a student in honor of a beloved teacher who had taught at the school for twenty nine years. Her adult son and granddaughter described the award to those in attendance.

“It is our pleasure to give this award in honor of the student who best exemplifies, through attitude and action both inside and outside the classroom, the highest spirit for life, for learning, and unselfishness to others. This year’s award goes to Chandler.”

And smiling as broadly as his face would allow, our sweet ten year old walked joyfully across that stage, head held high in those crazy, sea blue madras pants.

Chandler evidently knew something I didn’t quite get that morning. Standing out, being set apart, appearing different  is a  good thing.

A very, very good thing.

                                          "Why fit in, when you were born to stand out?"

                                                                    - Dr. Seuss

Passion

It won’t be the last difficult conversation we will have with Chase. It also was not the first, but by far, the most trying. As a parent, it wounds your heart to initiate a discussion that will bring hurt and disappointment, even while understanding that it is for their good, their well-being , an unsatisfactory salve for the organ beating inside of you.

During the last seven weeks of recovery from an injury, Chase has never felt self-pity. His demeanor remained upbeat even as he watched games from the view of a wheelchair, an outlook that stayed positive while missing out on numerous end of school events. Even when I wanted to question our circumstances or allow fear to drive the unknowns, a glance in my son’s direction at the wry, sly grin that characterizes his personality and all futile, senseless thoughts would immediately evaporate away.

This laid back patient offset a high strung caregiver, allowing days together at home to be ones of easy companionship and enjoyment, a modern day miracle amid the throes of thirteen year old hormones and a pre-menopausal mom.

Chase is passionate about the sport of Lacrosse.  Free time is devoted to practicing stick skills and net shots in the yard or studying strategies and plays through the games he watches in person or on TV. This past Fall, he was selected for an Atlanta travel team that would play in tournaments all over the Southeast this summer, culminating the season in Baltimore, Maryland, where he would play against some of the best in the nation.

Not only will Chase not be able to participate in Lacrosse this summer, it is very possible that he may never play the sport, or any other, ever again. Only time will reveal the full extent of recovery, but at the very least he is a year away from participating in any type of sport involving contact.

Every parent wants their child to find their passion, the endeavor that they were born to do, that sweet spot that brings them joy, fulfillment and purpose.  Our bank accounts hope that these aspirations earn college scholarships, whether from the field or the classroom, a secondary gain from witnessing a child pursue their dreams.

While I would like for Chase to join the chess club or debate team, activities where brain injuries are non-existent, my desires, unfortunately do not match those of his. He is at his best when on a field, sprinting towards a goal, long legs moving with ease and determination. If lacrosse were a love language, his heart would spill over full.

Thus, the distress of the difficult discussion we would have with our son.

With wholehearted compassion similar to his bedside manner, my husband sat down with Chase and explained the unlikelihood of returning to the sport. In a shaky voice, John reminded our son of God’s unfailing love and that while it seemed hard and unfair and disappointing, the circumstances would one day be understood and used for good.

Chase listened with tears streaming down his face, nodding his acceptance of what had been dealt him. The boyish face looked directly at his dad and with earnest eyes that gave a glimpse of the man he will become, Chase responded, “It’s okay, dad. Don’t be upset. I would do it all again, I would stay exactly where I am today, if it meant that somebody got to know Jesus a little better because of it.”

It would appear that Chase found his true passion after all.

You Might Be A Mother If......

1. You have ever purposefully caught vomit in your hands, like a star center fielder diving to make an out.

2. You have pulled in front of school carpool line to a teacher waiting to open the passenger door, only to have an assortment of school papers, random household items, and other unidentified trash fall directly at the educator’s feet.

3. You have taken spittle from your mouth to clean smudges off of your child and then turned to your spouse to repeat the process.

4. You have actually growled at another who has caused hurt or harm to your offspring, a spontaneous sound you didn’t know could come from your person, both  embarrassing and cool  at the same time.

5. Your arm has supernaturally extended while driving , like a freaky version of Plastic Man, to pick up dropped sippy cups, locate a fallen pacifier or hold the chubby hand of the child most unhappy.

6. You have not used the bathroom in peace in the last ten years because someone is always knocking on the door to ask why the Oreo package is empty, to tell you about a funny episode of iCarly, or to report on the errant ways of a feuding sibling.

7. You have successfully addressed all manner of your child’s bodily fluids, like the most steel stomached gastroenterologist, even though you used to feel faint in high school health class.

8. You have joyfully and proudly worn necklaces made from macaroni, a photograph button that proclaims you love  #7, and your heart on your sleeve at every performance, recital and award ceremony.

9. You have stayed up until midnight baking classroom cupcakes that you forgot were due the next day, glued together a costume that will fall apart during the play, or washed stains out of a sport uniform that will return to its previous state in just a few short hours.

10. You have become so accustomed at cutting food into bite sized pieces for your children that you embarrass your spouse at a dinner party when you offer to do the same for a guest sitting next to you. Explaining that you were sure choking was about to occur falls on deaf, incredulous ears.

11. You have seriously threatened those in your household about putting clean clothes in the hamper, leaving dirty clothes on the floor and neglecting to hang wet towels on elusive hooks found on the bathroom door.  You then make your head spin terrifyingly around on your body, like it did on the unfortunate girl in the Exorcist, just for dramatic emphasis and effect.

12. You have begged God to make an exception with your children, allowing them to grow at the slowest pace possible, to remain little for just a while longer, because you can’t imagine a day absent of catching their  vomit,  cutting up their food, or ever using the bathroom alone.

"You don't really understand  human nature unless you know why a child on a merry-go-round will wave at his mother every time around - and why his mother will always wave back."

                                                                              - William D. Tammelus

An Apology In Advance

It feels as though I have come out of a fog, emerged from swimming under water, opened eyes to a world of color rather than grey. It is true that a mom is only as happy as her saddest child, and I would add to that only as jovial as her unhealthiest.

 It would also appear that time did not stop in the midst of our struggle, and somehow I missed out on the month known as April.  Yesterday, in wide eyed comprehension, I realized the neglect that had occurred over the last 45 days, and for a moment, became panicked at the overwhelming task of attending to all that had been overlooked.

A desk piled with bills, a calendar full of missed events, a laundry room that is downright shameful. Unanswered emails, thank you notes that have not yet been written, and end of school year obligations that make me dizzy.

After a moment of breathing in and out of a paper bag, I came to this regretful, yet honest conclusion. I will not be able to get to it all in a timely manner. In fact, some of it will take me quite a while.  Because of this, I feel like it is in the best interest of all to take a moment and apologize to you in advance for the following:

1. Personal grooming has fallen to the wayside over the last seven weeks.  My eyebrows are so out of control that I have to wipe them out of my eyes just to see. If you happen to see me, and an eyebrow hair is curling rudely towards you, I apologize in advance.

2. The grooming of my children has also been sub par. Know that haircuts have been scheduled and I now have a keener eye in which to address mismatched clothing. I will also try very hard to resume my role of ensuring that toothbrushes touch all teeth  instead of just skimming over the top two.  If pediatric halitosis offends you in the near future, I apologize in advance.

3. Those of you who have kindly reached out to me either through facebook messages, emails, cards or texts, I want to respond to each of you personally. As soon as I resolve the colorblind hobo look my children have tried to rock in my glassy eyed absence, correspondence is the next item on my to do list. Truly, I apologize in advance for the belatedness.

4. I am so encouraged by all of you who took the time to share your own difficulties during times of mine.  The transparency offered provided great comfort at just the exact time it was needed. I am particularly thankful for my good friend, Gwen, who extended great advice at the very beginning,  counseling  me to focus on what I could a little bit at a time – a minute,  an hour and then the day. She also reminded me to breathe when innate impulse was to hold my breath, and that oxygen would indeed be vital to survival. If you see me practicing breathing exercises in carpool or in line at Kroger, as though in labor and about to beg for an epidural, I apologize in advance.

5. Of all my responsibilities, those that fall under the financial category have probably suffered the most. To patients that end up sitting in a darkened exam room because the doc’s wife forgot to pay the electric bill, I apologize in advance.

6. I try to bring joy to others but by sharing our situation I may have stolen a little bit of yours. If  my feeble attempts at humor fail to bring  even a little bit of it back, allow me to apologize in advance.

7. For those of you who shared my blog updates with all your family and friends, know that I am overcome with your generosity towards our son. While I will always be grateful for that selfless act that solicited thousands of prayers, I lament on your behalf that they  now know about my wayward eyebrows and tardiness in paying utilities. For that, I apologize in advance.

At the end of a struggle, I believe that you can either allow the experience to make you bitter or better. You will either love others differently, or disregard them even more.The love and concern you have shown to us has only served to inspire our own good, our own growth, allowing the better to be developed from the difficult.

And for that,  I will not apologize in advance.

Seeking Answers

It has been six weeks since the lacrosse accident that caused Chase’s injury.

Six weeks occupied with highs and lows, discouragement and joy, laughter and tears. There have been moments of true clarity, where the lessons have never been more clear, even though I would have preferred to learn them during a shower of blessings rather than the downpour that is my current storm.

But that’s not how God works.

Six weeks defined by absence of any sense of control, of today or tomorrow or any days we’ve yet to see. Unanswered questions that only serve to add even more, leaving feelings of inadequacy in my inability to fix. If only I could take on my child’s symptoms and pain, allowing him the chance to run and play as I watch in perfect contentment, happy to be sidelined by the injury that once was his.

But that’s not how God works.

Six weeks filled with appointments, tests and scans that rule out but don’t answer, relieving us from the worse, but not leading to better. I want the easy, obvious path to recovery, one that guarantees full recuperation, a full return to what used to be.

But that’s not how God works.

The diagnosis remains unclear and appropriate therapy seems out of reach. The smartest minds we know have been consulted, but our son doesn’t quite fit the usual or present in a way that is common or like any they’ve ever seen. Physicians are gentle in their answers but they either don’t know or offer possibilities with uncertainty.

What I realize six weeks later, with both anguish and awe, is that the answer, the fix, may not come from the place that has earned our trust academically or provided for us physically. It will come from the One who already knows how this ends, allowing a great story to manifest from the hurt and the pain and the ambiguity of all that is unknown.

Whether it is through Divine guidance to the physician who has seen a case like our son’s, or through miraculous healing that will be difficult to explain to those who don’t believe, the recovery, the end result that is promised to be good, is going to come from one source. One where all glory, honor, and elusive answers belong just to Him. So that we know, as well as all those who have witnessed our struggle, that it was Christ who worked it all out for good for our son who loves Him.

Because that’s the way God works.

The Other Side Of Fear

Although not proud to admit it, there have been many times in my life that fear - of the unsure, of the unclear, of the unfamiliar – provided the obstacle that kept me from reaching God’s best. While He has always straightened the path I tried my hardest to make crooked, or weaved His perfect plans into my super sorry ones, I undoubtedly know that blessings have been missed because I was afraid.

This past weekend, Mary Mac and I participated in a mother/daughter weekend at Camp Skyline Ranch, a Christian summer camp for girls.

And I really didn’t want to go.

Not because I don’t love spending time with my sweet girl, who is all sunshine and giggles as well as drama and delight.  And it wasn’t because it was going to be in a bunk room setting, when I prefer hotel beds with high thread count and lounge chairs with poolside service.

I didn’t want to go because I wanted to stay with my family, in the comfortable confines of my home, protected from all that could happen, or could injure or could cause more harm. I wanted an eye on all of my people at all times as though a steady, well-intentioned gaze was enough to keep everyone safe.

At the invitation of my good friend, C, and the urging of my husband, I was convinced last minute to take the overnight trip with my daughter. Even as I travelled to the camp with my friend and our daughters, I wondered if I would be present enough for the weekend to matter, if worry would steal yet another moment that should have been carefree instead of concerned.

Upon arrival at the camp, I discovered rather quickly that many of the activities would directly address not only my own fears, but those of my daughter’s.  Stretched beyond self-imposed limits and catapulted out of all reasonable zones of comfort, we tried new adventures with shaky knees and quivering lips as well as suspect bladders.

And it was thrilling.

And carefree. 

And worth the fear.

With each activity the two of us successfully accomplished, it became clear that it wasn’t the height that momentarily paralyzed us, or the potential speed that caused temporary trembles.  It was taking that first step towards the fear of the unknown, hoping it would end well on the other side.

And it did.

Every time.

While the weekend was short, the lessons learned were long-lasting. Try the new, improve the old.  Step towards the future with faith, allowing steps of the past to be reminiscent of God’s faithfulness. Move towards the difficult even though the journey won’t be easy.

On the other side of fear are blessings, whether for me or for someone else. On the other side of fear is joy, whether for me or on the behalf of others. On the other side of fear is purpose, whether for me or someone searching for their own.

Even though this path I am on is uncertain, days I don’t know if I am going to fly or if I will fall, I know that God’s goodness, His mercy, and faithfulness are on the other side of fear.

And that is where I will be my best.

Unbelief

I am told often that Chase will get better, that with an element of time he will regain memory and mobility and find relief from the constant pain. However, four weeks into the injury, with limited progress and daily witness of my son’s physical struggles, weariness can set in and doubt becomes an unwanted companion.

Driving my youngest two to swim practice this morning, I found myself fighting the fear of what could be. What if Chase’s gait is permanent? What if he is never the same cognitively? What if he never runs or jumps or wrestles with his brother? What if……

My thoughts were literally interrupted by the following words, which clearly did not come from me as I am not nearly that smart or insightful:

“I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief.”

In Scripture, this verse is the cry of a father desperate for healing for his son.

Jesus asked the boy’s father, “How long has he been like this?”

“From childhood,” he answered.“It has often thrown him into fire or water to kill him. But if you can do anything, take pity on us and help us.”

“‘If you can’?” said Jesus. “Everything is possible for him who believes.”

Immediately the boy’s father exclaimed, “I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!” (Mark 9:21-24)

I can relate to this parent’s heart. I am a believer, steady in my faith, yet in the midst of difficulties uncertainty creeps in when I am most vulnerable. Watching pain in my child and I cannot offer relief. Answering questions that begin with why and my response feels so weak. The truth of the matter is that the outcome, the end result, which God already knows, may not coincide with the desires of mine.

I do believe, but what if he doesn’t fully recover?

And you may have experienced similar:

I do believe, but what if my husband never comes back?
I do believe, but what happens if my child always rebels?
I do believe, but what if the bills outweigh the income?
I do believe, but what if the cancer continues to spread?

It is the “buts” and the “what ifs” that interrupt my faith with fear. And fear is not from God. It takes intentionality and spiritual focus to reclaim what I know to be true. My security and that of my son’s is going to come from one place, the foundation of which is built on three powerful words: I do believe. I have to believe that His perfect plans supersede my hopeful ones and that the end result is good – very good.

I do believe, even if he doesn’t fully recover.
I do believe, even if my husband never comes back.
I do believe, even if my child rebels.
I do believe, even if the bills outweigh the income.
I do believe, even if the cancer spreads.

I do believe. Not only does it have to be enough, it has to be everything.

Even if it doesn’t look a thing like I had hoped.

A Setback

Struggle can sometimes initiate an out of character response. Typically forthright with the embarrassing mishaps and blunders that seem to define my everyday existence, I find that difficulties generate a guardedness that is adverse to my personality. Outgoing and historically more joyful than not, those moments that strike fear closest to my heart brings about a hasty retreat in a mind that seeks immediate refuge.

Appropriate or not, maternal instinct is to fix, to protect, to make better. Sometimes at the expense of those that know you best, innate reaction is to gather the hurting child and expend all remaining energy and effort in their direction.

There is also that inclination to withhold your burdens from others, thinking incorrectly that you can spare the pain from spreading to those you love, as though it were an illness contagious just by spoken word.

Yesterday changed that approach.

Our doctor’s appointment on Monday marked day twenty-three of the recovery process for our son, Chase. Although progress of any sort had been painfully slow, mobility function had returned to a point that Chase could stand strong and walk unassisted in a compensated gait. After a three week absence from school, we were hoping that the neurologist would allow Chase to return to school on a modified basis.

Chase woke up on the morning of his appointment experiencing symptoms similar in severity to the ones that came soon after the injury. Dizzy and confused, motor function and pain had worsened, and we were back to the beginning that I had prayed would look more like the end.

Fighting back tears and frustration, I listened as the physician told me that setbacks were to be expected. He said that the type of head trauma Chase had suffered would not follow normal protocol or ordinary estimations and healing would happen only with an element of time.

And prayer.

Those two words popped in my head as the doctor continued his examination.

And prayer.

Those two words were the only chance I had of escaping the exam room without completely falling apart in front of my hurting son.

And prayer.

Those two words that represent hope when one feels hopeless, comfort when one feels incapable of being comforted.

Many in our community know about Chase’s condition and have been praying for him diligently. But as I pushed my twelve year old in the wheelchair yesterday, despair heavy on my shoulders and his, I felt a desperate need for more. Prayers from everybody I know and from those I don’t. Privacy and protection suddenly seemed inadequate, and the attempt to prevent the burden to others misguided.

So while I continue to process all that has happened to our family and chronicle it in a manner that Chase can one day use, I am boldly going to ask that you continue to pray for his healing. Before you even know the whole story or the details that example the wonder of this child’s faith, I ask that you lift him up to the One who heals, the One who comforts, and the One who can keep a young man's mama from falling apart.

Pray for Chase

For years now, my writing has focused on joy. Both on this blog and in publication elsewhere, my stories reflect the everyday domestic nonsense that, surprising still to yours truly, others find funny. What began as a family journal for posterity’s sake as well as the singular, lofty goal of making my husband laugh at work, evolved into a personal journey of finding joy in the mundane, the unbelievable and the difficult.

 As much as I love to weave together a good narrative, the one I plan to share with you is by far the one I will most dislike.  Not because I don’t trust that the story was purposely ordained by a perfect Author, but rather it is a chapter that will leave a permanent scar, earmarked in a way that ensures I never forget its place.

Three weeks ago our twelve year old son, Chase, was injured while playing in a middle school lacrosse game. He suffered a head trauma that at first was diagnosed as a mild concussion.  Over the next few days, symptoms worsened, bringing immobilizing pain as well as dependence on a wheelchair.  The severity of the concussion as well as its physical effects have baffled all physicians involved – my spouse included- and led us down a medical path that has been difficult to navigate.

With my son’s permission, I will journal some of the details our family has experienced. Some so painful it still takes my breath and some so full of blessings that it makes my heart inconceivably full.  

Ministry is born from pain. Someday, either standing off balanced or completely steady, Chase will use his circumstances to witness to another. Though the story remains unwritten and the details have yet to be revealed, I am confident it will end well. Know that we still believe God is good – all the time – even when a twelve year old’s brain is severely injured.

Please pray for our son , Chase.

Posers and Pretenders

Lately, I have felt rather beaten down. Work related obligations, household responsibilities and child-rearing in general have taken its toll on my temperament, my time and the shininess of my hair. The spring in my step hasn’t been quite as bouncy, the grin on my face not so quick, the witty retorts not readily available. I’m not necessarily unhappy, but the joy just isn’t as exuberant.

Mistakenly, I make comparisons with my peers, sitting perfectly showered in carpool, chatting away happily on cell phones in the grocery store, buying supplies for family craft night at the hobby store, and wonder aloud in my capital letters voice “HOW DO THEY HAVE IT ALL TOGETHER?!”

Or do they? Are they pretending on the outside in well groomed attire but on the inside full of shameful dismay over the state of their laundry room? Are their children really that obedient or have they successfully casted an unbreakable spell over their offspring with the all-powerful evil eye? Is their crockpot really simmering away at home with something delicious and healthy or do they zip it through the drive thru, in dark sunglasses and hooded jacket, ordering all manner of preservatives they will throw later on a plate with mandarin oranges from a can?

Which is it? Poser or Real Person? Pretender or Real Deal?

Are these well dressed, well liked, well-spoken moms just posers? Pretenders? Frauds? What is it that they do, or say, or accomplish that is currently impossible within the realm of my own capabilities?

Am I the only one that seems to always be an hour late and a laundry load behind?

Feelings of incompetency had been building for weeks, and overcome with perception of ineptness in all areas of which I am responsible, I sat down on the floor of my closet and had a full blown monkey fit. It was similar to the kind of hissy fit you throw post-partum, when sleep deprivation and total exhaustion leaves you literally incapable of dealing with ONE MORE STINKING DIAPER. (Pun absolutely intended.)

As timing would have it, my husband walked in as I was in full crying fit mode. He looked at me wide-eyed as I sat crossed legged on the carpet with tears streaming from eyes already twitching from overtaxed tear ducts. Through embarrassing hiccups and words that didn’t quite string together as logically as I would have liked, I elaborately confessed all of my shortcomings.

Immediately he grabbed my hand and lovingly began popping a vein in the skin to prepare for IV insertion that would administer large dosages of sedatives to yours truly.

Not really.

After sixteen years of marriage, my spouse knew that I didn’t need to be fixed, just encouraged. Not necessarily helped, just unconditionally loved. But most importantly, after being together for over a decade and a half, my physician husband fully understood the healing powers of a good, cleansing ugly cry. Science should never overlook the medicinal effect of a properly thrown monkey fit.

A few weeks later, I was listening to a friend describe how beaten down she felt by her responsibilities. Her shoulders sagged, the sparkle absent from her eye. Understanding exactly how she felt, I described to her in full detail the fit I threw in my closet.

She looked at me in puzzled silence.

And then some more.

Finally, in all seriousness and confusion she said, “Really? Really? But you’re so funny. And you always seem to have it together.”

And that’s when I realized, in the same way I finally accepted that there is hair above my lip and my thighs will touch when standing, that I could be a poser. Maybe not intentionally, or with impure motives, but that I could be seen as a pretender, too. Other moms were looking at me like I was looking at them, falling pitifully short of the expectations as set by peers, Pinterest and upbeat status updates on facebook.

Our outside can be pretend. A put together appearance doesn’t hide marital discord, a well decorated home doesn’t masquerade financial difficulty. Humor can’t camouflage pain, and plastered smiles can’t wipe out struggle. Falling down, falling short and falling apart somehow has become unacceptable, even though the truth is that we all do it.

Why is there such shame associated with imperfection?

Posers are for the world’s cameras. Pretenders are those needing to perform. How disappointing to think I may have been thought of as either.

If you happen to find yourself with similar feelings of inadequacy, let me offer this short bit of advice as retribution for my own misgivings, this quick fix absent of any kind of academic support or clinical finding.

I won’t set myself up for failure by thinking you have it all together, if you won’t think the same of me.

Think of the monkey fits we could prevent together.

The Man Who Intruded My House

It was late at night. John was at the hospital, and the children were in bed. I was standing at the sink washing dishes, with my back to the room. I rinsed the 39th glass to place into the dishwasher, wondering why the offspring in my home insist on using twelve different cups for their beverages in the same day.

But then I immediately realized that this is the same genetic defect that causes them to change into seven different outfits in the same day, while throwing every piece of clothing used for thirty seconds into the dirty laundry basket. Unfortunately, this won’t be corrected until brilliant scientists break up the dynamics between the nucleotide sequences from those of the amino acids.

(Special thanks to Encyclopedia Brown – also known as my spouse- for that titillating piece of trivia. In my humble opinion, I think the phrase “they get this from your side of the family, not mine” provides sufficient scientific proof.)

Lost in thought in my own little world, where dishes are cleaned and clothes laundered like those in the household of George Jetson, I never heard the footsteps creeping up behind me. Suddenly, a deep, unrecognizable voice said somewhat emphatically, “COME WITH ME RIGHT NOW!”

(Anytime someone uses their capital letters voice, it strikes fear to my core.)

I’ve seen all the Oprah shows that demonstrate what women should do in an emergent situation - thumb to the eyeball, elbow to the groin, karate chop to the throat. I’ve always wondered which method I would choose when placed in a precarious, threatening situation, one that demanded quick thinking and instinctive reflexes. The technique of choice?

I wet my pants.

Three children later, it should come as no surprise that my bladder fights like a girl.

I prepared to take on the intruder in my damp pajama pants. Personally, I can’t think of anything more intimidating, or frightening, than a grown woman facing down her attacker emulating an odor that rivals those found in the church nursery.

Spinning from the sink and landing in a Karate Kid Crane Stance, I faced my attacker on one wobbly leg. Struggling to maintain balance, I stared incredulously at the person standing before me. It was Chase, our twelve year old son, staring back at me in a manner that suggested he was as scared of me as I was of him.

“What are you doing?!!” I exclaimed. (Really, I yelled but the word “exclaimed” sounds better to those nice folks at the child protective agency)

“What are YOU doing?” Chase countered right back.

“Why are you talking in that voice?!!” I asked. (Really, I yelled but the word “asked” sounds better to those nice folks at the child protective agency.)

“What voice?!” he yelled in exasperation.

And then realization hit me in the same way it struck when I finally comprehended that the parentheses marks between my eyebrows were indeed permanent punctuations to my face.

Oh, no. It’s here, I thought to myself. But, I’m not ready.

Twelve year old hormones had been raging for weeks. Irritation with me, impatience with siblings, impossible mood swings and irritation with me pointed to the day that I had been dreading since the day Chase was born. Transforming from a boy into a man despite pleading prayers that he stay little for just a while longer, the fellow who presently stood in front of me as tall as an adult, now spoke like one. In a matter of hours, his voice, intermittently squeaky and weirdly pitched over the last few days, was now unrecognizable and very deep.

Bottom lip quivering just slightly, I took in fully this new man-child, my heart full of joy yet breaking at the same time, and said, “Never mind. Why are you up so late?”

“The toilet is stopped up and making this funny sound. Somebody needs to fix it quick!” Chase said.

“Okay,” I responded, “but you know, Roto Rooter is at the hospital. I’ll give it my best shot, though.”

As we walked down the hallway together towards the offending toilet, Chase turned to me and said, “By the way, did you get that move from the Karate Kid movie? And what’s that terrible smell?”


There were two lessons to be learned that night - one for me and maybe one for you. The first is that children grow up overnight. In just a blink of the eye, they go from diapers to kindergarten to shaving a sparse beard. And, of course, that’s the way it should be, even if I don’t like it, even if it hurts more than I thought.



Secondly, let this be a warning to all those out there who may consider intruding into our home, or worse, kidnapping yours truly. I fight back with my bladder. You better borrow a buddy’s car because your upholstery will never be the same.

Thankful Heart

1. I’m thankful for this fellow who is calm when I am dramatic, steady when I am unsure, and patient when it is almost humanly impossible.


2. I’m thankful for our three little riots who make life an adventure and one full of joy:

-This one who makes me laugh, cry and laugh some more - better than anyone I know:


-This one whose kind heart and tender nature makes me want to be a better person.



-This one who delights and inspires and chooses to dress as Thing 1 for Halloween instead of a twirling princess.



3. I’m thankful for family willing to drive ten hours round trip to listen and laugh at old stories as though the first time heard.





4. I’m thankful for friends who love our family like their own.








5. I’m thankful for heavy duty concealer, miracle denim and good hairspray.


6. I’m thankful for the NOGs whose friendships have stood the test of time, adult orthodontics, various jean sizes and a humiliating cry fest in a public setting.




7. I’m thankful that in adulthood I have finally found the security to admit that I once listened to Menudo, permed my hair until it was brittle, and thought that Milli and Vanilli had great voices.

8. I’m thankful for little girls who hold hands while they nap.



9. I’m thankful for tight harnesses in Mexico.




10. I’m thankful for bathing suit cover-ups when caught in an unflattering position.



11. I’m thankful for hallways that are semi-secure during Tornadoes.



12. And most importantly, I’m so thankful for my relationship with Jesus, who makes all things possible, despite my glaring inadequacies and weaknesses.

And dramatics.

She's Seven

Mary Mac turned seven today and I am at a loss for words. How. Did. This. Happen.

“Enjoy it while you can because time will fly,” I have been told repeatedly by those who have gone before me. And they were right.






Right that one moment she’s a snuggly baby, leaving a trail of pink in every room. The very next moment, she’s pontificating about the many varieties of pink available in nail polish.







Right that if I close my eyes I can still feel her weight on my hip, carrying her as often as possible just because I could. In a flash, that baby’s height is well past my hip, and when exasperated, places a hand on her own to show disagreement.







Right, that chubby arms once outstretched for my embrace, are now slender and long, and just yesterday used to wave me away from in front of the television for a better view of Joe Jonas.






Right, that there was a time her dependence was joyfully all consuming, certain needs that could only be fulfilled by a parent. The time is spent now guiding independent footsteps that get farther and farther away.






She is seven today. And time has flown.

But I have enjoyed and will always cherish every single second.






Happy birthday sweet baby girl. You are sunshine and giggles and everything that is good and right in this world. You are so loved.

Mommy

Resolutions

The New Year stretches out before me like an empty textbook not yet written. Pages from the previous year are no longer chronicled – the blunders, the hurts, the trials, the joys – and a second chance is given to edit those that can be better and revise those that can’t.

The list of needed improvements is long - overwhelming even – and the inclination to address them all in the short 365 days ahead a task most likely to disappoint. The approach is good intentioned but the areas of need too large, and failure the result before adjustments even attempted.

Rather than regard all those things I believe warrant change from a secular perspective, I am embracing the upcoming year from one that is eternal. Guidance is uniquely provided in God’s Word - instructions both wide-ranging and many - but a tendency to complicate the simple and over analyze the obvious has potential to distract from the pursuit.

Thankfully, for those like me - simple-minded with an attention span at a deficit - a clear, overall theme for direction is provided in the greatest commands ever given. Following the One who has already written my story, my resolutions come from a response I pray will preface this year’s personal chapters on all thoughts, words and deeds. When asked to give the greatest commandment as found in God’s law, Jesus replies,

“Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.” (Matthew 22:37-39)


Love God. Love others. A worthy beginning in the pursuit of answers to life’s questions and the corrections to life’s mistakes. Simple instructions that stand firm even in my excess, my worry, and my sin; timeless advice that covers forgiveness, disappointments and grace.

And whatever the year may bring – the blunders, the hurts, the trials, and the joys – I know ahead of time that my story ends well. The perfection of the Author’s edits and revisions guarantees it.

Happy New Year –

Joni


PS-

Because you know I’m silly, and can’t miss out on an opportunity for extra joy, I have written the following amendments to consider with the resolutions above:


1. I will love God. I will love others. And pray that the Georgia Football team recovers by next season.

2. I will not use the smoke detector in my kitchen as a cooking timer.

3. I will attend all eyebrow waxing appointments in a timely manner so that tools requiring electricity will not be necessary.

4. I will schedule office bills to be paid on automated bank draft so that my husband does not worry about taking care of patients in the dark.

5. I will not be tempted by the skinny jean or any type of legging that hugs the skin in a manner that reveals unsightly cellulite of which only yours truly should be aware.

6. I will laugh so hard and so often that fugitive stomach muscles will be forced to come out of hiding.

7. I will exercise patience in the carpool line and deny myself all fantasies of skidding to a sideways stop in front of the school in Dukes of Hazard fashion.

8. I will listen more, talk on my cell phone less and always drive with my hands in the 10 an 2 position.

9. I will better pay attention to the silly little dials found in the instrument panel of my car.

10. I will believe the scale I step on and not think that it is a conspiracy masterminded by Weight Watchers.

11. And finally, I will love those who don’t love me back, and if a turn around ever occurs, remind them later of the nonsense they were missing. : )

Some Things Are Worth Repeating

Some things are worth repeating. This is one of them.



I Didn't Deserve You, But My Children Did.

I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. Years ago when we first met, I was wild and flighty; you were steady and so sure. My faith was on shaky ground, your feet were planted firmly. Two people could not have been more opposite, but by the grace of God, ended up with everything in common.

I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. You never left my side during those unremitting hours of newborn terror. Neither one of us was all that capable, but your encouragement and confidence led me through those sleepless nights and fearful days when I was paralyzed by inadequacy. I became a good mom because you were a great dad.

I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. You were immediately engaged and enamored with each of our children. It was an instant bond that came as natural to you as breathing, as instinctive as the beat of your generous heart. You simply could not get enough of them. Your patience and your pride allowed for endless rounds of patty-cake and peek-a-boo, then transitioning into hours of UNO and playing catch in the yard.

I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. You are a gifted and compassionate physician, with patient burdens I cannot comprehend. Your workload and schedule demands all of you, but you have never succumbed to the pressure. Starting your day extra early and working through lunch, you make it home for dinner with your family, and then tuck each child into bed with a heartfelt prayer, knowing that you will be up to midnight to work on charts that fell second place to your children.

I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. The way you look at our children cannot be manufactured or contrived, a mixture of love and wonder, amazement and joy. I never tire of watching you watching them. School performances and awards, ballgames and recitals, you always sit in the seat beside me, squeezing my hand with tears in your eyes, still so grateful that you are allowed the moment.

I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. You are my closest friend, my most trusted confidante. My love for you defies available words and still stuns me at its overwhelming capacity. The children unabashedly adore you, look up to you, and want to be just like you. And the dog thinks you’re the best.

I didn’t deserve you, but my children did.

Happy Father's Day,
Joni

A Letter

Dear Atlanta Braves Baseball Players,

It was my son’s eleventh birthday. He wanted to celebrate the occasion by attending an Atlanta Braves baseball game with several of his friends. We purchased eight tickets for our group, a dozen or so rows behind home plate, giving as close of a view to their heroes as allowed by the puppeteers at Ticketmaster.

Arriving early to the stadium, our excited crew headed to the area around the Braves dugout, a location available to fans sitting in our particular section. With stars in their eyes, the boys watched the Players in batting practice, enthusiastically pointing out their favorites, voices becoming increasingly high-pitched in decibels only available to the prepubescent.

These young boys were the only group standing behind the dugout that hot day, waiting patiently for each Player to finish their turn at bat, to complete the drills that would render their arms sufficiently warm. Slowly, after completing the workout process, Players made their way back to the dugout, just a few feet away from the group of eleven year olds struck almost speechless in their adoration. I stood to the side with my camera, ready to capture the very moment a young boy catches the eye of his idol, a mutual recognition between big name Player and small statured fan.

Not a single identity escaped the memories of the boys lined at the back of the dugout. With pure, uninhibited joy, the boys called out the names of each hero as they made their way down the steps leading into the bat-lined abyss that little fellows begin dreaming about the moment that they hold their first peewee glove.

I had my lens perfectly focused, trigger finger ready, waiting for the exchange between Player and boy, hoping for a small wave, but realizing with each passing disregard, that they weren’t going to even offer eye contact. It was a separation of less than five feet, yet not one Atlanta Braves Player acknowledged any of the five boys. Not a single photo was taken as the top of a ducked player’s head does not a memory make.

The field emptied, and the Visiting team took its place. With a sick feeling in my stomach, I looked at the expressions of the disappointed group of boys who regarded each other in disbelief. “They didn’t even look at us,” I overheard one tell another. “And they knew we were there.”

In the 80’s, I grew up watching the Braves play in Atlanta Fulton Stadium. Our family of six often sat in the cheap seats in left field, tickets made instantly exclusive by its close proximity to Chief Noc-A Homa’s tent. As familiar as I was with the names and numbers of each player listed in the program, I became even more so because of the interactions that occurred at the end of each baseball game.

There was an area of the stadium referred to as The Tunnel. At the conclusion of each game, after showers and interviews, the players would walk through the tunnel that connected to the parking lot of their waiting cars. Fans lined the walls, greeting each Player as they made their way among the crowd.

I have vivid memories of those days that momentarily allowed the transition from Player to Person. I remember the boisterous personality of Bob Horner and the reserved one of Phil Niekro. I recall Jerry Royster routinely honking his car horn as he exited the parking lot, causing us all to squeal and clap in appreciation. I remember Dale Murphy talking to my dad, agreeing to an appearance at our elementary school carnival, scribbling his phone number on the white cardboard of a Twinkie wrapper found in the passenger floor of his Chevette. Glenn Hubbard was almost always the last Player to leave, signing baseball cards, church bulletins, and any other scrap of paper given to the beloved second baseman.

I was an ordinary little girl made into an extraordinary fan because the Players took a bit of time for me. A lifelong love of baseball was born in that Tunnel, and I have cheered for the Braves ever since.

Obviously, much has changed.

Frenzied fame and outlandish fortune have catapulted the Player to a plane that has difficulty coinciding with the normal. Times are considerably different, security concerns superseding those that are relational. Pursuit of privacy seemingly more important than appreciation for the public that placed them in said esteemed position.

But, those little boys standing behind the dugout weren’t asking for a personal conversation, or even a coveted autograph. Eager faces with orthodontic smiles hardly a threat to the towering athletes that passed them by. Sadly, because it is a different time, a different day, simple acknowledgement would have been enough for the birthday boy and his buddies.


A few moments after the field had cleared from batting practice, former Braves baseball star Brian Jordan, dressed in attire that suggested a more formal purpose in attendance, glanced in our direction. He may or may not have noticed the disappointment, the silence that had overtaken a typically animated bunch of boys, and walked directly towards our group standing forlornly at the dugout. He greeted each boy with that well-known smile and mischievously asked if any wanted a signed ball, penning a birthday greeting to my eleven-year-old son.

That lone signature, that solitary contact was enough for me to exhale deeply, relieved that my son was given a glimpse of what happens when a Player transitions into a Person, when exchanged appreciation for the sport prevails over the desire to be admired from afar. Our little group of boys took the whole experience in innocent stride, enjoying the rest of the baseball game as if the rejection at the dugout had not occurred, because, regrettably, they don’t know any better.

But I do.

And so should all of you.


Joni