Empowered Through Pain

It's been an interesting 14 months for the Bierenga family.  I've alluded to some of our family's journey here and here and again here.  I have wrestled over the last year with how much to write, whether to write, and what to really say.  In the end, I still haven't written.  I know I will, because that's what I do.  But I still need a little more space to really climb into it.

At the same time, something settled in my brain on Monday that I have to share.  Then it will feel real, and public, and permanent (remember, that's true about the internet).

Monday dawned dark and early, and I was in a bed at my parents' house.  My parents were on their way out the door.  I needed to shower so my sister and I could join them in a curtained room in the surgical prep area of Hackley Hospital in Muskegon.  The morning was freezing cold, and we shivered our way to the hospital before the sun was even considering breaking the horizon.  We found my parents in the last "room" on our left.  Dad was lying in the bed, and Mom was sitting on a chair next to him.  We spent our time there together, just the four of us, for the first time in years really, now that Sara and I are married and have five kids between us.  We were together while the nurse prepped Dad, while the anesthesiologist talked with him, while Sara prayed for Dad and the surgeons and the cancer to go away, while the surgeon checked in with him, while the surgeon prayed for the surgery team, while I read a sad note from a friend whose battle with cancer is nearing its final days, while we laughed and took pictures and read comments from friends who are praying.

And then it was time for the team to walk him to the Operating Room.  Nearly eight years ago, my dad left for Iraq.  That goodbye was hard.  That goodbye was for 400 days and thousands of miles and time zones and bombs and war.  That was the hardest goodbye I've ever had with my dad.  This one nestled right up against it.  So much was riding on that bed.  My daddy was riding on that bed.  And how do you kiss him goodbye hoping and uncertain and wishing and dreaming and desperately loving?  We did it.

While we were waiting in the Family Waiting Area (while "The 700 Club" played on TV, so that wasn't super helpful), we all tried to occupy ourselves.  Sara worked on a training for work.  Mom read Facebook and played Candy Crush and Words with Friends.  I read a book for the Baker Bloggers Program.  And while I was reading, while the surgeons were collecting samples of my dad's insides for biopsy, while hundreds of people around the country were praying, while we were trying to distract ourselves, it hit me.

I was reading the section entitled "Experiencing God's Presence in Suffering, Loss, and Pain."  Kevin Harney wrote:

Suffering is suffering.  It is ours as we walk through it.  It invariably leads to tears, sorrow, heartache, and struggle.  It usually comes unannounced and we rarely know when it will leave.
Most of all, suffering can crush our faith or strengthen it.  The decision is ours.  Will I cling to Jesus through my pain and with tears streaming down my face?  Or will I turn my back and walk away from the only One who can carry me through?  Will I curse God or bless his name even if my teeth are clenched in agony as I worship?  Will I let the presence and power of God fill me to overflowing when I have nothing left to give, or will I seek to make it through in my own strength?
Powerful people seek to face suffering by relying on their own reserve of strength and tenacity.
The powerless throw in the towel as soon as the winds shift, long before the roof comes crashing down.
But the empowered hold the hand of Jesus and let his strength and presence carry them through the tempest of suffering, loss, and pain.  The empowered know that they can't weather the storms life will bring, but that the Maker of heaven and earth can place them under his wings and shelter them no matter what comes their way.

I read that, and then I looked up at my mom and my big sister, and I said, "I'm empowered.  And I'm empowered because we're empowered.  That's what you and Dad taught us."  And it's true.

Our faith isn't perfect.  My grandparents made their mistakes, but they instilled in my mom a faith that is her own.  And through their own struggles and journeys and heartaches my parents have given me a faith in the Maker of heaven and earth and His shelter and peace.

Just over 19 years ago, I left home.  I moved to a secular college because I wanted to forget my parents' faith and find my own.  During that time I made mistakes, and I said and did some hurtful things in my "enlightenment."  But I worked hard to build my faith.  And now there I was.  Sitting in a nondescript and uncomfortable waiting room while my dad underwent cancer surgery, and I realized that the faith I have is now my own, but it's also my parents'.   I'm empowered by the presence of God in the midst of my pain and suffering.  But every single day of the journey we have walked since November 2013 I have seen the same empowering written in my parents' words.  It's been in their strength, in their hope, in their peace, in their prayers.  That didn't change when Zack died.  It didn't change when my dad was pushed into retirement.  It didn't change when our house was broken into.  It didn't change when Dad was told he had cancer.  It didn't change while we waited in that room together.  It didn't change today when we were told that my dad's lymph nodes and all margins of his prostate are clear of cancer.  And I know without a doubt that it wouldn't have changed if we had been told his body was riddled with the disease.

Harney goes on to talk about being "propelled onward by the call and mission of God."  He says that our journey of faith is not really any different than Abraham's when he was still called Abram and he followed an unknown God from the land of his family into a new land where God would build His kingdom.  "Who follows God like this?" Harney writes.  "Abraham and Sarah.  Peter and Andrew.  You and me.  We hear his call.  He leads us on a mission day-by-day and moment-by-moment.  We go, not knowing where it will lead us but trusting the God who calls us to follow him."

And we do.  The journey might lead us through betrayal.  It might lead us through the valley of the shadow of death.  It might lead us through cancer or job loss or the breakdown of a family.  But through all of that, the good and the bad, through the pain and the joy, we live with a tenacious faith that knows "God can see the end of the road even when [we] can't."

Thanks, Mom and Dad.  Thanks for lending me your faith when I was a little girl.  Thanks for letting me go off and try to build my own faith.  And thanks for letting me find a faith that was yours all along.

Thoughts On Saying Goodbye

Bruce Coeling died this morning.  He suffered a massive heart attack last Saturday and was never really responsive again after that.  His children made the hard decision to remove him from the machines keeping his body alive on Thursday, and around 1:30 a.m. on Friday, June 8, 2012, he died.  He was 67.  He is a father and a grandfather and a friend.

I saw him on Wednesday night when a couple of friends and I went to the hospital after worship practice to visit him, but really to support his son who sings with us on the worship team and, with his wife and children, is in our Family Fellowship Group.  Before that I saw Bruce at church at 8:30 a.m. a couple of weeks ago when I last sang on the worship team.  I smiled when I saw him, and his son, Ken, and I talked about how Bruce always got there at 8:30 for the 9:30 service, because he didn't like to be late.  The funny thing about death is that I didn't know that was the last time he would return my smile and tell me hello.  Because most of the time you just don't know.

As I was falling asleep on Wednesday night, praying for Bruce and for his son and two daughters and their families, I wondered how we slipped into this stage of life.  At Christmas of 2010, our dear friends lost their mother after years of living with a brain tumor and its effects.  In January of 2007, we grieved with another good friend over the loss of her father in a car accident.  In between, there have been other days of bearing the burden of grief as other friends and church family members have said goodbye to their fathers.  How did we get here, to this place where we are starting to say goodbye to our parents?  It's tricky, because many of us still have grandparents living . . . and yet somehow we have reached an age where our parents' days are truly numbered, and we are starting to count them.

There is a paradox for Christians around the world and throughout history.  We know, with great certainty, where our loved ones have gone.  We know, with great certainty, that God is holding them in His hands; they have reached their final Home, have heard the "Well done, my good and faithful servant," and have entered into the joy of our Lord.  And yet, we also know, with great certainty, that we miss them.  That life shouldn't have to include death, and that our lives are forever changed by this death.  We are reminded that this world is not our Home, and that we are merely pilgrims on a sojourn in this land.  So we grieve, even while we celebrate.  When we grieve, we grieve with hope.  But we still grieve.  And it sucks.

I know that Bruce died this morning, but when I saw him Wednesday night, his son said, "He's there, but he's not there."  I wonder when Bruce really did die.  I wonder if he died on Saturday and spent a week in eternity asking Jesus to give his family peace as they said goodbye to him and as they held his dying body.

Many in my group of friends have said goodbye to our unborn babies who have slipped from our wombs into the arms of Jesus.  I don't know well anyone who has buried a child, but I do know of fathers who have cradled the caskets containing their babies' bodies as they walked into the funeral service or released their children for burial.  That is a pain that cannot be matched.  Life shouldn't include death.  But, as a daughter, I wonder if there is anything more heartbreaking than seeing a grown woman become again a little girl as she kisses her daddy goodbye for one of the final times.  I saw that Wednesday night, and my heart broke, because I realized that one day that would be me.

Saying goodbye is a funny thing.  We know that to live is Christ and to die is truly gain.  I'm not afraid of it, but I don't know how I got to this stage where my friends and I are saying goodbye to our grandparents and our mommies and our daddies . . . and sometimes our children too.  This is a tender time.  And I imagine I'll cry at 8:30 Sunday morning when we're practicing our songs for the service and Bruce doesn't come in to sit in his normal seat an hour before the service starts. 

Bruce Coeling died this morning.  He was only 67 years old.  But he liked to get there a little bit early, because he never wanted to be late.

A Reason to Celebrate

So . . . in case you haven't heard, it's my special day today.  On this day in (35-year) history, I was born.  It was 10:10 a.m. Pacific Time.  I don't know if I was early or late or right on time, but I know I was born when my dad was home from his few days on/few days off schedule on an island off the coast of California with the US Navy, and I was born at the perfect time to give my parents an anniversary steak dinner.  No, really.  The hospital where I was born gave the happy new parents a steak dinner the night before they were discharged from the hospital, and that just happened to be their anniversary.  Their fifth anniversary.  I've no doubt been an eternal gift to them. 

Let me be clear--I love my birthday.  I'm high maintenance, so I love that this is a day about me.  I love to receive gifts, and I love to have fun.  So, yeah.  I'm not going to hide it.  It's my birthday.  Give me a day to celebrate it!  :)

• I slept in this morning.  It was nice to have the girls go downstairs on their own and sit nicely without fighting--until I got downstairs, anyway.
• Red Robin seems to be the place we McDowells celebrate our birthdays.  Because that Banzai Burger is just so good.
• This morning I volunteered at field day at Ellie's school.  And I had a fantastic time playing with the parachute with all of the 1st and 2nd graders.
• Last night I "rang in my birthday" (well, within a couple of hours) with my book club at The Score listening to live music from Outer Vibe.  Thanks to Marianne for my yummy beverages and to Ashley, Stephanie, Marianne, and Courtney for the laughs and the hoarse voice I have today.
• I really like cheesecake.  Thanks to Eric for making it for our board meeting tonight.
• Hearing three little voices say, "Happy birthday, Mommy!" is one of the coolest things in the world.  Especially when one of them bursts through the bathroom door, interrupting your shower in this fashion: "Happy birthday, Mommy! I need to poop."
• For my birthday lunch I treated myself to a salad and tapioca pudding from Forest Hills Foods.  Yum.
• I took a nap today.  It was a birthday nap, because 35 is a bit old to spend two hours playing with a parachute.
• Beau gave me a quirky road trip guide and the Jericho Complete Series DVDs.  Great gifts.  Great gifts.
• I received more than 100 birthday greetings because of Facebook.  I started to respond to each of them when there were only 30.  Then I felt like I had to keep going.  That was a lot of responses.
• It was really fun to read all the "Happy Birthday" messages from family members I've known my whole life, friends I've had for 30 years, and friends I've had for less than 30 days.
• I used to think that my cousin Michael was WAY older than me.  Today I realized that he is only 40 . . . how'd he get so much cooler and smarter than me in those five years?
• I was also surprised to see that my parents aren't that much older than me.  At 25, those 25 years felt like a lot.  At 35, not so much.
• It would have been really nice if the Tigers had realized that things are meant to go my way on my special day.  A win shouldn't have been too much to ask--especially when Verlander was on the mound.
• This afternoon I was packing for our Memorial Day trip to the lake, and I heard the phone ringing downstairs.  I ran down to hear Addie and Megan shouting, "Daddy caught a deer!  Daddy caught a deer!  On his way home from work!"  Thinking he must have HIT a deer, I called frantically returned his call.  No deer.  My kids might be crazy.
• For the first time in my life I got a gift of money for my birthday, and I have no clear idea of how I'll spend it.  I'm sure I'll find a way, but there's nothing "pressing" for it.
• Next Tuesday I'm giving blood with a coworker in memory of her friend's baby who passed away at only a few days old.  I'm also giving it because it's my birthday, and I can so I should.
• I can't actually believe it's my birthday.  I still feel like it should be February.
• This may be the hottest birthday on (my) record.  The temps make it feel like it might be July 24.
• Some birthdays have been memorable for their events (a surprise birthday party instead of dinner at Logan's with Julie) and some have been memorable for their simplicity (opening a Barbie cat and travel cage at some hotel on the way to Duncan, BC, when I turned 7).  This one ranks with the simplicity, and I love it for that.
• Tomorrow I leave for my parents' cottage for a relaxing weekend at the lake.  And more celebrations. Thanks, Mom and Dad, for having me at the end of May where I always get a three- to four-day weekend to celebrate my special day.  :)
• So far I've had a birthday sundae from Red Robin, a birthday cheesecake from Eric and New City Neighbors, and birthday tapioca pudding from Forest Hills Foods.  Tomorrow I'll get some birthday ice cream from the Sandy Pines ice cream store.  Saturday I'll get some birthday peach pie from Grand Traverse Pie Company.  And Tuesday morning I'll get my butt to the gym at 5:00 a.m. to work all that off.
• My mom, my dad, and my sister all called me to sing "Happy Birthday" today.  And they each called separately and sang in varying degrees of loudness.  It was great.

So far I've been alive for 12,784 days.*  If I live an average life, I have another 15,340 days* left.  I pray that they are even half as wonderful and beautiful and magical as this first half of my life has been.  If they are, I shall be a blessed girl indeed.


*Please note: Math has never been my strong suit.  I have attempted to adjust for leap years, but I don't fully understand them and may have royally screwed that up.

The Year Without My Father

It's hard to believe, but four years ago (today, if my memory serves), we were in Taylor, MI, to greet my dad's unit as they returned from serving a year in Baghdad.  Megan Leigh met Robert Lee for the first time (at three months old), and we got to regain some sense of normalcy in our lives.  In honor of that great day--and that hard, hard year--here is something I wrote for Women's Lifestyle Lakeshore.


The Year Without My Father


“Old as she was, she still missed her daddy sometimes.” Gloria Naylor

I have been here before—in this hotel, in a room not far from this one. That time with my father, and this time waiting for my father. “We made it,” I sigh to myself as my head drops to the pillow. And when I wake, he will be here.

My father is a chaplain with the 177th MP Brigade of the National Guard, and in May 2007, his Brigade was deployed to Baghdad to take part in Operation Enduring Freedom. We were told he would be gone 400 days . . . standing on that end of it, the beginning, it is truly hard to imagine 400 days. At the time he left, my daughter was barely more than 400 days old and she had changed so much in that time. How would we change while my dad was gone? A little girl’s daddy is her entire world while she is young and half of her world when she is old. How would we ever make it through a year without my father—without my world?

I remember when my dad joined the National Guard. I was 13 and in 8th grade when he left for a one-month training. While he was gone, my sister turned 16, and our country entered the first Gulf War. War was so foreign to me at the time that I never thought he would actually be deployed anywhere, so our only concern while he was gone was what day we should take the trash out and where it should go. That war ended quickly, and since then we have been a military family who kept our soldier right by our side. In May 2007, the war came to our family, and our father left it.

Mom, my sister, and I stood at the armory in Taylor, MI, saying goodbye to him and watching him fight back tears as he climbed onto the bus, our own tears falling down our cheeks, anxiety flooding our hearts. Would Dad come home? Would we be the same if he did? Would he be the same if he did?

During his time away, we leaned on my husband and my brother-in-law when we needed a man (not for the trash, but for the grilling), and we leaned on each other when we could. We added yellow ribbons around our trees and National Guard deployment flags in our windows. And we lived each day tender, with empty hearts and tears ready to fall.

Four hundred days means far more than the thirty days he was gone before. This time my parents celebrated an anniversary apart. I turned 30 without my daddy. I announced my pregnancy over the telephone and wished there was a good way to send ultra sound pictures to Iraq. Dad had a birthday surrounded by soldiers and boxes packed with whatever gifts and goodies can travel into another country. My oldest daughter turned two. We celebrated one birthday for each person in our family, without Dad there to sing. On Thanksgiving, we huddled around a web camera, talking to Dad—joking about how badly the Lions would lose, remembering the time that the turkey was almost raw, laughing about the battle for the most turkey skin—all of the same things we share every year, but this time without the joy. My dad never says much, but every meal we shared together was quiet without him.

Our most desperate time may have been Christmas. Tradition for our family dictates that we spend Christmas Eve at my parents’ house, opening our stockings, filled to the brim with more gifts than we could ever need; eating a huge dinner; and opening still more presents. This year, we all moved with mixed emotions toward a holiday that is considered a family favorite in normal years. Dad arranged for his leave time to fall just after Christmas, so we decided to hold off on most of the family celebration until he was back. Still we knew that the day itself, the day that was marked for family, could not be spent apart. So we gathered in a house that felt empty without its spark. I had spent the weeks before Christmas frantically buying gifts that my father could give to my mother, and I tried my hardest to make light of the fact that I filled a role that should have been his. Together on Christmas Eve, we talked with Dad over the computer, but any time that your call travels ocean and most of the way to the other side of the world, the conversation lags in timing and lacks in heart. How do you celebrate such an important day with someone who is present but nowhere around? And how do you share joy while the man who was your world for so long is now a world away and all alone? How does your heart not break?

Dad came home in January, on leave, and we relished each moment, celebrating Christmas again and hanging on every word he spoke. He left again far too soon.

When my daughter was born, it was night in Iraq. That did not stop my dad from rushing to a telephone where he could call us to welcome his fourth granddaughter and learn that this one, named Megan Leigh, shares his middle name. She is the only one in the family to have that honor, in part because he was gone when she was born and in part because, in the end, he really is still my world. That night, as a February blizzard blanketed the city outside our window, I whispered to my baby girl my hopes for her life. They were hopes for peace, joy, love, wisdom, a sense of humor . . . and the gift of being held by my father.

We learned so much during our year apart. We learned about ourselves, about the geography of the middle east, and about each other. We learned about the emptiness of having someone so central to our lives so far away. And we learned that we are stronger than we thought we were.

My dad is home now, for the holidays and the meals and the celebrations. He has held my daughter and participated in her baptism. Life is normal again. But while he was gone, I missed him so.

Seasons of Life

It's an interesting thing, life. We go through times, or seasons, where people often shrug off what we're feeling by saying, "Eh, it's a season of life. Enjoy it. It won't last long."

Here I am, only 30, and I feel like I've been through a million seasons. Some that weren't worth enjoying and others that have left behind memories I'll cherish forever. On second thought, I think that all of them have left behind at least ONE memory worth cherishing. Even if it is just how we got the heck out of there alive!

And here we find ourselves in some new seasons.

Young Family: There have been three, and soon there will be four. That's a crazy thing to think about and a big adjustment to make. With it come joys and triumphs . . . and heartaches. We had a great time camping, until Ellie fell out of the trailer and landed on her face. No real damage, but some real trauma--for Ellie because her cookie broke; for Mommy because my Ellie was lying in a heap at the bottom of the steps. We peed on the big girl potty. After three attempts, a minute amount actually came out! Yay! Real progress!!

Another thing that comes with this is being in the "child-bearing" season of life. Between August 2007 and May 2008, I know more than 15 people having babies!!

Adult Child: Even though I am the youngest in my family, somehow a lot seems to fall to me . . . my grandma (91 years old) lives with my mom. Since Dad is in Iraq, every time my realtor mom has to be out of town, Ellie and I pack up our lives and move to Mom's to stay with Grandma. The inevitable conversations about what to do with Grandma or about Grandma also fall to me. As does camping in October. It works, but it's more than awkward. I'd like to not be an adult child anymore.

Here I also grieve my father's absence. It's hard to keep in touch, but maybe that's because I'm lazy. I know it is no indication of my feelings for my dad or the degree of my missing him. He'll be home in January, and I know we'll cherish each moment we have. But I also know that he'll leave again until April. He won't meet Megan until she is 2 1/2 months old. That is hard. I also grieve my mom. She misses him so desperately, and her reflections on it don't match up with her actions toward it. My inclination is to withdraw from the whole situation . . . but I owe Ellie more than that somehow. I owe myself and my parents more than that, too.

The "Wedding" Season: I thought we were past this . . . and we were, for our college friends and such. We entered this season again, though, because I worked in youth ministry for four years. That saw three lovely ladies through four years of high school . . . through driving, dating, prom, graduation, college, and into adulthood. Amber is getting married March 15. Then she's moving to Oregon (another reason to visit!!). Sarah is getting married July 12. Then she's moving to grad school in Boston, NYC, Connecticut, or some other distant locale that would LOVE to be my family's vacation destination. Jillian is getting married at the end of September. Then she is staying in West Virginia--a long drive, but a lovely spot to see. The significance with these weddings is that we are no longer asked to be groomsmen, ushers, or bridesmaids. Instead, we're invited to serve as Master and Mistress of Ceremonies(!) for Sarah and Jillian, and Ellie is invited to be a flower girl for Jillian. Craziness. See how the seasons overlap?

I'm sure there are more. For instance, I can add At-home Mom, and Beau can soon (hopefully) add Grad School Student. In the mean time, we're just trying to figure out what these seasons look like for us, how to get out of some of them quickly or with our sanity, and how we can afford the others.

Growing up is strange. But it's also lovely. I'm glad to be in a place that I wasn't five years ago. The knowledge is great, and the progress is essential. It's also interesting to think of what labels we'll give our seasons five years from now. In all of GOd's wisdom, we can't identify those seasons yet. We don't know where the joys will come in or where the heartache will come in. All we know for certain is that we are loved. By many. And we are carried when we need it, and we carry when they need it.

And that's the greatest beauty.

Are you going through a dry spell
I was there awhile ago
Now I've come to a place where the rain falls
Where the trees bear fruit and grow
Where I find a refuge in my God
It's a place of surrender I know
I look at God and see what I want to be
He looks at me and sees His own

Seasons change
And then they pass
No way to know how long they'll last
I'd love to know the reason why
But God knows
Seasons change
- Seasons Change, Crystal Lewis