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.

A Dying Man, Giving Up the Fight

My blog takes its title from a song by Sarah Hart (Amy Grant also covered it).  I find the song beautiful, and it truly captures my heart--sometimes, perhaps always, honesty is the best hallelujah we can offer.  It's the strength and beauty of a crocus popping through the spring snow.  It's the mother crying her baby back to sleep in the middle of the night.  It's the husband laying his wife of 50 years to rest.  It's broken.  But it's honest, and it's beautiful.  And that broken honesty is better than a hallelujah.

In January, my family was in the middle of that broken and beautiful hallelujah.

We were two months into a long journey that led to decisions we weren't ready to make.  And our tears were better than a hallelujah.

We didn't like where we were, and we let God know that.  But we still walked.  One foot in front of the other.  A deep breath and then a quavering one and then a sigh.  And then a whispered prayer.  And then a sob.

And then the phone rang.

My dad was a chaplain in the National Guard for nearly 23 years.  One of those years took him to Iraq with a man named Zack.  Zack was his assistant, and he was a bit younger than me.  He was a bit immature and goofy, and he quickly became like the younger brother my sister and I never had.  Among other things, Zack's job as my dad's assistant meant that he was tasked with protecting my father in Iraq.  You see, chaplains don't carry weapons, but their assistants do.  So Zack's job was to use his weapon and, if it came to that, his body to protect my dad.  Now, I can tell you that something like that bonds you to someone for life.  This immature, goofy kid was the guy who would save my dad . . . great.  We'll take it.  And we'll tuck Zack into a place in our hearts that no one could ever take away.

Zack suffered from PTSD after his time in Iraq.  We didn't see him much after they came home, but we did keep in touch.  For the past five years, there were ups and downs, but we all thought Zack was doing okay.  He and my dad talked on Christmas--also Zack's birthday--and it seemed like things were going well.  But that call in early January was to let my dad know that Zack had taken his own life.

We traveled to Detroit where my dad presided over the funeral service of a young man who was like his adopted son.  A young man at one time tasked with protecting his own life--no matter what the cost.  As my dad stood next to Zack's flag-draped casket, I thought about how this was yet one more war death.  Combat didn't kill Zack, but the war did.  And, fittingly, Zack's body was attended by many soldiers.  There was a rifle salute and taps.  The soldiers laid poppies and saluted his body.  He is buried in a military cemetery where his body was accompanied by his brothers and sisters in uniform and his sisters, his dad and step-mother, his mom, and so, so many friends.

And, just before they played the taps in that chilly cemetery in early January, one of the men from his first company said words I hope to never forget: "We have carried our brother as far as we can."  We did.  We carried Zack as far as we could, and it was time to let his body go. Together we carried Zack's body to the cemetery, and we carried Zack to the feet of our Savior.

 But the memories . . . we can carry those further.  There's a Facebook group dedicated to remembering Zack.  Every couple of days someone posts another picture they found or a memory they shared.  None of us can eat Godiva chocolate without thinking about Zack, because when he and my dad were prepping to go to Iraq, Zack pronounced it Go Diva.  And he made everyone laugh, and he laughed at himself.  I also think of him every time certain songs come on the radio, and I tearfully remember the night we tested Zack's reflexes by throwing tennis balls at him.  Tears and laughter mix together a lot for the people in that group.

Because that was Zack.  He was beautiful, and he was broken.  And, as the song says, he was a "dying man, giving up the fight."  He was tired, so he went Home.  And he was greeted with arms open to catch him.  To hold him while he rests.  And it is better than a hallelujah.

In Response to Another Tragedy

On my way home from picking my daughter up from school this afternoon, I felt compelled to sit down when I got home and put some thoughts on paper.  As I opened my computer, I came across something a friend had posted on his Facebook page.  I have to say, Max really got it right with "A Christmas Prayer."  It sort of took away everything that I even dreamed of writing.  Because I just didn't think I could add anything.

So I was going to write, "What he said."  I know some people who read this don't read Facebook links to articles that people post.  I hope you'll read this one.  Because he's dead on.  We need Jesus to be born anew in us this Christmas.  Our world is in desperate straights and needs Him.

But then I thought a bit more about it.  I thought about how as I was watching the news this afternoon, while my little ones napped for the first time all week and my oldest was safe in her classroom in a community very similar to Sandy Hook, CT, my chest hurt, and I couldn't breathe well.  I thought about how it felt like September 11, 2001, all over again.  I thought about how the only thing I wanted was to hold my girls in my arms every day for the rest of my life.  And I thought about how when my daughter was in Kindergarten two years ago, there were only 21 kids in her class.  That would have left three survivors.  And then I thought about the survivors in that Kindergarten class at Sandy Hook Elementary and wondered if they could really be called survivors.  And I thought about that mom and how it felt to see her son walk into the classroom and open fire on her and the little ones in her care.  I hope she didn't see him.  I hope he caught her with her back turned.

So, in light of all of that, I wanted to share something after all.  I wanted to beg, along with the Church and children of God way back in the time of Isaiah, God for something.  Father God, send our salvation.  Rescue us.  Bring us Home.

Come, Thou long expected Jesus
Born to set Thy people free
From our fears and sins release us
Let us find our rest in Thee

Israel's strength and consolation
Hope of all the earth Thou art
Dear desire of every nation
Joy of every longing heart

Born Thy people to deliver
Born a child and yet a king
Born to reign in us forever
Now Thy gracious kingdom bring

By Thine own eternal Spirit
Rule in all our hearts alone
By Thine own sufficient merit
Raise us to Thy glorious throne

By Thine own sufficient merit
Raise us to Thy glorious throne

"Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus" by Charles Wesley (arranged by Chris Tomlin)

And I'll conclude as Max Lucado did.  Because it seems most fitting as long as we travel through this world.

Hopefully . . .

Book Fourteen

A Monster Calls
by Patrick Ness, inspired by an idea from Siobhan Dowd

I should start by acknowledging that I didn't love this book . . . until the very end.  Given the rough time I had getting into the book but how deeply affected I was by the ending, I'm having a hard time deciding how to rate it.  I think I'm going to go with four stars just beause the premise was so great, and the ending really sealed it.

Grief is a common theme in life.  Since every day, we--and the people we love--are dying just a bit, life truly has more loss than anything else.  Sometimes that loss is "easy" and sometimes it is so painful that it is hell itself. 

A Monster Calls was written by Patrick Ness based on an idea that Siobhan Dowd had as she was dying of cancer.  She didn't have a chance to finish her book, so Ness took all of her ideas and crafted his own work.  Obviously we don't have the characters and ideas that Dowd developed, nor do we know how much of this story is Ness's creation.  What we do know is that perhaps no one knows the realities of dying and saying goodbye better than someone who is in its midst.  Ness took those ideas and somehow adopted those feelings and realities, and he created a stark and beautiful portrait of a young boy learning how to say goodbye to his mom. 

The other truth about grief is that it is contradictory.  In reality, so is life.  As Ness says toward the end of the tale: "The answer is that it does not matter what you think . . . your mind will contradict itself a hundred times each day.  Your mind will believe comforting lies while also knowing the painful truths that make those lies necessary."  (p191) Isn't that the way?  Isn't that the truth about pain and loss and saying goodbye?  Our minds protect us so well, but then they let us down in the end.  Because the truth is what is, even when it doesn't make sense.

Enduring Injustice

I recently had a conversation with a friend about something that happened more than a year ago.  As is often the case in broken relationships, there was misunderstanding, heartache, and injustice.  And a lot of pain.  But, at the same time, there is a glimmer of God working.

There are times in our lives when we have to endure injustice.  Life isn't fair.  Relationships hurt.  We get blamed for things we didn't do.  Our relationships end, and our hearts break.  We want to rise up and defend ourselves.  We want to make it right again or at least make sure people know we aren't who or what we've been accused of being.

Surely there are times when we are allowed to do that.  We get to defend ourselves in court--with integrity--and we can certainly speak to our motives or explain the reasons behind our actions. 

But there are perhaps more times when we are called to endure injustice with grace and courage.

For it is better, if it is God’s will, to suffer for doing good than for doing evil. For Christ also suffered once for sins, the righteous for the unrighteous, to bring you to God.  (I Peter 3:17b-18)

And that's what it all comes down to.  When you have done the right thing, when you have spoken the truth in love, when you are taking the fall so that someone else doesn't have to . . . when it's God's will.  That's the point where you endure. 

It hurts to be wrongfully accused.  It hurts like hell to lose relationships that matter.  But when you can see that good is happening, that God is still in control, that He is moving, then it's all worth it. 

May I always be more than willing to suffer injustice for the greater good of God's master plan. 

May I see that in those times I have the opportunity to be Christ to those around me.  He suffered the ultimate injustice--His death--for the greater good--our lives. 

And may I never stop praying for reconciliation and healing in broken relationships . . . all in His good time.

Book Twelve

The Fault in Our Stars
John Green

Warning: this is a hard book to read.  It's a good book, and it's worth it, but it's hard.  Consider yourself warned.

On the cover of my copy of The Fault in Our Stars, there is a quote from Jodi Picoult.  I feel like I could simply write that as my review, and it would have summed up the entire book: "Electric . . . Filled with staccato bursts of humor and tragedy."  Truly, nothing more needs to be said.

John Green has written a young adult novel about life and death, from the perspective of a 16-year-old girl living with terminal cancer.  She narrates her journey through a terminal life--the same life we're all living, really--and the friends she meets along the way. 

As a mother, my heart broke on nearly every other page.  I can't even imagine the thought of normal being certain you have enough oxygen tanks to get your daughter through her next journey out of the house.  Or knowing that your child will never see again.  Or knowing that there is nothing left to fight with except hope.

At the end of the day, while The Fault in Our Stars is about the crap that life gives out and recognizing that people don't die after a long battle with cancer but rather after a long battle with life, it's really a story about hope.  It's about finding love and loving, and it's about being strong enough to break down and cry, and it's about making today your best day.  It's about leaving something behind that will last.  It's about life. 

Because it isn't just this novel that is filled with "staccato bursts of humor and tragedy."  Life is too.


Memorable Quotes:
" 'Always' was a promise! How can you just break the promise?"
"Sometimes people don't understand the promises they're making when they make them," I said.
Isaac shot me a look.  "Right, of course.  But you keep the promise anyway.  That's what love is. Love is keeping the promise anyway."  (p61)

"Our city has a rich history, even though many tourists are only wanting to see the Red Light District."  He paused.  "Some tourists think Amsterdam is a city of sin, but in truth it is a city of freedom.  And in freedom, most people find sin."  (p157)

"The real heroes anyway aren't the people doing things; the real heroes are the people NOTICING things, paying attention.  The guy who invented the smallpox vaccine didn't actually invent anything.  He just noticed that people with cowpox didn't get smallpox."  (p312)

"You don't get to choose if you get hurt in this world, old man, but you do have some say in who hurts you.  I like my choices.  I hope she likes hers."  (p313)

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.

Accepting the Bad With the Good

At one point or another in my life, I imagine I have read the entire Bible.  I remember being in high school (probably middle school, too) and reading a chapter or two with my family after dinner each night.  (Remember when families actually ate meals together every night?  And then they did devotions?)  Like most people, I find some chapters of the Bible--some books of the Bible--more meaningful interesting easy to read than others.  And, like most books I've read, some have become my favorites.

I love Philippians.  Some day I'd like to commit it all to memory--I have a good start because of Aaron Wetzel and my days in Higher Ground.  As crazy as it sounds, I'd have to say that Job is my second favorite book.  It's long, and there's a fair amount of doom and gloom, so I'm not committed to memorizing it, but it's good nonetheless.

As I'm continuing to catch up to the end of May (how did that happen?!) in my Bible reading plan, I finally arrived in Job.  And, like every time, I was struck by its beginning.  Not by the part where Satan and God are talking, and God is bragging up Job.  Not by the part where God allows Satan to--with some parameters--strip Job of all of his security and wealth and love.  The part where Job says (as written in The Message):

Naked I came from my mother's womb,
naked I'll return to the womb of the earth.
God gives, God takes.
God's name be ever blessed.
(Job 1:21)

God's name be ever blessed.  Ever blessed.  No matter what.  No matter what my life looks like or how much money I have in the bank or how healthy I or my children am.  No matter what; God's name be ever blessed.

I know that I've shared this before, but I have a child who resides in heaven.  Baby Zion would be two years and seven months old if it had lived.  Addison, Zion's twin, is that old.  She is exuberant and loving and adorable and giving.  She is so grown up.  She is life, where Zion is not.  I have to remember, some days, that Zion was God's to give and God's to take away.  Like everything else in my life, God gives, God takes, and God's name be ever blessed.

The important thing to note from Job is that while he is committed to blessing God's name--no matter what--he isn't committed to a grief-free life.  He isn't committed to never crying, to never tearing his clothes and sitting in sackcloth and ashes.  He isn't committed to laughing in the face of death and destruction.  He's just committed to God. 

So am I.  There are days, moments, that I still cry.  Last night, my two oldest girls gave me mini pink roses from a neighbor's miniature rose bush.  As with the last time I received two pink roses, one was open, and one was closed almost to a bud.  That was a celebration of the birth of Addison and (unknown to the giver) a memorial to a baby who didn't live.  My girls knew nothing of that and were each given a little rose to give me.  It just happened to bring a tear to my eye.  That happens, and it will continue to happen.  I get to cry about it, because part of my heart isn't here.  My family isn't all together.  God gave, and He took away.  That hurts.

We are told repeatedly that Job never sinned. He never cursed God or turned against Him. So the sin isn't the crying or the loss or the grief. The sin is in turning my back on God.  I don't understand His ways.  I don't understand why He would tell us that we had lost our child in the same breath that we were told we'd had a second baby.  I don't get it.  And it hurts.  But may God's name be ever blessed.

A Tender Day

I've been a bit tender ever since I opened the letter this afternoon.  It was a normal day, and it was a normal letter.  We often get letters from the principal over the listserv, so I started to open it without really thinking.  But then the subject caught me off guard this time: "Death of a Student."  I thought it was an accident--a high school student or someone from one of the other schools.  I figured it would hurt as I thought about it, but I never dreamed it would hit me this hard.

A 7th grader at a local middle school passed away yesterday.  He committed suicide.  He went to the same elementary where my oldest daughter is a student.  If we stay in West Michigan, then in a few years she'll be at that same middle school--with most of the same kids she started school with in Kindergarten.

I don't know why this young man, this baby really, decided to end his life.  I pray that some day his parents get answers and find hope again.  As I think about what happened, though, my heart breaks--for him, for his parents, for his friends, for his classmates, for his teachers, for my daughter.

Middle school sucks.  There's no way around it.  It's so, so hard being a teenager.  But it gets better.  It sounds trite, or perhaps it just sounds like I'm stealing it from something different, something that this might not have been.  All I know is that it's true.  And when I walked in my daughter's classroom to read to her class this afternoon, I was tender.  I looked at their little faces and wondered what middle school holds for them.  They have a little better than five years before they get there, and so much can happen in that time.  But all the same, I wonder.  These are Ellie's classmates.  They're beautiful children learning to read and be friends and eat from all of the food groups.  And I love them.

So this is a tender day.  May God wrap His arms of peace around this young man's parents and his teachers and his friends and his classmates.  May God protect those kids, those babies, from themselves and from the only choice that can't be fixed.  And may God help all of us know what to say, how to help, what to see, how to be tender.

God, I love those kids.  The big ones and the little ones . . . please keep them safe tonight.

Learning from Job and Tripp

I love the book of Job.  It ends with the most beautiful images of creation.  It includes sassy responses from God.  It shows a strong man standing up to his friends.  And it provides a stunning glimpse of joy in the midst of suffering.

Late last week, the book of Job was brought to mind again as I was introduced to Tripp Roth.  A friend on Facebook posted the link to Courtney Roth's blog about being a mommy to her son, Tripp.  This is a young woman in the prime of her life--enjoying being a wife and excited about the arrival of her son.  I encourage you to check out her blog, starting with Tripp's Story.  Within hours of his birth, Courtney and her husband, Randy, were told that he suffered from Epidermolysis Bullosa.  Basically his skin was so thin that any contact with it would result in painful blisters to form.  After discussing his case with various doctors and running numerous tests--all of which caused Tripp's skin to blister and tear--it became apparent that Tripp had a fatal case of EB and would be lucky to reach his 2nd birthday.

Tripp died on January 14, at 2 years and 8 months old.  A recent visit to an expert revealed that with less care than his mother had given him, he would likely have died around his first birthday.  He should have died then.  Instead, his mother, who had never held her son skin to skin in her arms, never crushed him into her hug, never played tickle games, never smothered his face in kisses, committed her life to caring for her son.  Her marriage to Tripp's father suffered and ended.  She moved in with her parents, where her mother could help her with full time care.  She spent 2 years and 8 months wrapping her son in a blanket, coaxing him to eat, sedating him to give him baths because the pain was so intense, watching her son's eyes fuse shut.  She spent 2 years and 8 months knowing her son was in constant pain and knowing there was nothing she could do to stop it.  And she spent 2 years and 8 months thanking God for every breath her son took, every drum beat she listened to him play, every smile he offered.

Her blog and Facebook page have allowed us a glimpse into her pain and inspiration from the care that she took of a little boy medical professionals and others told her she would be justified to leave in a hospital bed where she would visit from time to time.  Or nurses could have bathed him in her home.  She could have saved her marriage--after all, she knew her son's condition was fatal.  Instead, she stayed by his side.  Why?  Because he was her son.  She was his mother.  He was her gift from God.

By the time that I discovered her blog and met Tripp, Courtney knew that his short life was ending.  She rejoiced that he would soon be pain free, that his first skin to skin contact would be with Jesus Christ, God made flesh.  God with torn flesh.  And she asked that the ending would be peaceful--for Tripp, for her, and for her family.  That's what we prayed for.

On Saturday, shortly after her only son took his final breaths wrapped snugly in a blanket in her arms, she wrote that heaven had a new drummer boy.  She wrote of her broken heart and her grief.  And then she wrote, "Please don't forget to thank God for the PEACE we prayed to him for." 

Who does that?  So few of us even remember to thank God for answered prayer in the best of times.  Yet, here was a grieving mother, reminding us to thank God for answering our prayers.  Courtney understood--and shared in her 2011 Christmas card to all of her blog followers--what Job knew.  I can only pray that I know it, too.  Especially when it matters most.

"Should we indeed accept good from God and not accept adversity?"  Job 2:10

You Are Blessed

Today's readings came from Genesis, Joshua, Psalms, and Matthew.  I'm pleased to be reading in The Message, because Peterson's phrasing brings ancient words to life in ways that make me feel I'm reading them for the first time.  Some of these passages are otherwise so familiar that I don't even actually absorb the words I'm reading.  His phrasing in two of today's passages have really given me something to chew on today.  First, from Psalm 4:6-8:

Why is everyone hungry for more? "More, more," they say. 
"More, more."
I have God's more-than-enough,
More joy in one ordinary day

Than they get in all their shopping sprees.
At day's end I'm ready for sound sleep,
For you, God, have put my life back together.

And, from Matthew 5, the Sermon on the Mount:

You're blessed when you're at the end of your rope.  With less of you there is more of God and his rule.
You're blessed when you feel you've lost what is most dear to you.  Only then can you be embraced by the One most dear to you.
You're blessed when you're content with just who you are--no more, no less.  That's the moment you find yourselves proud owners of everything that can't be bought.
You're blessed when you've worked up a good appetite for God.  He's food and drink in the best meal you'll ever eat.
You're blessed when you care.  At the moment of being 'care-full,' you find yourselves cared for.
You're blessed when you get your inside world--your mind and heart--put right.  Then you can see God in the outside world.
You're blessed when you can show people how to cooperate instead of compete or fight.  That's when you discover who you really are, and your place in God's family.
You're blessed when your commitment to God provokes persecution.  The persecution drives you even deeper into God's kingdom.

I have friends who are fighting a fight that I've never fought and hope I never have to.  Just over one year ago, their lives were flipped upside down--they'd lost what was most dear to them: the security of health for one of their children.  Through this year, as they've fought beside their nine-year-old son as he fights the negative effects of the chemo and radiation that are needed to fight his brain tumor, I've been encouraged and inspired. 

After high school ended, I went to a college outside of West Michigan and away from nearly everyone with whom I'd attended high school.  Through our different circumstances, the miles, and my inability to keep in touch, all of those friendships that had carried me through high school ended.  Including friendships with my closest friends.  I suppose this is normal, and something that happens to many of those relationships.  With the advent of Facebook, I've been able to at least get back in touch, if not rekindle old friendships, with many of those important people.  With Mitchell's family, that has come through their battle with cancer.

I don't know why that little boy, and that family.  I don't know why any family, really.  But I do know that I'm blessed to have known Mitchell's parents when I was younger (couldn't have made it through middle school and paper routes without his mom and dad!), and I'm blessed to walk alongside them now, even at a distance.  Because I have never known a family that is more blessed.

Surely this has been a hard year for them.  Surely this has been a year from hell for them.  Surely there have been tears and yelling at God and wanting to give up and being afraid to not fight and being afraid to fight.  Surely there has been more than they can imagine.  But, Mitchell is almost done with his treatments now.  He's on his last cycle and scheduled to be done on Februrary 15.  They can see the finish line, and by God's hand, they are in the lead.  Mitchell's mom shared all of this with us in her most recent Carepages post.  And then she talked about all they've gained.  She talked about how they've changed.  She quoted Laura Story's song, "Blessing":

'Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops
What if Your healing comes through tears
What if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You're near
What if trials of this life are Your mercies in disguise

And then she reminded all of us that when we give our whole selves to Him--when we have nothing left to give, when He has broken our hearts--He gives His whole self back to us.  He puts our lives back together again.  We're changed, but we're blessed.

We're not home yet.

So we have some friends whose marriage appears to be over.  We have prayed with them and prayed for them.  We have counseled them.  We have cried with them.  We have hoped for them.  And now we are surprised by whom they are turning out to be.  All of it serves to remind me that we just aren't home yet.  God, I wish we were back.

Still, it's Reformation Day.  It's the day that we remember that the Word of God is for all of us.  It's also the day (thanks, Dad) that we remember that the Word of God is life transforming and should never be taken lightly.  And it's the day that I am reminded that the Church's one foundation, and MY one foundation, is Jesus Christ.  No matter what. 

Though with a scornful wonder
we see her sore oppressed,
by schisms rent asunder,
by heresies distressed,
yet saints their watch are keeping;
their cry goes up, "How long?"
And soon the night of weeping
shall be the morn of song.


Mid toil and tribulation,
and tumult of her war,
she waits the consummation
of peace forevermore;
'til, with the vision glorious,
her longing eyes are blest,
and the great church victorious
shall be the church at rest.
(The Church's One Foundation, Samuel Stone)

We sang these words in church this morning, and it made me weep with the beauty and the promise of it all. We aren't home yet, but we will be one day soon.  And in that day where there is no more night and no more pain and no more divorce, we, the church victorious, shall finally be the church at rest.

Come quickly, Lord Jesus.

Three Months?!

My blog is the first of three home pages that greet me every time I open my web browser.  Every day I think, "You should post something today.  People are counting on you.  You have something to say."  While it may be untrue that people are counting on me, I should post "today," and I do have something to say.  But every day life takes more time than the sun and moon are willing to allot.  So every day I say nothing.

The other day, though, I looked at FunnyWriterMommy when I opened my web browser, and I thought three months?!  THREE MONTHS?!  Seriously?  Something must be done.  Three months is a very long time. 

That was one week ago.

I didn't know when I began that day what the day would bring, had already brought.  And, reflecting on the past three months, I didn't think about what that amount of time really meant.

Three months is, indeed, a long time.  But, somehow, by the end of last week Monday, it seemed like a very short time.  Three months ago, we baptized Addison, giving her to God, acknowledging that she had always been His, and thanking Him for the short life of Baby Zion.  Then, we got back to living our lives.  Since then, Addie has learned to eat "real" food.  She has learned to roll over from her front to her back and back over again.  She babbles now, and she giggles.  Megan speaks much more clearly now and is learning to potty on the toilet, and Ellie has really learned to read.  For us, it has been a long time.

But for one family, the time was too short. 

Three months ago, Vaughn Arthur Barckholtz wasn't sick.  He was just a healthy, four-year-old boy learning to enjoy books and loving his mom, his dad, his cousins, his flashlight, and his every day.  He was full of life.  Then he started to get bruises.  He started to have pain where he didn't before.  He started to get sick.

Less than three months ago, he was diagnosed with ALL Leukemia, and he was sent to the University of Michigan Hospital in Ann Arbor.  In March, he beat his leukemia.  But then he got RSV and pneumonia.  He beat the RSV, though his lungs were severely damaged, but he couldn't beat the pneumonia.  It was diagnosed as MRSA.  Then, by a miracle, he beat that, too.  Machines were keeping him alive as treatments tried to fix his lungs.  But he was alive.  And he was free of all those letters that had tried to take him from his family.

Then, on a Saturday, he started bleeding.  Doctors couldn't understand where the bleeding was coming from, or why.  Two days later, one week ago today, his heart rate skyrocketed while his blood pressure plummeted.  His family gathered, and they told him they loved him.  Because they did.  The last three months hadn't changed that.  But it wasn't enough.  For reasons we won't understand until they cease to matter as we stand at the feet of our Savior, God called him home.  Just a couple of days shy of 4 and a 1/2 years after God delivered him into the arms of his parents, God called him home.  That wasn't long enough, God.  It just wasn't.  How can three months seem like such a long time while 4 1/2 years isn't long enough?  And how can three months be a long time for some but be far too sudden for a little boy to go from healthy to gone from this world?

I don't know.  But I know that Beau's cousin Chad and his wife Sarahbeth will never fully recover from this three months.

O God, whose beloved Son took children into his arms and blessed them: Give us grace to entrust Vaughn to your never-failing care and love, and bring us all to your heavenly kingdom; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. 

Most merciful God, whose wisdom is beyond our understanding: Deal graciously with Chad and Sarahbeth in their grief.  Surround them with your love, that they may not be overwhelmed by their loss, but have confidence in your goodness, and strength to meet the days to come; through Jesus Christ our Lord.  Amen.

Taken from The Book of Common Prayer, The Burial of the Dead: Rite Two, "At the Burial of a Child"

First Birthday

Today I started (and brought up to date) Addie's first year calendar. I'm late on it because my mom bought it for her "for Christmas" (even the newborns are not exempt from calendar gifts!), and she gave it to me on Thanksgiving. So today I dated the undated pages, placed stickers to mark each month's aging and first holidays, and wrote all that we have accomplished in just under six weeks.

Six weeks is surprising to me. I feel like she's always been here. I also feel like I've been on maternity leave for months and months, rather than just six weeks. In fact, six weeks from tomorrow I was busily finishing our website edits thinking I still had another week. Funny how one day can change everything.

For now her only calendar notes are growth and new visitors. Her "firsts" consist of bottles, babysitters, and church services.

Oh, how that will change in the months to come. I have stickers to mark her first time rolling over, her first attempts at food (which will mostly result in her 80th-100th baths), her first waves, her first words, and her first steps. Oh, the changes between now and her first birthday.

As I filled in the dates and noted the holidays and family birthdays, I found myself longing for a place to note Baby Zion. To prove that the baby existed for more than just those first few weeks with Addison. But there isn't room on the calendar. We received a beautifully hand-decorated photo album for Addie, and the woman who made it thoughtfully left space for the few pictures we have to show that there were twins. There is room in the album. But the days and weeks and holidays and firsts aren't there. No stickers are needed to detail fourteen and a half weeks of existence, despite the lifetime of missing they created.

Oh, the changes between now and Addison's first birthday, which is also the first birthday of the day that we really had to say goodbye to Baby Zion. God willing, there will be many birthdays for Dear Addison. She'll count them down on a calendar and celebrate them all with pictures that she can put in an album filled with her memories. And somewhere, tucked away in our hearts, there will still be room for Baby Zion.

A Mother's Intuition and a Father's Preparation

I got pregnant in February. It has never been hard for us to conceive--we've been blessed to get pregnant in the month that we have started trying for all three of my pregnancies. It's a blessing that not many woman get to enjoy.

So, knowing that we wanted our last two children close together, shortly after our youngest daughter's first birthday we conceived our "number last" child. During the early stages of pregnancy I struggle with nausea, tiredness, soreness, and many other ailments common to those early days. I also struggle with anxiety, wondering if the baby will be okay, if it will live, who it will look like, how it will fit in our family, what gender it will be . . . again, common to any newly-pregnant woman.

This time was a bit different. This time my cravings were different and some of my normal symptoms weren't there. This time my anxiety led me to check with friends and call the doctor's office. This time I just knew there was something wrong.

I explained those feelings away by referring to the postpartum depression I struggled with after the birth of our second daughter. I explained them away by chuckling at my belief that God could never give us only good, being afraid of what blessings He had for us, and knowing that the shoe would have to fall eventually. But they persisted. Even through the two checkups where we heard the heartbeat and I measured the right size, they persisted. Something was wrong and soon we would learn what--I just knew it.

Our one and only ultra sound was scheduled for June 16 at 2:45 p.m. As I tried to sleep on Monday night, I was plagued by dreams and anxiety that I haven't known for years. I woke early on Tuesday morning and laid in bed wishing, willing, praying, breathing away my anxiety. Nothing worked. I spent the day being quite productive in the office--it helped to keep my mind off the knots in my stomach--and left for my appointment at 2:30 p.m. Walking out of the office, I had the overwhelming sense that I would not return the same. I knew that our appointment that afternoon would change everything about our lives.

"Don't WE have a flair for the dramatic," I thought. Then I whispered a prayer that God would prepare us for whatever we would learn that afternoon.

Leaving the parking garage AFTER the appointment, I admitted to God that it would have been hard to be prepared for what we learned. But I thanked Him for doing it anyway.

We got called early for our ultra sound, and I settled in to the bed and the goop and prepared to see our baby for the first time. As the tech zoomed around, we caught a glimpse of Baby. She kept moving, and we saw Baby again. She said, "Is this your first ultra sound?" We said yes. Then she focused on Baby again, but I couldn't see its heart beating. Momentary panic. As focus became more clear, however, we saw a little heart beating away. 146 beats per minute. Strong, solid, consistent. Beautiful.

Then in a quiet voice, the tech said, "I see something else that I have to tell you. There's something here." I cannot express the terror that sets in at words like that. Then rationality: a hole in the heart, a problem with the brain, a missing limb . . . we can deal with these things.

I held my breath, and I'm sure Beau did, too, as we heard her say, "There is a twin, but it's heart isn't beating. It's much smaller, and it stopped growing. I'm sorry."

I'm sorry?!
We're having twins?
Our baby died?
How? Why?
Does this dead baby stay in me until I deliver?
I have to deliver it?!
Will the other baby be okay?
What would we have done with two?
Can I please go home now?

So many questions, and almost no answers. Even worse, so many conflicting feelings flooding my mind. Grief over the baby we lost. Joy over the baby that is there. Relief that we never knew there were twins and didn't have the chance to wrap our hearts around two babies. Pain. Fear. Regret.

Peace.

We were prepared, if you can be. I had known that something was wrong, so I was ready for it, even though I couldn't have dreamed up this reality. We had no reason to suspect twins, and the doctor had nothing but apologies to offer us. But we had more than that. We had peace. We had the knowledge that our beautiful baby--whose gender we may never know--is now Baby Zion, celebrating eternity in heaven with a Father who has always known its identity, its heart, its beauty.

The rest of the ultra sound was thankfully much less eventful. Except for gender, we got every glimpse, picture, and reassurance that we needed from Twin A. And every time the tech typed "Twin," my heart lurched. The true pain came when she needed to record the heart beat, or lack thereof, of Twin B. To watch her push record on a flat line and see our baby on the screen with its still heart . . . I have never known that pain. The true joy came after I got to go to the bathroom (a small joy in itself!), and she resumed the ultra sound on the healthy baby. Up until that point, the position had been wrong to get a picture of its heart. I laid back down, accepted the goop again, and settled in . . . she put the paddle on my stomach, and we were immediately rewarded with a beautiful four-chambered heart. I have never known that relief.

So here we sit. There is one healthy baby in my stomach, and it is kicking me regularly. That, in itself is a gift from God, because I normally only feel it every 2 or 3 days. It kicked me to sleep last night and is reminding me again this morning that life goes on. That I am loved and held and have beheld the true beauty of life--and death--in the presence of God. There is also one dead baby in my stomach, and its little body will remain unchanged while we monitor the growth of its twin. In 20 weeks I shall deliver them both. One will be tested, and the other will test us. One will live with God and in our hearts, the other will live with us and in our arms.

Someday what I have written here, and the kind thoughts we have received from our Family, will perhaps help our living twin to understand what it lost and what it gained in its 14 1/2 weeks shared with Baby Zion. It will be an entry to talk about heaven and eternity and how God carries us. Delivery day, baptism day, birthdays, the first day of kindergarten, graduation, wedding day . . . every day will be tempered with what could have been and what is. We will always wonder, yet we will always rejoice that our Zion is in eternity forever without ever having to spend a day living in sin and pain. To slip from its mother's tummy, from the love it was created with and our desire to have it with us, into a world with no more night is a beautiful thing. It's a sad thing, but it is joyous too.

My grandfather died in September of 1998. My grandmother died last October. My sister's father-in-law, who was like a dear uncle or extra grandfather to my own girls, died in January. Countless friends have lost babies they didn't get to hold. All of these people--these people we love and who loved us--were there to greet our Baby Zion on its arrival on a day in mid May. This is the first of his great grandchildren that my grandpa got to meet. There is comfort there. May they know true joy together until the day that we are greeted by them and can celebrate eternity the way we were made.

We are blessed.

Softly and Tenderly

My grandma died on Tuesday night. I wasn't there. To hear it told, though, and I have, over and over, it was beautiful. It's a lovely thing, to hear it over and over.

It really was beautiful and sweet, and Grandma got to say goodbye to everyone she loved and who loved her. We were first. On Sunday we stopped at the Hospice House to see her. She was there not because her death was imminent but because my parents were out of town (camping with us) and their house sprung a gas leak. Craziness.

Our visit on Sunday was also sweet and beautiful. She was wittier and livelier and more fun than she had been in a long time. She and Ellie played games with Ellie's cow, Betsy, and she was sassy with me, too. But even in the middle of all of that, she looked so sad. I wanted to climb in bed with her, but I didn't. I didn't, because for a moment I was that little girl again, afraid that she wouldn't want me there.

Grandma's death--her last few days, really--were filled with sweetness and beauty. That's a strange thing, because she wasn't always. People don't normally speak ill of the dead, and I won't do that either. I'll just be honest. My relationship with my grandma was challenging, and I was afraid of her until that last day. That last day, I sat there looking at her, and she was so sad and vulnerable . . . and beautiful. We didn't talk about our past, and we didn't talk much about the future. But I knew that she loved me and she knew that she loved me, and I loved her back. Most importantly, perhaps, I knew that I loved her back. With my kiss goodbye to her, there was closure. Though I didn't know it would be the last kiss she could give me back, I said all that I wanted to--all that I needed to--in that last kiss. And it was lovely.

Grief is an interesting thing. Though Grandma was 92, and I had joined the forces--Grandma included--praying each day that God would take her Home, it's still just a bit shocking. It's strange to think that when I go to my parents' house again, she won't be there. She won't ask us to lock the door before it is even shut behind us. She won't give popcorn to Ellie until I tell her to stop, only to have her switch to jelly beans or peanuts. She won't be there.

She's Home. And, in the end, that is the most beautiful thing about the whole bit.

Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling,
calling for you and for me;
see, on the portals he's waiting and watching,
watching for you and for me.

Come home, come home;
ye who are weary come home;
earnestly, tenderly, Jesus is calling,
calling, O sinner, come home!
- "Softly and Tenderly," Will L. Thompson

Ellie went trick or treating with my niece Danielle tonight, so I sat with my sister. We handed out candy and watched a movie, but more than once one of us said, “I really miss Grandma.” It’s strange that I didn’t think about her every day before she died, and now I do. I know that will fade with time, but for now I remember wistfully or painfully or gratefully . . . mostly I just remember. Not all of the memories are wonderful, because we had a strange relationship, but she really was one of the most permanent fixtures in my life. She was always there. And now she’s not. And, as Ellie said yesterday, “I can’t see this heaven, where Nana is. It must be far, far away.” And then I think of Narnia. Every time.