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Fighting Sleep

So, it had reached a point where I was not expecting to see Joe at Target, or in a crowd, or plopped down on the couch watching a soccer game on the tv. I had even begun to silently congratulate myself on how well I was coping.

That was before I decided to make room in the closet which held Joe’s clothes, and I picked up Joe’s wallet. I was alone in the house, and thought, “why not get a start on going through some of Joe’s clothes?”  If you have ever had to clean out a closet of clothes of a loved one (perhaps a parent or spouse) you know it is extremely difficult.  For me, cleaning out his closet meant I was erasing a piece of him.  It was already an emotionally, and physically difficult task.  Why did I choose to pick up the wallet?  Good question!  I was reading an email from a man Joe had worked with and the email was filled with compliments on Joe. Reading it was great in the sense of remembering how special Joe was, and awful in the sense of remembering how special Joe was.

So, the wallet. I guess at that point I longed for some kind of physical contact of Joe.  I opened it, knowing I was not ready to touch the mementos of his life, and yet being unable to stop myself.  I stared at his drivers license; you know those pictures are generally not flattering, but that day, gazing into those eyes, the picture was beautiful.  Next, I looked through his receipts.  Remember, Joe traveled, and he had to keep proof of his meals, hotels, and various other expenses.  There was a fast food receipt; I chuckled and I cried.  See, Joe was so honest, even though he could eat at nicer places, he almost invariably chose fast food places in order to keep costs down for his employer.  I had tried to convince him (some might call it guilting him) to eat at better places, so he could eat healthier, but could not persuade him.  Holding that receipt after holding his license really brought me down emotionally. But I had those clothes awaiting me, and the kids were not home to watch and mourn, so I quietly replaced the receipt he would never need, folded his wallet, and turned towards the closet.

I pushed aside furniture to get to the closet so I could begin; the first item that caught my eye was a sport coat covered with light dust. Oh god; it was just too much!  It wasn’t the coat that broke me; it was the dust covering the coat.  See, Joe was a meticulous dresser, and there would never be a speck of dust on him (or any imperfection).  I ran to my room and fell on the bed, praying for God to take me too; I just couldn’t cope any longer; I was empty.  I broke down in tears and fell into some semblance of rest.

And then I woke up.  I just laid there, trying to absorb the knowledge I was still here.  Knowing God wanted me here did not make it much easier to get out of that bed and begin again the painful process of moving forward in life without Joe by my side.

Then, my nights were filled with dreams of Joe and I. We were usually separated and I was attempting to bring us together again. In one dream, I thought it was the kids keeping us apart and suggested they live with his parents. In another, he was alive and at home but we knew he had a medical condition that would kill him at anytime and I was pushing myself to find the answer.  In yet another, he was driving home on a curving, winding road, the darkness lit only by the pale beams of light from his headlights.  Spindly pines hugged the road, with dark and deep water waiting just below.  I saw his car suddenly careen off the road and into the water and I tried to find, and save him, all the while knowing I will be too late.

It was exhaustive.  I felt robbed and cheated; sleep had generally been my solace and release from daily stressors.  Now, it was just another device that plagued me, and brought yet more pain. I no longer wanted to sleep; I fought it.   And I tried to address it.  I told my doctor I was exhausted and needed to sleep.  He tried several prescriptions he thought might help me rest.  None worked.  These were strong medicines that should have quieted my brain and body. I think my whole self was focused on making sense of Joe’s death, to such a degree, there were no known medications powerful enough to shut down the process.  It would be two years before the dreams stopped and my rest was again sound.

Is happiness possible when you are picking up poop?

poop bag

I heard a message today from Joel Olsteen which really resonated.  Mr. Olsteen was giving a sermon on choosing to be happy.  He gave an example that went kind of like this, “Suppose you have a job you can’t stand, and you want something better, something different, something more fulfilling. I bet if you lost that job, went months and months without finding another job, had difficulty paying your bills, and then were offered your old job back, you would probably be happy to take it!”  Same job, but a different attitude.  His point was, most of us already have everything thing we need to be happy but often, our attitude keeps us unhappy.  This blog isn’t about Joel; it is about choosing to be happy with your circumstances.

When Joe was alive, I had all I needed, and more, to be happy.  I had a house (with working air conditioning…a VERY important happiness maker), a husband who loved me and our children, and who put himself last, two healthy children, a number of pets, three crazy fun sisters, both mine and Joe’s parents, the ability to be able to stay home, and food to eat.  I had so much more, but for illustrative purposes, these should suffice.  I was abundantly blessed.  And yet, on far more occasions than I am comfortable admitting, I grumbled, I moaned, I complained.  “Joe, I need more help with the kids!” was a frequent refrain.  Plenty of times I would yell at Laurel “How many times do I have to tell you to clean this pigsty?”  Jackson was not immune; I would get on him too.  Instead of choosing to be happy, I chose criticizing and grousing.  I focused more on the negatives, and not nearly enough on the positives.  I could have given thanks for a spouse who worked so hard, for children that were healthy and relatively happy.  I should have been thrilled I was a parent, when so many people are unable to conceive.

Please don’t think I am championing some unobtainable, utopian pipe dream where all is peace, love, and harmony.  We are all going to lose our temper, get frustrated over the dog poop on the floor that no one but you seems to notice, and maybe we just feel argumentative sometimes.  I get it!  I still have days where nothing seems to go right and I want to yell, or punch something (and a pillow just will not work!).  But, more often than not, I am learning to choose happiness.

I have mentioned in previous blogs my unwavering belief that God produces good from bad.   He will always triumph over darkness.  I do not believe God punishes us or gets our attention by making us sick, killing our loved ones, or any other catastrophic method in order to accomplish His means.  Honestly, if you are a parent, or if you know a toddler, would you place their little hand on a hot stove to illustrate not to touch the glowing burner?  Obviously not; it is obscene.  Given the unending and magnificent love God as parent has for us, do you really think He would cause us pain on the magnitude of death or sickness in order to teach us to appreciate what we have?  Absurd!

Could God have healed Joe, or stopped the heart attack before it ever began?  Clearly.  But He did not, and I will probably never understand the why nots of that while I live here on earth, nor is that relevant for me.  God has created positives by encouraging me to seek happiness over discontentedness.  He sends reminders in the form of radio broadcasts, illustrating that attitude is most often the key factor in choosing to celebrate amongst the midst of the chaotic, churning free fall called life.

Losing Joe continues to remind me life with loved ones is never long enough and I want to treasure my time with them rather than focus on perceived shortcomings.  I want to be happy I have a dog, rather than be irritated I am the one who sees (and scoops) the poop.  I want to celebrate my fortune I can stay home and drive Jackson to school rather than whine because he doesn’t yet have his license.  I especially want to be happy I have two children who I love, rather than berate the testosterone fueled manboy (thanks Laura for the word) because he thinks of hundreds (or so it seems) of ways to “jokingly” call me stupid each and every day!  My prayer for you is if you are not already living each day choosing contentment,  you can learn, before a loved one dies, to be happy with the blessings life bestows.

(It IS possible to be happy while picking up poop, but it does help if you carry a bag!)

Doubts and Grace

I have been involved with Church since I can remember.  Some of my earliest memories from Sundays are of hurriedly dressing, being poured into white tights which bound and irritated my belly such I could have been a snake, bloated and tight, needing to shed its skin to relieve the pressure.  My Mom was generally stressed out, attempting to corral four wild girls into “Sunday Clothes,” and her tone of voice grew more strident and louder the closer our departure time.  Sunday meant a stressful morning.  But all us sisters knew, as we pulled into the church driveway, our “happy family faces” better be on as we stepped out of the car, no matter how tense and poisonous the atmosphere which percolated inside the doors of our suburban station wagon.

Perhaps partially due to the fear I felt most Sundays before ever crossing the doors at church, my concept of God, and what He represented, was a mixed bag.  Certainly I absorbed the dogma of an All-knowing, All-powerful God; the God of the Old Testament seemed forever fixed, in my young mind, as a punisher of His people, pelting flames of justice from the skies, striking with deliberate randomness, as lightning to a tree standing tall and proud.  I mastered that concept easily; I heard it in sermons and lived it via my earthly parent weekly.  But the God of Love and Kindness, the Giver of overwhelming and underserved merciful grace and redemption was not so easily seen.   Oh, I now know God was there, quietly singing psalms of peace and forgiveness, whispering to me through hymns sung by our Choir; His glory shining via the colors of stained glass shards in windows, glowing with precision and pattern as the sun climbed ever higher while the church service progressed.  But the whispers of forgiveness and the light of glory was muted and quiet while my attention was focused on avoiding the punishment of an angered entity much more powerful than me.

My view was primarily unchanged until high school, when my Methodist Youth Fellowship leader, Hope Morgan (now Hope Morgan Ward) became the catalyst of radical change heretofore unknown in my life.  She was a guidepost of God’s love and she shared that love freely.  She taught, not in words so much, but through her compassion for her MYF pack, the poor and opressed, her ready and joyful laugh, and her patience with teens full of burgeoning hormones, confusion, hopelessness and just plain orneriness.  Oh, and her energy!!!  Hope was gifted with the energy of a litter of fat, wiggling puppies, bursting to escape their Mom/confinement and explore the world.  She took us to Washington DC, to Florida to work with migrants, and a multitude of other places, and her energy never seemed to lag.

It wasn’t that Hope was perfect.  She did lose her temper at times, mostly when some of us (like my sister, caught smoking and hanging with some of the boys we were sent to mission), broke rules present to protect us.  But Hope was imperfectly perfect.  Seeing her discipline my sister and others of us (and I am sure I was one), get angry and yet continue to radiate love and affection gave me a hint of the goodness of God.  That steady love was the birth for me, of a profound recognition of God as Love, as my Savior, and as Eternal Peace.

Of course, learning something for the first time does not mean you have learned it for life, at least for me.  I am too stubborn and too forgetful to remember much without steady study.  And so, as I have grown older and hopefully at least somewhat wiser, nuances of God’s character have caught my eye.  As a crystal reflects light, so too does God’s character shine as I gaze upon His word, His natural world, His people acting as His body, His hands, His feet.

But, and I realize you may never have felt this way, but perhaps you have; in my heart, residing comfortably alongside the knowledge of God’s goodness, was still a fear of death.  It wasn’t exactly the fear of leaving this world although I have delighted in my time here among family and friends, though it was partly a fear of leaving.   It wasn’t exactly the fear I held, in my thoughts limited by my human capacity for understanding, that I would miss you all and I didn’t want to leave you, though it was partly a fear of loss.  It wasn’t exactly the fear of not having taught my children enough, of not having completely filled them with the strength of God, though it was partly a fear of failure.  Mostly, if I am honest with myself and you, and I long to be honest with both of us, I was doubtful.  I am still stung by this comprehension, and it hurts me, because I know God was pained by my unbelief.  I doubted God’s promise of eternal life.  Oh, I professed belief in eternal life, and even mostly believed; but fear and lack of faith were never quite excised; the tools I to which I had access were not sharp enough; their edges were dull, their blades weak.

Until…the day after Joe died.  I have let you know, more than once I trust, God will always produce good from bad.  Sometimes we wait longer than others, and sometimes we will not see the good until we see God face to face.  Now understand, for me, and maybe you struggle with this same affliction, waiting on results sucks!  When I was in school, I wanted my test results the day I took a test.  When I see the doctor for some medical procedure or test, I want the results immediately!  I want dessert before dinner; I just don’t appreciate waiting!  And sometimes, just sometimes, the wait is short.

When Joe visited me the day after his death while I was bathing (remember this from an earlier blog?), all my doubts and my unbelief vanished.  Poof!  The fear was removed with a laser sharp device; God sent Joe with a message of truth and goodness.  There is simply no room left in my soul anymore for faithlessness.  I know, with all the knowledge I possess, and will ever possess, I will have eternal life, and I will see you again.  God’s goodness has no boundaries and His love for us is steadfast and true.  I pray, if you are struggling as I did for so many years, that God will somehow, in His greatness, take these words I have written and use them to pour His love into your heart and soul, so you are full and quenched, there is no more room for doubt and fear, the knowledge of eternal life becomes real to you, and you are as excited as I am to see each other again!  Amen.

I will see you soon Joe!

Intermission

Many stories may be helped by a brief respite; at least you may relish an intermission from my musings!  In any case, I recently read a book which has entrenched itself in my heart and I want to share it with you with the hope it may affect you as well.

It is called Kisses From Katie and once I learn how to insert pictures I will add a book cover photograph.  Written by Katie J. Davis, it is her story on how she was called to move from Tennessee to Uganda, and begin working to improve the lives of the people of Uganda at the age of 18.  

At first I only read a few pages at any one sitting; throughout the book Katie gives God credit for all her accomplishments and I doubted her genuineness.   However, somewhere between the time she adopted 13 girls, and fed hundreds of people daily, I  was a convert!  There is no way she could achieve all she has without supernatural guidance and strength!   There is humor, sadness, and poverty in her book, but above all, love is on every page.

Katie has challenged me, and I hope and pray she will challenge you too.  One of the worst standouts (you’ll understand my phrasing in a moment) was reading how she met parents who “made cakes of mud and salt to fill their children’s bellies.”  I thank God I have never been so desperate that I have had to feed my children mud.  Also quoting from her book, “the truth is that the 143 million orphaned children and the 11 million who starve to death or die from preventable diseases and the 8.5 million who work as child slaves, prostitutes…and the 2.3 million who live with HIV add up to 164.8 million needy children.  2.1 billion people on this earth proclaim to be Christians.  The truth is that if only 8 percent of the Christians would care for one more child, there would not be any more statistics.”

Wow!  Now, I am not good with math or statistics, that was Joe’s forte (among mechanical engineering, history, writing and most everything else), however what I get from this is that if we would all sponsor one hungry child upon this earth, we would make a BIG improvement in world hunger!  It doesn’t matter if the child is from Uganda, Haiti, the Appalachian Mountains, or Raleigh.  A hungry child is a hungry child.  

Imagine what we can accomplish together; I sponsor a child and you sponsor a child, and your friend sponsors a child and so forth and so forth.  Katie has begun an organization called Amazima and for $300 (or $25 a month), you help provide for 600 children.   For the cost of a few mocha lattes, 600 people can eat. 

But there are many other charitable organizations to choose from if Amazima doesn’t speak to you!  For help in selecting one, Charity Navigator (www.charitynavigator.org) researches hundreds of charities and provides free ratings.  I have used it and found it very helpful in my decision-making.  

 

 

Forever changed

Laurel and I walked to the car without words, each of us focused on what needed to be done before we left Raleigh.  I was obsessing about Jackson, and how he would react to his Dad’s “weakness.”  Joe was the strong, rational one in the family and we all relied on him, but Jackson needed his Dad to be an oasis of calm in a sea of tumultuous emotions (I’m afraid that was, and is me.  Some people even suggest I can be a touch dramatic!).

Laurel was busy making a mental “to do” list of what her Dad would need in the hospital, and what she should pack for herself in case the two of us decided to stay overnight.  Laurel lives by her “to do” lists and I concede she is mighty organized (her room withstanding).

Anyway, after explaining the situation to Joe’s dad, making arrangements for him to pick Jackson up from school that afternoon, and packing a few items for Joe, we set off to Winston Salem.  At some point before we left, I posted a prayer request on FB.  Wanting to cover all my prayer bases I also sent an email to our Sunday School class.

As I drove, Laurel and I began bickering about the navigation.  Now, six months later, I can’t even remember the specifics, something about finding the fastest route on the GPS, and how she was a terrible navigator.   It was about 11:20; over an hour had passed since the call and we were very anxious, and terribly aware of the passing of time.  A deep urgency was thrumming through my body, screaming at me to hurry.  Nonetheless, I decided to detour onto Ridge Road so we could take a few minutes to safely program the address.

As I slowed down to pull over to the curb, the phone rang.  I will forever believe this was one of many times God has interceded during this whole mess.  Had Laurel and I not been arguing about directions, we would have been barreling down Highway 440 at 65 mph.  I answered the phone and the man on the other side said he was an ER doctor in Winston Salem. He did give his name, but I have no recollection of it and absolutely no interest in obtaining it.  He was simply the Voice which bore the news that changed us forever.

As he asked me if I was seated, my mind was yelling “God, please, please, please, please…” but I quietly, and as expressionlessly as possible answered with a simple “yes.”  Remember, Laurel was in the car, right beside me, hyper-sensitive to the minutia of any emotional displays.  The Voice then clinically proceeded to inform me, that although they had done all they could, Joe didn’t make it.  He gave me all the medical jargon; I cared nothing for it.  What did it matter to me the pathway of Joe’s death?  How could Joe’s heart stop when he had one of the biggest hearts I knew?  The doctor asked me if I understood.  Although I answered with a yes, I did not comprehend.  It didn’t make sense; he had just left the day before for an overnight business trip and was due back later that afternoon.

By God’s continued intercession, Ridge Rd, where I pulled over, is the street where we work.  All I could focus on was getting to the school, to Penny.  I knew she would be able to support me spiritually, and I did not want to tell Laurel her Dad had died as we were sitting in a parked car.  I think somehow, Laurel had an inkling.  She asked me over and over if the call was news about her Dad, but she never pressed for information.  When we arrived at the preschool, I let her know her Dad didn’t make it.  Oh, the torment in her face stabs me even today.  “Daddy?  My Daddy?” she cried, in a little girl’s voice.  And all those tears she had bravely choked back when we first heard Joe had a heart attack came back with a force that overcame her.  As she doubled over with the pain, I put my arms around her and led her to the place where I hoped solace awaited; the preschool.