Tag: joy

Of Wheelchairs And Joy

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Her life as she knew it changed forever when she was 17 and she has faithfully used the crazy hard changes for truth and beauty and just recently, the children and I had the great privilege of actually meeting Joni Eareckson Tada.  I watched their faces and they were afraid to get too close lest they hurt her – they have yet to fully understand her wheelchair and it’s reasons – but she smiled at them and encouraged them to come closer and they couldn’t resist her joy.

Do you know her story?   It’s real and it’s raw and she’s a hero of mine because she never stops seeking the goodness of God when all the life circumstances are anything but.  Knowing her story, listening to her speak, reading her writing – all of it – is such a wonderful reminder that the day for no pain and tears is coming.  It is not today, but it’s coming, and God remains faithful while we wait.

Moment by moment.

“There is no circumstance, no trouble, no testing, that can ever touch me until, first of all, it has gone past God and past Christ, right through to me. If it has come that far, it has come with a great purpose.” – Alan Redpath

[This quote is a favorite of mine and is listed among Mrs. Tada’s favorites as well.]

 

The Second Year

Tuesday, July 31, 2012…

Two Years… Two whole years since the early morning panic gave way to a living nightmare on the day Chase was diagnosed.

What struck me most as I looked through the pictures and memories is that life can feel complicated now, and yet, as I look back over the last year and see such crazy hard times, I realize that I’m apt to forget what it looked like in the shadow of whatever the here and now happens to hold.  I can tend to see Chase’s deficits and struggles and not realize how healthy and robust he is now compared to the emaciated waif that was.   The truth is that much has changed.  The truth is also that there are many uncertainties ahead.  The truth is that God’s goodness and faithfulness to us have never and will never change.  And Chase is still living and breathing with us two whole years later.

We’ve spent many days listening to Rend Collective’s newest album.  Our family’s favorite song is “My Lighthouse” and I truly can’t think of better words to sum the year…the two years…or, the lifetime:

In my wrestling and in my doubts
In my failures You won’t walk out
Your great love will lead me through
You are the peace in my troubled sea

In the silence, You won’t let go
In my questions, Your truth will hold
Your great love will lead me through
You are the peace in my troubled sea

My Lighthouse, my lighthouse
Shining in the darkness, I will follow You
My Lighthouse, my Lighthouse
I will trust the promise, 
You will carry me safe to shore 
Safe to shore

I won’t fear what tomorrow brings
With each morning I’ll rise and sing
My God’s love will lead me through
You are the peace in my troubled sea

Fire before us, You’re the brightest
You will lead us through the storm

Even if we know nothing of what lies before us (and we don’t), we can look back and see the joy in so many ways.

Trusting He will lead us through the storm… moment by moment.

**Look back with us and find joy…**

To Channel The Fight: Follow Up

The brothers eat gummies and pick late night movies to help keep Chase awake
The brothers eat gummies and pick late night movies to help keep Chase awake

Yesterday’s EEG -a test we were told would take 4-6 hours- lasted a full 8 hours.

This face. For an easily over-stimulated child, the wet/cold electrodes all over his head were very difficult at first.
This face. For an easily over-stimulated child, the wet/cold electrodes all over his head were very difficult at first.

For Chase, who was being video-monitored (in addition to the electrodes covering his head), this meant about a 2 foot range of motion on the bed…for 8 full hours.

Chase.  Being still.  For 8 hours.  Ha.

Sleeping peacefully. An answer to prayer as sleep is an important component of the test.
Sleeping peacefully. An answer to prayer as sleep is an important component of the test.

Actually, he did incredibly well considering the circumstances.  It was a grueling day for him and he managed it with a great attitude.

There are few things that a lollipop and coloring time won't make better...even a head full of electrodes. :)
There are few things that a lollipop and coloring time won’t make better…even a head full of electrodes. 🙂

We haven’t done this test since the initial days of his diagnosis – haven’t kept him up late into the night since two days before we found out he had a tumor and I was amazed how going through the ritual again brought back the memories of those sleep deprived, scared hours when we first felt the dread of some unknown thing being very wrong with our little boy.  And then the memories passed and we had a great sense of peace and even joy in the middle of the long night and day.

We hope to hear some results within the week and will be able to discuss a plan of action with the epilepsy specialist in early April.  Thank you for your prayers.

Moment by moment. 

 

Joy In The Mirror

We sat at the long table in the restaurant.  A table full of friends who had invited us to join them and we’d agreed.  I looked at Bob and he looked at me over the wiggly, wriggling heads struggling to sit still like grown-ups do.  How crazy were we to say yes to a restaurant with three little boys in tow? 

Chase especially struggles to sit still (a running family joke given his name), and so he’d sit for a while at the table and then as a reward, I’d get him up and let him walk around and back before sitting a spell again.  And I watched people watch him… His shoes are like the shoes of other boys, his clothes and eyes and energy and everything else…and then his white, white head and the slightly faded, but oh so noticeable scar that runs the length of skull and you can see the looks of pity, the politely averted eyes.  I don’t blame them.  I’d do the same thing.  I find myself wanting to run up to them and say “It’s okay!  Look all you want!  This is a miracle in front of you!“, but instead, I smile, move on and caution Chase not to trip the servers in his enthusiastic dash.

You see, sometimes being out in public with a visibly chemo-worn child is like stepping in front of a mirror.  When we’re home or with good friends, we’re just us and everybody knows Chase.  But when we step out, like that day in the restaurant, it’s a mirror.  Stop.  Look.  We’re different.  This scar says our life looks nothing like yours.  The loudest of reminders in the slightest of glances.

And then, a family approached our table.  They spoke of mutual friends and places from years past, they knew Chase from his Facebook page and they prayed for him and they’d recognized him.  And then they encouraged us with their words and pressed a gift card into our hands.  “Your lunch is on us“, they said.  And then they were gone.

The gift card sits as a reminder with my papers – you just never know.  There in the mirror that day, there was fellowship and joy because of the recognizable scar.

So pay it forward, play it back, make it right, stop to help – don’t be afraid to make eye contact because you never know when you might be staring at a miracle.  And you might be stepping next to a battered parent in front of a battered mirror and showing them joy.

Moment by moment.

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Free From The Sting

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As a Christian, Easter is one of the most important times of my year. It’s the season I set aside to celebrate what Jesus did for me, but this year is more precious as I consider how the events of Easter fit into our cancer world.

I believe with all my heart that Jesus is the son of God, that the Bible is true, and that the promises it contains are real and this is why I so often include verses in my blog posts–to remind myself of what I know to be true when my circumstances are overwhelming (which they often are). In those moments, I literally have the physical sensation of drowning.  Believing as I do doesn’t change the pain of cancer or anything else in this life, but it can and does change how I face the drowning moments.

Often, like the thief on the cross next to Jesus–not the mocker, but the other–the weight of life and pain (some self-inflicted, some not) closes in and I cry out.  And then comes the reply,

“Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”

That’s it! This is the answer to the agony. The pain and suffering is only a season, because death is swallowed up in Jesus’ glorious victory and its sting is gone. One day soon I will be with Jesus in Paradise!

Because I know God made me, and I will be in Heaven with Him forever when this weary life is over, I am freed from the drowning to feel joy in sorrow and peace in chaos. Death may be sad, but it need not sting because this life is not the end, but the beginning.

In the midst of this cancer world, there can be incredible, inexplicable peace because my ultimate struggle has already been resolved. My sin was taken care of on the cross by God Himself! All that happens in my life is what He lovingly allows for His pleasure and glory. Someday I will be complete and lacking in nothing and with Him forever in fullness of joy.

This is my cancer foundation. This is my life foundation.

Moment by moment.

“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” Revelations 21:4

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