Raising Encouragers In An Atypical Life

ENCOURAGEMENT: /noun/ the action of giving someone support, confidence, or hope.

Giving support to others not only requires mental and emotional energy, but also and often a shade of vulnerability. I have to open myself up to help someone else. And this aspect of living in community, well, it can get complicated when I’m heartsick and weary. How can I possibly care for someone else when I feel in shreds…when my family feels shredded and resourceless? I suppose I expect to care and serve others out of my own excess of peace or joy. So how do I give joy when I don’t feel it in my life…when there is seemingly no excess? And how on earth do I teach my kids joy in the atypical?

I worry for the other three all the time: how will Chase’s cancer diagnosis harm them? How has all of this defined them or broken them? …perhaps even in ways we can’t see or won’t know until they’re adults themselves? (2:00AM thoughts that push the ‘panic’ button)

Will they struggle with what to believe? …with who and how to love? …with their life purpose? And how many of these struggles will they be able to pinpoint the birth of in a sibling’s terminal illness, subsequent struggles, and the too-often mentally, emotionally, or physically absent parents who should have been at their sides.

I want to fix all of these things before I even confirm their brokenness. I want to pre-empt all the pain and cushion it. And I acknowledge in my heart and even as I see with my own eyes that it often isn’t the big moment kicking in the teeth of their precious hearts, but the little one. If L-O-V-E is truly T-I-M-E, then it really is a moment by moment fight for the good to win through all the pain and craziness.

And here’s what I’ve found: there is so much I can’t take away from them, but there are things I can give them – almost like tools to build or weapons to war. Because life may be atypical, but it can still be incredible – it may not always be “good”, but it can still be right.

“Share each other’s burdens, and in this way obey the law of Christ.” Galations 6:2 NLT

Share.

Obey.

We were created for this. Despite the vulnerability and pain, we survive as we share the ups and downs of life with each other.

What does this concept look like in a feet-on-the-ground, eyes-open-wide way ? And what does it especially look like when the burden is a life shadowed by complicated illness and the burden carriers are little children?

FaceTime in the hospital

Notice Others: A huge part of developing encouragers is fostering awareness of those around you. Go around the dinner table and have each person say something they like or appreciate about the person to their left. This makes us have to consciously consider the good in others, and as we see this, we often see their hard things to comfort too.

Seek To Relate: “Do to others as you would like them to do to you. (Luke 6:31 NLT) This goes one step deeper than just seeing the person next to you. Actually try and put yourself into someone else’s shoes. Try to feel what they feel. This can be complex and even offensive in painful moments, but painfully easy and wonderful in life’s joy moments. And perhaps, there will be a fantastic and interesting discussion as you tie what your kids know and feel to what someone else close to them might know and feel.

Be Authentic: There are few things that can’t be worked through by talking to each other honestly and openly. If we genuinely don’t know what to say, I believe it’s okay to express that inept or powerless feeling and talk it through. This is often the most vulnerable moment, but also the most rewarding for in opening my heart, I invite the other person to open their heart as well.

Celebrate Victories:  Some victories will look like winning and others will be simply refusing to let the darkness, weariness, stress, or anger in. To feel the pull of pain, to deny it, and to choose joy or hope instead is a staggering victory and should be celebrated as such. (These moments aren’t always deep and nuanced. For some people in our family, this is as simple as forcing themselves out of bed the morning after a long day in the hospital.)

Just Stop: Sometimes I just have to stop and sit. Gather up my precious babies onto my lap, or under my arm, kiss their heads and tell them I love them. We cover ourselves with a blanket and just snuggle for a bit. Then, I breathe deep and say it aloud: “You guys, let’s just take a minute.” Because nothing tears at the heart and mind like constant, unabated stress and sometimes, miraculously, the petty fights and little hurts resolve themselves as we breathe deeply and remember love, not hate.

Just Go: Yes, sometimes we need to stop and breathe. However, other times, we need to get up and go. Hang the schedule and the clean house or the project that’s still not done… just go for a walk together, go to the park together. Or, even better, go check in on a neighbor, take popsicles to someone who just had surgery, take coffee to Daddy at work… These small things, especially the things that allow us to serve others are a constant, tangible reminder that we were not created to function in a void and that our personal pain, stress and hardships do not comprise the only story in the world. Breaking down the boundaries, meshing with others, reaching out – all of it – is like water on the tender growth of sensitivity.

Orchestra concert cheerleader

And dear ones, I hate writing list points because it feels like accomplishments checked off and won. The truth is: we are broken. We fail at these ALL the time, scratching each others’ eyes out with our words and our selfish hearts just as often as we hug and bind with joy. But I’m writing these things down all the same because I need to remember, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll find something encouraging here too. You are loved.

Moment by moment.

“All praise to God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. God is our merciful Father and the source of all comfort. He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us.” 2 Corinthians 1:4

 

Rejoicing In Your Scars

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Recently, as I put the littlest boys into bed, Chase stripped his shirt as he often does, referring to his white chest as his “rockin’ body’.  As he passed across the room towards his bed, Karsten came to stand in front of him, stopping him, and asking with quiet interest, “Hey, Chase, what are those lines?”  His small, chubby hand raised energetically to point at the slashes of central line scars that cover Chase’s upper chest on both sides.

For one small second, I held my breath. I wanted to jump in and explain. I wanted to “make it better” and take it away as I watched Chase begin to recoil. He hates questions about his physical appearance.  And some days, I hate that all the kids know these strange and awful cancer-y things.  But then, Chase stood up a little straighter, pressing out of his curve and removed the hand he’d used to quickly cover the scars, bringing his chest into the light.

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“Karsten, do you know what these are?

Karsten shook his head and waited patiently as Chase puffed himself up with the self-importance of a sibling about to teach a great lesson.

“These are from my needles and surgeries.”

“Surgeries?”

“Yes. They’re from my cancer and my chemo. Do you know what chemo is?”

“Yes! He’s in the closet!” Karsten ran to the closet and scooped up Chemo Duck, bringing him back and placing him in Chase’s outstretched arms. “Here, Chase. Here’s Chemo. He’s probably a duck.” To Karsten, who was only 8 months old on the fateful day in 2012, “chemo” is just the name of a stuffed animal, not a torturous experience. I waited.  Knowing what to say next was best left to Chase. Sometimes the simple dialogue between brothers is a thousand times more useful than maternal wisdom could ever be.

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He nodded gravely. “Thanks, Karsten, but there was more chemo. From the doctors. And now look…” he flexed his arm in the air, looking up at it proudly. “Look at my muscles. Chemo gave me good muscles.”

At which point, I felt the need to interject and redirect. Some days memory doesn’t come easily for him. “Chase, the chemo killed your cancer cells.”

He nodded as if he’d known all along. “Yep. And my hair too. But now it’s coming back. See, Karsten?”

He flexed again as Karsten watched the whole show in somewhat awed silence. And then Chase stopped and looked at me.

“Hey, Mom? The doctors didn’t make me. I forget…who made me?”

I ruffled his whispy-soft head. “God did, my sweet boy.”

He nodded yet again. “Oh, that’s right. Good. I’m glad.”

Karsten jumped up and down at my side. “Me too! Me too!”

And then the moment of deep attention was lost and the boys went back to getting ready for bed and intermittently wrestling, for that is what most small boys love to do.

But I saw this amazing moment unfold before my eyes.  Our history and our scars can hurt, can be shameful, stressful, and sad, but in the rehearsing of them, the telling of them to others, the owning of them, they point us to God in such unique ways.

Rejoice in your scars . . . moment by moment.

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