Thirty

Saturday Dan I arrived home from a short outing to be greeted by a houseful of friends yelling "Surprise!"  Together we shared a lovely afternoon noshing on food, catching up, and laughing.  I found it deeply meaningful that all in once place I could see friends from different areas of my life— individuals from various churches, our cancer connection group, family members.

at the party Saturday...Theo and I are so sweaty!  

Did I mention I'm turning 30 today?  Well, I am.  I am glad to embark on a new decade, but am also fully cognizant that I will not be sharing this one with Vincent.  I knew him, held him, kissed him and nursed him when I was my twenties.  Last year on my birthday Vincent and I were sharing a hospital bed and recording videos of us playing together. That will never happen in this decade—or this life, for that matter.

my 29th birthday with Vincent

Turning 30 feels bittersweet (at this moment, rather bitter) but Saturday while talking with friends, eating, drinking and opening presents, it was pretty sweet.  Thanks to all of you who sent messages, prayed for me, and/or e-mailed.  You rock! (Can I still say that now I've hit the semi-big 3-0?)

Good Morning!

It's a beautiful day. I'm feeling one with God and the world.

Later this morning we are going to a spa.

Please don't hate me too much!

Easter Weekend

We had a good Easter weekend.  I needed that, especially after a very difficult week.

All week long Theo missed his brother like crazy.  Then on Wednesday we had Vincent's 5 month "angel" date, which sort of blindsided me.  Dan and I have also been trying to figure out what will happen after he completes graduate school next month.

Transitions are not fun.  Theo wants another sibling.  I want some sort of career (and maybe another kid?) Dan wants a meaningful job.  I want it to include money.  It's been tough.

Theo was absolutely gleeful on Easter Sunday.  We finished going through his resurrection eggs during the week, each containing a little object having to do with holy week and with the upcoming celebration on Easter.  Sunday morning he hunted down dozens of eggs in our house (thanks for putting that together, Aunty Amy and Popo!) and got to wear a new outfit, complete with bow-tie and matching handkerchief.

In all, it was a good few days.  Vincent got some new flowers on his grave, we got to eat a nice lunch together and have a nap at home.  Theo got to play Angry Birds to his hearts content on the ipad.  I read a bunch of books.  Dan didn't do any homework.

Hooray for happy endings!  (or I should say, beginnings!)

The place of your pain: An Easter Meditation

Throughout the Lenten season I've been viewing this upcoming Easter Sunday as a sort of magical day.   I've been hoping that when I wake up on Sunday morning, a sort of ephipany will come to me of God being triumphant over brokenness, sin, death, and throughout the whole day I'll be joyful in God's presence.  I've been anticipating that this Easter Sunday will be full of exultant and expectant hope for me.

But the closer it gets to Sunday, the more I realize that my expectations of the day may indeed fall quite short.  In fact, I may feel no different from today.  I may still feel cautious, hesitant, wary.  I may still be afraid to hope for better things, unsure of what even to hope.

I was thinking about this yesterday in the car when a thought came to me.  It has to do with the Easter story in Matthew 28, so I'm including it below.

"After the Sabbath, at dawn on the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to look at the tomb. There was a violent earthquake, for an angel of the Lord came down from heaven and, going to the tomb, rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothes were white as snow. The guards were so afraid of him that they shook and became like dead men. The angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here; he has risen, just as he said. Come and see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples: ‘He has risen from the dead and is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him.’ Now I have told you.”      

So the women hurried away from the tomb, afraid yet filled with joy, and ran to tell his disciples. Suddenly Jesus met them. “Greetings,” he said. They came to him, clasped his feet and worshiped him.”

I've been hoping that this Sunday I break free of my grief, joyfully celebrating the risen Savior, reveling in the implications of his resurrection.  I've been wanting to experience the glory of this day wholeheartedly. And yet I'm starting to realize that perhaps I can experience the wonders of the resurrection just as well in my current state of shock and sorrow.

In fact, celebrating Easter Sunday while filled with grief is rather fitting.  After all, Mary Magdelene and her friends were themselves weighed down with grief that first Easter morning.  They had put all their hope in Jesus being the Messiah.  Although they had been so sure that he was the one sent from God to save them all, they had just seen him brutally beaten and publicly crucified.  They had followed him for years, supporting him, watching him heal the sick, bring hope to the oppressed.  And now he's been killed.

I can imagine their grief, their devastation at his death, their disappointment.  I can see them walking to the tomb while carrying embalming ointments, readying themselves to see Jesus' body, riddled with wounds, one last time.  And yet they went anyway to the place of their pain.  They went to visit the place of their deepest disappointment, of their darkest tragedy.  

Perhaps all I have to do this coming Sunday is simply to visit the place of my pain.  The place inside where I feel abandoned, wronged, wounded.  Because that's what the women did this first Easter morning.

Now going to the place of our pain isn't easy.  Some of us haven't visited it in a long time.  Some of us have rolled such large stones in front of it that it cannot be readily visited or easily experienced.  Others of us have chosen to forget we have places of pain, or are guarding ourselves from uncovering our own wounds, from working through our past hurts.  You will find the place of your pain where you are the most guarded, the most barricaded.  It's a place of darkness, of decay.  It's a place where you have a lot of defenses built up.  And it, to varying degrees, is within each one of us.

But the story doesn't end there.

Because after the women went to the place of their pain, they found that the heavy tombstone had been rolled away, the guards disarmed by the presence of an angel.  They found that the place of their pain had been made accessible to them.

So this Easter Sunday, choose to visit the place of your pain.

Go there yourself or take a friend with you, but choose to go to the place of your wounds, of your disappointment!  Like the women on that first Resurrection morning, you may find that dark place opened for you, the large stone rolled away, the guards disarmed.  Perhaps if you are able to visit the place of your pain you will find the power of it broken over you, even supernaturally.

In the midst of your fear and sorrow, least expecting it, you will find the Risen Savior.  In the midst of your deepest disappointment and tragedy, you will find that you are not alone.  And when we go to the place of our deepest pain, we may find instead the Risen Christ, generously greeting us.

A Small Grace

Today I was running late to a counseling appointment.  Since I was in such a rush to drop Theo off at preschool, both he and I ran from the parking lot of the school all the way into his classroom. Theo thought it was fun.  I was a bit breathless.  I signed him in, got back to the car and was almost at the counselors office when I realized the pendant had fallen off my necklace.

This pendant was a silver replica of Vincent's fingerprint.

You see, I had molds taken of Vincent's fingerprints a few weeks before he died.  Through etsy I found an artisan who worked with fingerprint jewelry and they made me a gorgeous fingerprint necklace that I received in the mail a few days before Vincent died. This necklace wasn't stolen during our break-in, as I had been wearing it at the time.  But now it was lost.

I called the preschool quickly and talked Mrs. Nancy, one of Theo's teacher, who started to look for it.

About halfway through the counseling appointment I got a phone call from the preschool director. They found the pendant!  Now all I have to do is fix the bale.

...I wish all our problems were solved this quickly!

Dreams

Two nights ago Theo had some really bad nightmares.  He woke me up yelling "Vincent!  Vincent!" and his blankie was wet with tears.  He slept in our bed the rest of the night.  The next morning he slept in rather late, and when he finally woke up I asked him what his bad dream was about.   Apparently he dreamt that hordes of bugs were coming after him.

Not sure how Vincent fit into that dream.

So I took Theo into my arms, and rocked him while praying blessing, peace and safety over him.  When I was done, I told him that maybe one day he'd be able to have dreams of Jesus.

"But I did dream of Jesus!"

"What?? Last night??"

Apparently after his nightmare Theo dreamt that he and Vincent were in our car, buckled into their car seats in the back.  Nobody was driving the car, but it was moving.  Dan and I were nowhere around.  (sounds like a nightmare, right?)  But then Jesus got into the car and started driving.

I asked him how he felt in the dream.

He breathed a dramatic sigh of relief.  "Sooo happy!!"

That was a good dream.

So my prayer for you, for me, and for Theo is that when we're feeling lost and abandoned, may Jesus direct us to our heart's true home.  And when it feels that our lives are on the fast track to nowhere, when it feels that we're riding in a driver-less car, may our distress be turned to joy at the sight of Jesus' face.  

Sowing Tears, Reaping Joy

Last week we attended the monthly Childhood Cancer Connection support group at our local children’s hospital.

I think it’s funny how I feel more at home with the people in this cancer support group (that I haven’t known that long!) than with practically anyone else I know.  I couldn’t tell you what each member does for a living or where they live, but I can tell you about their children.  I could tell you about about two beautiful teenagers who are no longer dealing with their failing bodies and treatment side effects. 

I could speak of kids and preteens and teenagers partying up a storm with heaven’s angels.  I could tell you about a handsome preschool boy who’s now making funny faces with Jesus.  I could tell you stories of valiant fighters, stories of kids who are taking their toxic treatments in stride, who are being strong for their devastated families, who are going to school and receiving chemotherapy at the same time.  I can tell you stories of relapse, remission, and recovery.  

And they know about my son Vincent.  I don’t need to explain anything to them, or be afraid of sobbing, or put on a happy face, or watch my language.  They have all looked death in the face and seen, if only in their imagination, life without their beloved children.  They have all faced the chaos of diagnosis and unrelenting treatment.  Some of us have seen our children slowly slip away.  Others have witnessed wondrous steps toward recovery.  No wonder we have an amazing bond.  

Our Childhood Cancer Connection group feels like a little bit of heaven.  It's safe.  It’s a place where you don’t have to have any “right” answers, where you can vent, cry, laugh, tease, plan, eat, celebrate and remember.  There is an aura of compassion and openness in the room.  

Shouldn’t our churches be like this?  Places where we can vent, cry, laugh, tease, plan, eat, celebrate and remember?  Has our 21st century Western church become so far removed from pain and suffering that it’s hard for us to know how to treat those of us in our midst that are hurting?  Our family was blessed to have individuals in our church that helped us carry our cross, and were with us every week until the end of Vincent’s life, but that’s more the exception than the norm.  

We laugh and cry easily at our group meetings.  We wear our emotions on our sleeve, and somehow, through the pain, we actually have fun.  How can we as believers (or nonbelievers) become more in touch with our pain, and through that, to our shared joy?  How can we tap into the communality of the shared sorrow of our human existence?  

Perhaps that’s the wrong question.  Perhaps the real problem is not that we don’t know how to tap into our shared sorrow but more that we’re unwilling to do it.  We don’t want to have our hearts broken.  We keep them safely guarded while we entertain ourselves with games, work, TV, food, sex, fashion, religiosity, Apple products (that’s me), and other good-yet-not-meant-to-be-ultimate things.  I’ve turned off the TV countless times to avoid hearing stories of devastation around the globe.  Why?  Because I didn't want to feel anything, and I knew if I watched it I would feel pain.  So I simply closed my ears and chose another activity.

So I don’t blame you if you don’t want to cry with me or with someone else close to you who is suffering.  Perhaps you can’t.  Perhaps you’re afraid that if your heart breaks your life will be ruined.  And it might.

But maybe if you’re willing to lose your life, you’ll find it handed to you instead.  Maybe, if you sow in tears you’ll reap in joy.  Maybe you will even weep all night.  

But when the morning dawns, so will joy.