The faith of a child

Some years ago, my mother in law lay in a coma, following a devastating stroke. The amount of bleeding in her brain was not survivable. Her brainwaves showed no response beyond the most minimal blips in sync with her heartbeat and respiration, as her body attempted to maintain the vessel from which her soul was slowly fading. Each attempt to help her, resulted in more complications: the PICC line for IV fluids, medications, and TPN feeding ended up becoming infected and had to be removed. The gastric tube which was then surgically implanted into her stomach for tube feedings instead caused reflux of the nutritional supplement into her lungs and resulted in pneumonia. She no longer had a swallow reflex, and any attempt to ease a few drops of water into her parched mouth would have immediately been aspirated into her lungs. Her skin, rendered fragile by dehydration, broke down easily merely from the pressure of her bones against the soft bed, and started to form the earliest stages of bedsores. To watch this wonderful woman become more and more damaged by the very steps meant to sustain her was agonizing.

After consultation with her doctors, and with her family, the difficult decision was made to let her go, rather than inflicting any more damage in futile attempts to delay her passing. My husband had to sign the Do Not Resuscitate form; he was the eldest son, and his father was suffering from end stage Alzheimer's disease, and had only the barest understanding of what was happening to his wife of 50 years. The anguish of this responsibility tore at my husband's soul, and even years later, he finds it hard to forgive himself for not finding some way to save her.

She came under the care of some wonderful Hospice nurses, who cared for her and for her loved ones also. As we kept an around the clock vigil by her bedside, her nurses showed their compassion time and time again, by treating her with the utmost dignity and respect, and by keeping us informed of every change, no matter how small. She was now receiving only pain medications via the gastric tube, with enough water to wash them down, as well as medications to attempt to control the seizures that constantly wracked her body as the swelling in her brain put more and more pressure on her brainstem. We stayed by her side, and we supported her husband as he held her hand and pleaded with her to awaken.

She reached a plateau, where it seemed the smallest change in her condition would bring death, but she hovered there for several days, neither improving, nor worsening. One of her nurses said, "She may be waiting for permission to let go. The love and worry that she has for her family may be causing her to resist passing on. Maybe, if you talk to her and tell her it is ok, she may feel at peace to go on." What a hard thing that is; how frightening it can be, to encourage someone to leave all ties with her earthly life, and step forward into the unknown. Our own pain and grief, and our own fears of the unknown, made this seem an insurmountable leap of faith.

And then, in the darkness of the night, I understood. It IS the ultimate leap of faith, when we summon the courage to let go of all ties in our earthly life, and venture into the unknown. If we believe in God, and the salvation Jesus has given to us all, we know that Heaven awaits with perfect peace. Our minds may accept this, but our hearts are all too human, and the fear still binds us with reluctance.

I did a lot of thinking that night, and my thinking revolved around my children. There have been several times when our daughters have faced pain and fear that they could not understand. When Joy was seven years old, she had a lengthy illness, and it was discovered that she had an abcessed lymph node in her little neck, the size of a plum; it was putting so much pressure on her cranial nerves that her head was twisted upward and back, her neck stiffened by the inflammation of the nerves; the pressure was enough to displace her trachea so far from the normal midline that she was at risk for having respiratory obstruction.

Her pediatrician discussed with us the need to perform a spinal tap, to see if she had meningitis. This would require putting a needle between the delicate little vertebrae of her spine, and puncturing the membranes that surrounded her cerebral spinal fluid, in order to draw of several vials of fluid for testing. Joy was frightened, and cried, begging to be taken home. There are no words to describe my anguish that I could not pick up my child and take her far away from this frightening place. But it was vital to her treatment to be able to confirm or deny meningitis. So I held her closely, my cheek against the warm satin of her little cheek, and I spoke sotly to her. I told her that I knew she was afraid, and that I wanted nothing more than to take her home, but this was a necessary thing.

There is no way that a seven year old can understand viruses, bacteria, or that a painful thing must be done for her own good. But we shared between us a lifetime of love, and protection; she might not know WHY something had to be, but she put her faith in me, that I would be with her, holding her closely, supporting her with my love. The trust that was gained over the course of her short life, in the warmth and love that surrounded her, was sufficient to calm her, and she lay quietly in my arms as her little back was prepared for the invasive procedure.

The doctor asked if I wished to leave the room, but the answer to that was a resounding NO. My world, at that moment, centered around my child, and nothing could have induced me to leave her alone in her fear. She had calmed following my promise to stay with her, and when the doctor scrubbed her back with the sponge applicator of betadine, she giggled at the coldness and tickling of the sponge. And my daughter, so small and fragile, held still during the procedure, uttering not one whimper, and showing far more courage than most grown men could have mustered.

I have never been so humbled as in that moment, when my child showed her unwavering faith in my love for her. I believe that is the first time I had any real understanding of the love God has for all of His children, and how much He suffers when we face pain and trials. We don't have the understanding to know why bad things must happen, and why God cannot shield us from the harshness of life, but through our faith in Him, we know that He holds us close and offers us comfort, so that we never truly suffer alone.

Joy did not have meningitis. After a 17 day stay in the hospital, including 2 operations to her neck, a short stay in PICU, and many doses of medication and IV fluid later, she slowly began to recover her health, and we were able to bring her home once again. To this day, many years later, my heart fills with love and humility at the faith she showed. In her innocence, she has served as a role model to me; surely, in the smallest of children, we see the steadfast trust and love that we may safely entrust to our Heavenly Father, and a leap of faith brings us into the comforting arms of our Father.

My children have often humbled me with their faith and trust. When Mary was about 5 years old, we were at Disney World. The kids wanted to ride Space Mountain, a high speed rollercoaster which sped and twisted through the darkness of the huge building it was enclosed within. The coasters were loud; the lights flashed brightly, then went pitch back repeatedly, and the shrill screams of happy...........and not so happy...riders punctuated the din. The line was long, and as we slowly drew closer and closer to the ride entrance, we began to see grown men and women losing their nerve, and ducking below the roped barricade to escape to the exit. I was having some anxiety myself; my little pixie was just barely tall enough to be allowed on the ride. As a matter of fact, I think she squeaked past the measuring stick only because of wearing thick socks and having her windblown hair pouffed about her head. Were we making a mistake, bringing her on this ride? Would she find it traumatic, rather than exhilirating? Should I pull her out of line, and walk with her through the exit, to await her father and sister after their ride?

As we got nearer and nearer to the coaster car entrance, she showed no signs of anxiety; her brown eyes shone with wonder at the different sights and sounds which surrounded her, and the excitement of the moment. The coaster cars (in those days) were arranged so that two couples rode to a car; the smaller person would sit between the outstretched legs of the larger rider, and seat belts secured us all into place. I rode with Joy (aged 8) sitting before me, and as I pulled the safety belt WAY tight to make it fit around her little body, I was also watching Mary as she was buckled into position in front of David. As the coaster began to move slowly to the first launching, she looked up into her father's face, and asked simply, "Daddy, is it safe?" His arms wrapped around her and held her against his body, and he spoke softly in her ear "It is okay; I have you and I won't let you fall." The roller coaster was just as high speed and high thrills and chills as advertised, and I think I ....MAY........have screamed a few times. But looking over my shoulder, I saw Mary, her father's arms wrapped tightly around her, lifting her little arms high above her head and screaming....."FASTER, FASTER!!!!"

It was an exuberant little girl who debarked from the coaster, her big brown eyes alight, and her hand already tugging to lead us back into the line to do it again. All around her, adults were shamefaced about chickening out, as this little pint sized thrill junkie raced to stand in line again. Once again, I felt humbled by the love and trust a child places in a loving parent. With the complete confidence that she was being held safely in her father's arms, she was willing to brave the scarey unknown, knowing that she was in the keeping of one who has loved her and protected her since well before her birth.

As I sat in the dim light at my mother in law's bedside, these two memories played themselves through my mind, and I realized the leap of faith she would be facing, and that we were going to have to make with her. I knew that despite the pain and loss we would suffer in letting her go, that she was passing into the arms of the One who has loved her and protected her all of her life. The trust of a beloved child does not fear the leap of faith into the unknown, because she is never beyond her Father's love and protection. We cried, and we prayed, and we encircled her in our love, holding her hands, and we told her to not worry about us; to go in peace. Within the hour, her breathing slowly became fainter and fainter, and I was sure that somewhere she was asking, "Daddy, is it safe?" and she heard the loving answer, "Yes, My child. I am holding you in my arms; you can let go." And in the stillest hour of the night, this wonderful, amazing woman left those who mourned her, but willingly clung to the One who has loved her from first, to last, and always.

system restore?

My computer had a problem getting started this morning. Instead of flawlessly executing its boot up process, it gave me only a dark, dead screen. So, I instituted Emergency Procedure 1, which involves repeated pushing of the On button, and muttering bad words under my breath. Either or both acts yielded results, though. I eventually saw a lot of lines of light gray gibberish on a sickly blue screen, which loosely translated to "you screwed up your computer; do you want it to try to fix itself?" Well, yes, I did!

So, several minutes of computer self diagnostics ensued; which may have boiled down to "If I can drag this out long enough, maybe this incompetent moron will go away and leave me alone", the computer popped up a message asking if I wanted it to restore the system back to an earlier date, one in which everything was still working fine, but I would lose none of my data and memories. Why, of course! Yes, yes, a thousand times, YES!

While waiting for the computer to sort itself out, I began thinking what a truly wonderful idea this was. Apparently the computer sort of takes snapshots at intervals, and basically rolls back time to before things got all FUBAR'd. Wouldn't it be great if we could do the same thing with our lives? In our minds, we have lots of memories cached; some good, some bad, some vital, some trivial. But there is that one special file, which holds special memories like a treasured photo album. Those once in a lifetime memories, that never fail to quicken our hearbeats and moisten our eyes with tears of happiness.

It might have been your high school graduation night, and the feel of that rolled parchment diploma in your hand as you walked from the stage amid the applause of family and friends. Maybe it was your wedding day, when that cold gold circlet slipped upon your 4th finger, and suddenly became warm with the blood that pulsed from your pounding heart. Gosh, so many different memories; the first time you felt your baby kick; the first time that you held him/her in your arms, with your hands trembling and tears silvering your cheeks. The smile on your husband's face, as he walks in from work, all rough and scruffy, holding his hard hat, his tool belt jingling with each step. Maybe it was a cool spring day, when you walked in a garden with your mother, and she stops to smile at you, and tell you how proud she is of the woman you've become. Or the evening you watched your daughter walk across a stage with a rolled diploma in her hand, the hems of her gown and the tassel of her cap ruffling with her steps, as she takes her first step into an uncharted future. Or 2 years later, when you see her dressed in hospital scrubs, calmly and competently caring for an injured person. Maybe it was the first time you held your grandchild in your arms, and your heart swelled once again with wonder at the perfection of a child, and at the incredible pride you feel in your daughter as she takes on the responsibilities of motherhood.

Of course, the happy files are only part of our lives. There are hard times, frightened times, times of exhaustion and despair, and times that hurt so bad that you fold them away and lock them deep inside a vault, so that you can bear to put one foot after another and continue life. If we could roll back to a restore point, wouldn't that be fantastic? To stand once again on firm ground, and take a different route, one that would lead away from disaster. To say the kind word, instead of the hurtful ones. To do the right thing, instead of the horrible mistake. To stop a loved one from stepping into harm; to do the courageous deed, instead of the coward's silence. To never be haunted by "what if..., and if only....".

Unfortunately, we don't have the option of rolling back time. The only thing we can change is today; the past is carved in stone, and the future is being written with every moment that unfurls. We can learn from the past, though. If we stop and look back from time to time, we can see if the path we have left is straight, or if it is meandering aimlessly. We can look forward, and choose the next step we will take, and make sure that it is leading to where we want to go.

So, my computer is now happily processing along, as if nothing had happened. And while I might sometimes envy it for having a re-writable memory and a file delete option, I also know that it is just an inanimate object, without the capacity to know joy or sorrow, or to learn and grow from both. I think, in the long run, humans may have the best deal, after all.

I have three children: two daughters, married (JS and MT), and an 18 year old son with special needs (JG). My kids amaze me each day. As if the miracle of their birth was not enough to leave me speechless and humbled, it is rivaled by the fact that they have grown up to be such strong, self confident, and likable young adults. I cannot claim a lot of credit in this; they taught me everything I know about parenting.

I was so afraid when I first brought my oldest home from the hospital. I had no idea how to go about the process of raising a child. I was so afraid that I would do something wrong, that would leave my kids scarred physically or emotionally. I had the uneasy feeling that surely I had not read enough books conveying the sage advice of professionals who sported whole chunks of the alphabet after their names. My own qualifications included nothing more than the sincere desire to do the right things for my kids, and the fact that I had experienced childhood myself.

One great advantage was that I was not attempting this feat by myself. My high school sweetheart/husband (DH) was beside me all the way. I can only imagine how hard it is to be a single parent. It is challenging enough when you have a Mom and Dad tag team to split the responsibility and double the resources (time, energy, patience).

Gradually, we realized that despite our qualms, we were getting the hang of this parenting thing. Our daughter grew and blossomed into a high spirited and loving toddler. Hey, we were doing great at parenting! It wasn't nearly as hard as we'd been led to believe. As a matter of fact, since we'd gotten so danged good at this, why not go ahead and have a second child? (if this was a movie, right now you'd hear the scarey "don't open the door!" sound track).

We brought our new daughter MT home, and from the first night, we realized that we were in a whole new world. M was disinclined to sleep that night (or the next couple of weeks), and three year old JS was pretty underwhelmed about the whole Big Sister role. My DH had to be at work at six AM, and it was now 2:30. In desperation, we buckled J and M into their carseats and headed down the road. Common wisdom reported that a car ride was likely to soothe a sleepless baby......and if not, at least we were driving in the direction of the hospital. We weren't REALLY serious about taking M back for a refund....I am sure we would never have actually done that.

Luckily, she fell asleep during the ride, and we turned around and headed back home. No Bomb Disposal Squad ever handled a ticking time bomb more carefully and gently than we handled our newborn, as we eased her sleeping little body back into her crib. Blessed silence! DH got two whole hours of sleep before work. Don't feel too badly for him. I was the one left at home with the clingy three year old, the fussy newborn.....not to mention sore nipples, sore ladybits, and rollercoaster hormones. DH was GLAD to go to work for 8 hours of relative sanity.

But, as is most often the case, things did settle down. But more about that later. After this stroll down memory lane, I think I need a nap.

Day One

I have resisted it as long as I could. But it was futile. I have been assimilated. I can no longer resist the urge to blog. It began to feel selfish to withhold my text based words of wisdom from the cyber community. **cough**cough**cough** Okay, the delusion is passing.

I hope to accomplish some good with this blog, or, if nothing else, just find some use for these spare thoughts I have. Thank you for going along with me on this maiden voyage!