Can’t see it? Then you’re probably standing too close, where the flaws and misfortunes interfere with the view.
Instead, step back. Allow yourself to see beyond the chaos to the beautiful story taking shape.
One person’s mess is Another’s canvas. It’s simply a matter of vantage point.
CHAPTER 22
Until We’re Home
I discovered later, and I’m still discovering right up to this moment, that it is only by living completely in this world that one learns to have faith. . . . By this-worldliness I mean living unreservedly in life’s duties, problems, successes and failures, experiences and perplexities. In so doing we throw ourselves completely into the arms of God, taking seriously not our own sufferings, but those of God in the world — watching with Christ in Gethsemane. That, I think, is faith.
— DIETRICH BONHOEFFER, Letters and Papers from Prison
FROM THE FIRST DAY I HELD MY SON, JACOB, IN MY ARMS — ON the Valentine’s Day of his birth — I sang to him. One song in particular.
“Sing the star song, Mommy!” he begged each night, after dinner-eating, teeth-brushing, and book-reading.
I had a tough time saying no to him back then, during those two or three years when only single mother and son made up our tired, worn family. As we cuddled on his bed, covered by striped blue sheets and the dark of night, he tucked his little boy head against my shoulder while I sang his song:
He numbers each and every star
And calls them all by name
He counts them one by one and sees
That they are still in place
If he cares for every star
Then he sees right where you are
You can trust you’ll never fall
From his embrace39
We’d both lost on love. My boy, his biological father and intact family. Me, my dream and first love. So mother and son held each other in the dark and sang of a love that would not let us go. A love we could not be separated from, not by “trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword.”40 These words were my earth, and I hoped my son would discover them to be as sure for him.
When my marriage to Troy added two more little boys, I continued to sing, but to a larger audience. Over time, other songs joined our repertoire, but the “star song” became their favorite, as it’d been ours.
As my boys grew, the song became more a prayer, filled with the gutsy urgency I felt as I watched them inching toward manhood. I knew, from painful experience, that life didn’t always turn out as planned. As much as I wanted to promise them the moon, I couldn’t deliver even tomorrow. The future sat in hands that weren’t mine.
The first time I read John 10:10, I thought I’d won the lottery: “I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.”
Yes, please. I’ll take two.
Like pulling up to a Starbucks drive-through, I gave God my order and expected him to fill it. I wasn’t asking for much. I could’ve prayed for millions of dollars, shiny new toys, and expansive, beautiful houses. Instead, I prayed more noble and worthy prayers, churchy ones.
For a faithful husband.
For a houseful of children who adored me.
For a solid church family, and years of rewarding service.
What kind of God wouldn’t want to make those dreams come true?
My prayers received unexpected answers. My ministry-loving husband turned out to love addiction more than me. Divorce launched me from ministry into single motherhood. Adoring children turned adolescents, making our home a place of conflict. Our “solid” church family split down the middle. And cancer proved impossible to predict or avoid.
“I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.” That’s what he said, those exact words. But a full life doesn’t mean an easy life. In many cases, it means just the opposite.
And so, long before I became mother to three more children, I sang of stars and the God who counts them to three little boys who needed to know he’d never let them go.
A family vacation. That’s what we needed.
Troy and I packed up our newish SUV (seven passenger, only slightly smaller than the Blue Beast) with the littles, the youngest of our bigs, an exhausted dog, and enough clothes to last a solid week. Then we pointed west and drove toward my parents’ house.
Let me tell you, you have not lived until you’ve driven thirteen hours through Colorado, Utah, and Nevada in a cramped SUV with six people and a dog. But on the other side of that goodness sat Mimi and Papa’s house. Quiet and welcoming. Clean. And with a stocked refrigerator, swimming pool, and built-in babysitting. Worth it.
The littles had never experienced a family vacation, didn’t know what it was. It was my pleasure to induct them into the experience. For a solid week, we did nothing but sleep, eat, and play. We swam until we tired of the sun. We ate ice cream and watched Disney movies. We played games, shared tickle fights, and colored countless pages in Mimi’s coloring books.
We spent our last full day in the pool, soaking up those last moments of sunshine. I sat on a stretched-out beach towel with my legs dangling in the water. The sun warmed me head to toe, but not as much as the sounds of my littles as they rediscovered their childhood.
Look at me!
Watch me jump!
See how good I swim?
Princess appeared to enjoy the day even more than her siblings. For hours, she giggled and splashed, never tiring, never complaining. Again and again she jumped into the pool, splashing me in the process and laughing at her accomplishment.
Then, sandwiched between squeals and jumps so I almost missed it, she stood at the side of the pool and looked at me. Arms thrust wide and with a smile to match, she announced to the entire world, “You’re the best mom and dad ever!” With that, she leapt into the air and cannonballed into the water.
Her proclamation stunned me. Seven precise and costly words. Ones she meant with every ounce of her being.
Of course, sitting there at the side of the pool, I knew she was wrong. We’re not the best mom and dad ever. In time, she’d discover I’m flawed and broken. Impatient, sometimes stern, often too busy and overwhelmed.
Still, after teenagers, it was nice to hear. Sometimes I get it right. Sometimes I play and laugh and kiss wet foreheads with a whispered, “I love you, sweet girl.” Sometimes I stop working so hard to be perfectly grown up and instead satisfy myself with simply living and loving. And when I do, when I get over all the flaws and instead lean into what is, a lost little girl cheers from the side of a swimming pool.
Which is why, several hours later, after I’d tucked her into bed, the sound of her crying pierced me.
We’d said prayers, kissed heads, and pulled covers under chins. Then a half hour later, I heard crying. One of the girls. At first I stiffened, thought it was another bedtime delay tactic. I’m thirsty! I have to go potty! My head hurts! I’d heard it all before and prepped to deliver a warning.
By some miracle, I stopped long enough to think: she’s the last to cry. Of all my littles, she’s the least likely to use her tears for attention or manipulation. But that night she heaved, struggling to catch a breath before another sob shook her.
Mercy. A holy nudge softened my impulse. Instead of correction, she needed comfort. As I entered her room and sat on the side of her bed, I pushed wild strands of blond hair away from her flushed face.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
I asked, but she couldn’t answer. Her chest shook. I waited, caressed wet cheeks, hoping my presence calmed her pain.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” I tried again, concern urging me forward. “You have to tell me what’s going on. Why are you upset?”
She inhaled, then braved an answer. “I’m . . . going . . . to . . . miss . . . Mimi and Papa!”
Another seven words. Precise, costly. Delivered with a heart-splitting wail.
Now I understood. The following morning, we’d leave. After eight
days of play, we’d pack suitcases, say goodbyes, and turn toward home. To a little girl, the week had played out like a fairytale. Tomorrow, the dream would end.
Hence, she grieved.
I moved her small frame to the far edge of the bed, straightened the soft pink and white sheets, and settled her teddy bear under her other arm. Then I crawled beneath her blanket and slid my arm underneath her head. She felt warm and damp, spent from grief. I could feel her body shake beneath my arms. As I held on, she cried.
Lying there, swallowed by the dark, I thought of all the goodbyes my girl had endured. Her mom. Her dad. Countless relatives and friends, homes and beds. Hers had been a childhood marked by loss. Before she was old enough to start school, she’d lived in more places than most adults encounter in a lifetime. In the absence of stability, she grew to view life as unsafe. Unpredictable.
But then that day in the Walmart parking lot. The day she and her siblings joined our family. Not a perfect family, not a family without flaws and failures, but eight people determined to stick together. In a home with bedrooms and beds. Food at least three times a day. Familiar faces tucking her in at night and waiting for her to come down to breakfast in the morning. And a sweet, unforgettable family vacation to Mimi and Papa’s house.
I brushed her hair with my hand and tried to soothe the pain I knew she felt. Tomorrow’s goodbye felt all too familiar. She’d already said too many goodbyes, and I wondered if she feared yet another might follow. One that would take her away from us and back into chaos.
Please, God. Don’t take her away from me! I couldn’t let myself think about it, or I’d end up weeping along with my girl. But even as I held her, I knew the truth: the future was beyond my reach. No one could promise me my littles were here to stay. Today, yes. Tomorrow? No one knew. Situations like ours come with unparalleled complication, influenced by the whims of biological parents and a court system that doesn’t always mete out justice.
I knew this. From the very first day, I knew I could lose them. At first, I tried to hold them at arm’s length, fulfill their needs without falling in love. But it’s impossible to mother little ones without the heart intertwining with theirs. Love grows through our best attempts at fences.
I pulled her tighter, noticed her cries had softened to sighs. How I loved this girl! More than anything, I wanted to promise her the moon. To guard her against loss and deliver a pain-free future.
But I wouldn’t make promises I couldn’t keep.
The irony? Cancer taught me this. Eight months before she arrived, an unexpected diagnosis forced me to face the undoneness of life. Not an easy revelation when life hangs in the balance. But in my wrestling for peace, I’d found a peace that transcends control, that runs deeper and stronger than any assurances or answers.
The presence of a God who would see me through.
Now, holding a shaking girl in my arms, I saw the past two years with clarity. This wasn’t about cancer, or about the losses my littles had endured. Those were details, scenery, but not the bigger story. This was about making peace with an unexpected life. As if divine foresight had seen the moment at hand, I had to learn to release my terror so I could help a little girl release her own. I had to learn to embrace the unfinished, undone, upsidedown places so three children in the middle of their own chaos could find the better story.
I felt my girl shudder in my arms. She didn’t need my empty promises and false reassurances.
There, in the dark of Mimi and Papa’s house, I remembered the star song. It was long retired after my boys had become young men; I pulled it out and dusted it off. She needed those words like she needed air. Maybe I did too.
A child — a grown-up — can endure most any horror, as long as we know we’re not alone. The touch and presence of another makes the difference. A hand held, hair caressed, a tear touched. As Corrie ten Boom, Nazi concentration camp survivor, once remarked, “Happiness is not dependent on happenings, but on relationship in the happenings.”41
Even so, human relationships have limits. They can’t redeem, save, or rescue. Which is why my girl needed to know there is another, an infinite, healing, redeeming God whose love for her is both inescapable and inexhaustible. Who can heal all things broken, and to whom she’ll never need to say goodbye. Not just for today, but for all the tomorrows I cannot predict or control.
“How about I sing you a song?” I whispered.
She sniffled, nodded.
I took a deep breath and began.
Epilogue
The point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.
— RAINER MARIA RILKE, Letters to a Young Poet
THE IRONY ABOUT WRITING MEMOIR — OR AT LEAST WRITING A current memoir — is that life keeps happening even as you write about it. It’s like trying to work on a moving desk. The plot changes faster than you can pen it.
It’s now been almost four years since the first phone call, well over three since the second. Some days I feel far removed from those early days of near drowning, when my life capsized. Most of the time, however, I realize I’m still suspended in the deep end of the pool. Not drowning, per se, but fully aware of the possibility of going under.
Perhaps this is the norm for a family with six children. Those of you likewise raising entire ball teams and pom squads will have to let me know. Or maybe our chaos is unique to blended families and to parents loving children who have special needs and who show evidence of post – traumatic stress disorder and reactive attachment disorder. I’m more inclined to believe the latter.
A good friend, Melissa, recently asked, “How are you hanging in there?”
I almost always chuckle at this question. It’s a strange one, considering our “adjustment phase” is now pushing four years. But Melissa gets it. Crises like ours don’t follow a timeline. Transition isn’t something you add to your to-do list one day and check off on another. You walk it through one day at a time, baby. One day at a time. Then, by some miracle, a morning dawns when you open your eyes, feel the warmth of hope, and discover you’re farther along than you thought.
I answered Melissa with the same frank honesty she’s come to expect from me.
“Well, let me put it this way. We’re out of the ER and into the ICU. Still in critical condition, but stabilized.”
I’d always believed that the goal of the faith life is wholeness, to live outside the hospital doors. I aimed to be healthy, strong, full of hope and optimism. If any of these ingredients were missing, the secret was to discipline and pray my way back to health.
Without a doubt, those of us who love Jesus have every reason for all of those things. Strength. Hope. And certainly optimism. We’ve been given salvation, redemption, and a promise of heaven. Good cause to celebrate.
But in my pursuit of personal perfection and the ideal life, I’d neglected to take into account a powerful and undeniable factor: humanness. Somehow I tricked myself into believing I could rise above my fallibility with enough effort, control, and good intention. With enough exercise and church attendance and good old-fashioned hard work.
Then cancer. The ultimate evidence of my mortality. And three hurting children. The flesh-and-blood proof of human frailty. Cancer and kids put me in the hospital, both literally and figuratively. I couldn’t fix either one, and for a while I believed that meant I’d failed.
Until I discovered that joy and strength and hope are possible even in the sick ward. Maybe more so. I learned that faith in the middle of the unknowns is the only real kind. And peace can’t be found in the past or the future, but only in a Person, and in whom you believe him to be, today. And an unexpected life, as difficult and undone as it might be, could end up becoming the life you’ve been searching for all along.
My story continues to unfold. Even today, as I write these final words, I could give additional pages of evidence of how complicated, unexpected, and difficult it continues to
be. At times I wish it were easier, I won’t lie. I’d give anything for a normal, boring day. But I’m not sure normal would keep me kneeling.
As of today, we’re still a family of eight. This may stay the same, or it may change. I have zero guarantees. For now, our littles sleep in their same beds, wake up to the same alarm clock, eat breakfast at the same counter, and hear “I love you” from the same mama and daddy. Each August, I fill out triplicate stacks of paperwork as I register them for school. Every time, I wonder if I’ll have the privilege of doing the same the following year.
It’s an undone place, and I hate it. It’s limbo in its most painful form, with my family — and my fragile heart — on the line. I hover between potential outcomes, not knowing how it will turn out. At times, I catch myself worrying about the what-ifs, trying to predict and prepare. It takes effort to lay it down, to stop trying to fit all of the puzzle pieces together. For now, God has asked me to trust him with the result. To love without restraint, even knowing a day may come when I’ll have to say goodbye. I’m banking on the fact that, if and when the time comes, my Father will know how to glue this mama’s broken heart back together. After all, he’s done it countless times before.
As for cancer? It came back. But not as I expected.
First, it showed up last summer when my dad, the carpenter who taught me never to give up, went in for a checkup. We’d been vacationing together only a couple of weeks before. After we left, my mom noticed his skin turning a strange shade of yellow. At first the doctor thought it was hepatitis A or a blocked bile duct. It turned out to be the latter, because of tumors.
Pancreatic cancer. Not what I expected. Again. This time, however, I didn’t unravel. Not because it wasn’t serious and I wasn’t concerned. It was, and I was. But something about my own life-and-death journey, years before, prepared me to walk this one. I’d learned that fear has only as much rope as I give it. And to get ahead of the doctors and the days is to borrow unnecessary trouble. “Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to your life?” Jesus asked.42 A valid question, a powerful one. Like the Israelites with their manna, we needed to walk my dad’s cancer journey one day at a time, trusting God for another manna delivery tomorrow.
Undone Page 19
