Kiss Your Miracle

The other day Adam and I decided to take Sky to the beach, which is a short walk down the road from my parents’ house in Michigan. The sun was about to set and the beach was windy, chilly, and deserted. Sky loved it. She jumped around and clapped her hands, smiling and laughing at everything. I’d taken a few pictures of her and of the sun sparkling through the clouds on the water when I turned to Adam and said, “Hey, we should take a belly photo. I’m almost 23 weeks along and we haven’t taken any yet.” When I was pregnant with Sky, we took pictures of my growing belly every other week, but with everything happening in my family we just hadn’t gotten around to it this time. We took some more photos and played in the sand a little longer. When we got back to my parents’ house, Sky’s cheeks and hands were cold, but she was still smiling.

We walked into the living room and found my parents sitting quietly with Pastor and Mrs. Lutzer. They had pulled their chairs up close to my dad, and Pastor Lutzer had his Bible open. He gave us a quick smile and then said, “We’re about to read some scripture and pray.” So we scooped up our noisy toddler and headed for the other room.

Many things have been written about the contrast between sickness and health, youth and age, life and death. I don’t know that I have anything original to add. But I have to at least mention it because right now it’s happening in my life. It’s strange to look at my dad and know that cancer is hiding inside his body while at the same time our baby boy is squirming and growing inside mine. I suppose it’s a cliché, but I can’t help feeling more aware than ever that life is fragile and temporary, no matter how hard we try to convince ourselves that it’s not.

Lord, make me a person who lives in gratitude for each day and each person in my life.

On Friday, Adam, Skylar and I flew from Florida to my parents’ place in Michigan for a long weekend. Normally, Sky wakes us up hours before everyone else, but on Saturday morning, Nelson appeared downstairs at 6am. We made tea and coffee while Sky played with my parents’ dog, Jack. We’d been sitting around talking about my dad’s cancer for fifteen minutes or so when Nelson pointed out how easy it is for us to do just that – talk. We analyze how my dad looks, his best possible course of treatment, what the future might hold, and what type of plans we should make for the coming months. By the end of the conversation, we’re all usually agitated and stressed.

Since we heard about my dad’s cancer, Adam and I have had many discussions about what we should do. All we want is to be here with my parents as much as possible, but the fact that we live in Florida is a major complication. Last week we went around and around. Should we just get plane tickets for a quick weekend and plan to come back again soon? But how many times can we afford to fly up and back? Should we try to stay longer instead? But what about Adam’s job? Is there a way we could somehow move near my parents for a season? But what about our mortgage, the awful housing market in Ocala, and Michigan’s rising unemployment rate? And what about the fact that I’m more than half-way through my pregnancy and my insurance is only good in Florida? Whenever we’d talk about it, I’d end up completely confused and overwhelmed. We eventually chose to fly up for five days, but I felt strange and conflicted whenever I thought about leaving my parents so quickly.

“Have you noticed that plaque on the wall over there?” Nelson asked on Saturday morning. The old wooden plaque, which belonged to my grandma years ago, has the King James version of Isaiah 26:3 written on it in gold letters – “Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee.” Nelson shook his head. “We all want to know what’s coming,” he said. “We want to make plans. But now is not the time for that.” For a minute we sat there quietly. Then Nelson said, “We just go round and round, talking in circles about things we don’t know. Maybe we should sit here and pray instead.” And so we did. Sky chattered away, interrupting us here and there, but Nelson, Adam and I sat still for a while and did our best to hand things over to God.

Later that day, Adam and I took Sky to the park, and as we were walking home, I said suddenly, “How about if I just stay here with Sky for a while?” Our original plan had been to fly back to Florida together on Tuesday. “I think that’s a good idea,” Adam said. “I’ll fly home and work and drive back up in a week or two. We’ll see what’s happening then and be flexible.” And just like that, our decision was made with no major discussion and no agitation. God showed us what to do in his timing.

Nelson is right. Now is not the time for long term plans. God gives us peace when our minds are stayed on him, not the future. For now, Adam will head back to Florida and I’ll be here at my parents’ house. It’s never easy to be apart, but we both know it’s what we need to do for now. When we’re ready for the next step, God will reveal it to us. What a relief, to let go of the burden to make plans and focus completely on God and the time he has given me with my family today.

At the beginning of the summer, my mom told me she wanted to start a blog. Adam had just set mine up a few months earlier, and he volunteered to do one for her too. We decided we’d work on it when we were all together in Michigan in July.

“Do you have a general idea of what you want to write about?” I asked my mom. She thought for a minute. “You know, when I was younger I used to view the hard things that happen in life as exceptions,” she said. “But the older I get, the more I see that life is really a long series of difficult circumstances. There is always something wrong.” For a moment I just looked at her, surprised to hear those words come out of her mouth. My mom is optimistic to a fault. “What I want to do is offer people hope for how to get through those times,” she continued. “We’ve been through a few things,” she pointed out, and I knew she was thinking of their experiences raising seven kids, the financial issues they’ve faced, and even their recent home sale, which only happened after four long years of ups and downs. “God helps us get through the things he allows in our lives,” she said. “Maybe I could call it ‘Get Through This’ or something like that…”

Adam went to work, helping my mom buy a domain name and choose her theme. She finally decided on “Getting Through This: Encouragement to Keep Moving Forward,” and picked a blue and white wave background to symbolize the way life can sometimes seem to swell up and crash over our heads.

Little did we know then that just a few months later, my mom would use her blog to share about what might be the biggest struggle of her life: my dad’s terminal cancer diagnosis. You might be thinking, how sad! What is she going to write now? How can she encourage others when she’s going through so much herself? But that’s just the thing. Her joy in the Lord is more apparent now than ever. And what she is facing now gives her new authority to be an encourager.

On Wednesday she wrote a post called Chuckling, about how much she appreciated hearing my brother Nelson and my dad talk and even laugh as they all drove to my dad’s first radiation appointment. I’m consistently amazed at my mom’s ability to accept what she’s been dealt and find God’s goodness even in the middle of her tears.

She also happens to be a phenomenal writer. If you haven’t already, stop by her Website, www.GettingThroughThis.com. I think her perspective will be a blessing to you. It is to me, every time I see it.

Last week my family got awful news: my dad has cancer. He’s been dealing with intense back pain since the beginning of the year and over the past few months his stomach has been bothering him, too. But none of us expected something so serious to be wrong. He was scheduled for back surgery this week and it was during some of his pre-op testing that his doctors found the cancer.

The night he told me I’d just finished giving Sky a bath. I noticed a missed call on my phone, so I stepped out onto the porch to call him back. “I have cancer,” he said matter-of-factly. I inhaled sharply. “What kind?” I asked. He hesitated. “Well, they’re not entirely sure… I’ll have more tests run later this week. But they think it started in my pancreas.” I stared out at the street lights. Started? I thought to myself. As in, it’s already spread to other places? And did he really say pancreas? I wanted to ask him a million questions, but sensed that now was not the time. “The doctors plan to start radiation and chemo soon,” my dad continued, and then told me he still needed to call the rest of my brothers and sisters. I told him how sorry I was and how I’d be praying. “Well, just remember,” he said, and I could tell he was looking for a positive way to end the conversation, “I have a secret weapon. I have your mother.” I nodded, as if he could see me, and we said goodbye. Then I sat down in one of our porch rocking chairs and cried so hard I could barely breathe.

The next day I woke up with one thought in my head: I need to be with my family. But that’s more complicated than it sounds. My parents live in Michigan and my sisters just moved into an apartment in Chicago. Two of my brothers live in Nashville, one lives in California, and my youngest brother lives in England with his wife and baby boy. We live near Adam’s family in Florida. All of us are making plans to head to Michigan, but in the meantime most of our communication has been through email. And I hear tears in every message.

But at the same time, my family loves God, so there is hope too. My brother Hans, after writing about how much he’s cried over our dad who “has worked so hard and been so good to us all,” signed his email with “live in prayer and hope.” Nelson wrote later and said that Lars, the Californian, took a job transfer to Chicago and will now be living just a couple hours from my parents. “God uses everything, wastes nothing,” Nelson said. Then he quoted Proverbs16:9 – “In his heart a man plans his course, but the LORD determines his steps.”

And it doesn’t surprise me that my mom’s messages are the most encouraging of all. “Please read the 23rd Psalm,” she wrote to all of us kids.  “He leads me… He restores me… He guides me… Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear NO evil…  He is with me… He comforts me… He prepares for me… Goodness and love will follow me….” She closed that email with this: “We are all stumbling as we walk together through ‘the valley of the shadow of death.’ But we need not fear ANYTHING! God is very close. We feel His tender touch continually.”

How is it possible to feel so devastated and so blessed at the same time? I’m scared of what the coming months may hold. Everything seems strange and uncertain; things will never be like they were before we heard this news. But when I feel the most overwhelmed, I think of my family speaking the words of God – words that are always true, no matter our circumstances – and I know that regardless of what lies ahead, He will never leave us to handle this on our own.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” – Psalm 34:18

Last week we found out that I am pregnant with a baby boy this time. I realized on our way home from the ultrasound that I had been expecting to have another girl. I’m happy to be having a boy – we would be happy either way, of course. But I feel like I have to sort of shift gears now to get into boy mode when my life as a mom so far has been all about one little girl. The morning after the ultrasound I was shopping with Sky when we decided to detour from the toddler clothes to the baby section. Turns out all you mothers of boys are right – there are way more girl clothes available than boy clothes. I still found something cute, though. A fuzzy sleeper covered with little cars. “This is for your brother,” I told Sky, listening to the sound of those words. Sky looked at me blankly and went back to playing with the Velcro on her shoes.

When I think of boys, I think of my own brothers. I think of noise, chaos and mess. Growing up I had to share a bathroom with four boys and it was my job to clean it every week. I’d spend two hours scouring it and walk in thirty minutes later to find wet towels on the floor and grass clippings all over the place. “They’re boys, Linnea,” my mom would say calmly after my tantrum. “They don’t even see the mess.”

But I also think of jumping on our backyard trampoline with my brothers and playing “kick-the-can” with them in our neighborhood at night. I think of sitting in the back of the station wagon on family trips, listening to my dad’s Elvis tapes and laughing while my brother Nelson crammed an entire pack of BubbleYum in his mouth at one time. I think of coffee and talking now that we’re older, and lots and lots of laughing. There isn’t a whole lot of relational drama with my brothers; they’re all pretty fun to be around. And they are my friends. I can’t think of too much I wouldn’t talk about with them.

Today when I look at my growing belly, I wonder what our little boy will be like and how he and Sky will relate. I did my sharing of fighting with my brothers and expect that my kids will do theirs. I’m sure our house will be a little messier next year, and a little more chaotic. But the more I think about it, the more excited I get. I wonder how much my life will change because of the new person about to enter it. I have no idea. But I can’t wait to find out.