Moments of my life, at times, feel dreamlike, strange, and unreal. It’s almost as if I’m stuck in thick molasses, moving in slow motion all my senses heightened: sound, sight, smell, my mind feels frozen in time.
Last Saturday was surreal as I walked into the C.H.A.P. (Children’s Healing Art Program) studio in the Pearl District of Portland. A large warehouse like room with floor to ceiling windows allowing sunlight to invade every inch of multiple colors and textures, crafting supplies, painted couches, a sequined coffee table and rows and rows of fabric. Even the volunteers had bright colors splashed all over their jeans, shoes and shirts. Their smiles were warm and genuine.
It was Aly’s “I’m done!” party and Josh and I had been invited. Though we’d never met her or her mother in person, we’d sent numerous encouraging emails, as we followed her journey on her website. Aly’s blue eyes were much larger than her picture’s revealed. A giant smile spread across her face as she was introduced to Josh and me. Quiet and calm, her bald head sported a heart tattoo and her eye lashes had grown back, long and thick. Aly’s sisters were there to join in the celebration along with another family.
The children threw themselves into the painting, stenciling, and beading while the volunteers encircled them with their vibrant love and supportive words. At one point the kids joined together covering large canvasses with pinks, blues, oranges and reds. I stood back soaking in the sunny warmth of peace and joy in my molasses atmosphere wanting to embed each moment in my mind forever. Their creations were spectacular.
The highlight was stepping our bare feet into squishy multi-colored paints and jumping enthusiastically on a mattress creating a masterpiece. The elation of that moment was surreal as I watched Aly jump holding tightly to her mommy’s hand her sisters at her side. How much suffering had she endured? How much pain and heartache had filled this young mother’s life? In that split second I understood her deep aching heart and the engulfing bliss of that moment.
Afterward I noticed the buckets of water set aside to wash painted hands. But this time the children were sitting on chairs while the volunteers knelt before them washing their precious small feet, tenderly cleansing and drying them. My heart was about to burst as I looked on thinking of Jesus washing His disciple’s feet. I had to walk away, because it hurt so much, but I found myself returning again and again to get another glimpse of this simple act.
How does something so simple have such an impact?
How does the process of art help heal broken hearts?
It's C.H.A.P...
Friday, February 27, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
Warning Christian, I don't intend to offend you...
Dear Christian:
Please allow me to sit in this pain. It seems to fill my life.
Please don’t negate what I feel by telling me God’s in control. I know He is, but still I hurt…deeply.
Please don’t smile in my face and throw scriptures at me. I know those verses backwards and forwards, yet my heart aches each and every moment. Those verses don’t take the sting away.
Please don’t avoid me just because I might start weeping. Please look in my eyes though you’ll see my sorrow.
If I hear one more time how good God is, I think I’ll scream. I do see His goodness but still my soul is sore with grief and loss.
Don’t tell me how I should feel. I know you mean well, but I am raw and tender.
This voyage has been excruciatingly long. The hole is deep. I see light though dimly.
Joy appears sporadically lacking solidness. The piercing agony is constant.
God does give me strength each day, but don’t tell me He won’t give me more than I can bear. I can’t bear anything.
Please don’t tell me how it’s all for God’s glory, because I just don’t see it. Maybe one day I will. Maybe I never will.
As a Christian, I know I have a “hope and a future” that’s why I long for heaven, yet the ache is real and present now. The weariness never-ending.
Please meet me where I am. You can’t fix it, so don’t try. Just be with me.
Allow me the grace to journey through the pain…
Please allow me to sit in this pain. It seems to fill my life.
Please don’t negate what I feel by telling me God’s in control. I know He is, but still I hurt…deeply.
Please don’t smile in my face and throw scriptures at me. I know those verses backwards and forwards, yet my heart aches each and every moment. Those verses don’t take the sting away.
Please don’t avoid me just because I might start weeping. Please look in my eyes though you’ll see my sorrow.
If I hear one more time how good God is, I think I’ll scream. I do see His goodness but still my soul is sore with grief and loss.
Don’t tell me how I should feel. I know you mean well, but I am raw and tender.
This voyage has been excruciatingly long. The hole is deep. I see light though dimly.
Joy appears sporadically lacking solidness. The piercing agony is constant.
God does give me strength each day, but don’t tell me He won’t give me more than I can bear. I can’t bear anything.
Please don’t tell me how it’s all for God’s glory, because I just don’t see it. Maybe one day I will. Maybe I never will.
As a Christian, I know I have a “hope and a future” that’s why I long for heaven, yet the ache is real and present now. The weariness never-ending.
Please meet me where I am. You can’t fix it, so don’t try. Just be with me.
Allow me the grace to journey through the pain…
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Miracles...
Like beauty, are in the eye of the beholder.
We were privileged to be a part of the Starlight Children’s Foundation’s Great Escapes Program last night. It was a Christmas dinner cruise on the Sternwheeler, which we had been a part of last year. Thankfully, it wasn’t as crowded this year, but we did end up on the bottom floor where most of the families with children in wheelchairs have to sit. The upper deck was completely full by the time we climbed aboard.
We’ve been taking part in Starlight for over a year now and I often wonder why we continue. Not because it’s not a good organization, but because it takes effort on my part. It takes energy, planning, gas and time to participate, but I am NEVER disappointed. I ALWAYS come home with lifted spirits, yet surrounded by the sadness of the harshness of real life. Since Josh’s diagnosis, I’ve come to realize it’s IMPOSSIBLE to separate joy from sorrow.
As my husband, two daughters and Joshie got settled around the far back table, I wondered what the Lord had in store for us this year. Last year, I felt His love and spirit in a tangible way as I watched the families file out at the end of the trip each one hugging Terri and Yvonne, the leaders and planners of these events. My husband and I literally FELT God’s love as we watched the procession of physically broken children and their weary families leave with joy, laughter and happiness written on their faces. We both had stood side by side, marveling as our eyes filled with tears. And I wondered what would happen this year…
Then I saw them, the last family to arrive. There wasn’t really any place for them to sit. We quickly offered to shuffle ourselves around making room for their small wheelchair filled with a precious little girl, their mentally disabled high school aged son and themselves. Once they were settled, the mom and I began to talk, while the father listened. This was their first outing with Starlight and she commented on how hard it is for her to go anywhere with the wheelchair in tow. Full of gratitude for our willingness to make room, she quickly told me her son had been born at 24 weeks gestational age weighing one pound and had suffered many brain bleeds, thus his mental disability. Then she introduced us to her three year old granddaughter, who had also been born at 24 weeks and was unable to walk, talk or even swallow on her own due to brain bleeds! They had adopted her instead of letting her become a ward of the state. I was stunned.
My mind quickly went to my precious first born. Twenty-one years ago she was born by an emergency c-section at 25 weeks weighing only 1 and ½ pounds. But unlike these two children, she NEVER had one brain bleed. She had her share of complications and problems, but she left the NICU fairly whole. In fact, my oldest will soon be graduating from college and will be giving birth to her first child. There was a time when we wondered if she would ever even be able to conceive because of the multiple x-rays, scans, steroids and her prematurity. She definitely had mild physical consequences of her prematurity and sometimes suffered through being teased by her peers because of them. But she always had a healthy knowledge of who she was and where she had come from and what could have been. As an adult now, many people don’t know about her beginning. They don’t know they are looking at a miracle.
As I sat across the table talking with that mother, I knew that could have been me. I knew that was a road the Lord could have had me travel down, but for whatever reason, He didn’t.
Instead, I was given a beautiful miracle…
We were privileged to be a part of the Starlight Children’s Foundation’s Great Escapes Program last night. It was a Christmas dinner cruise on the Sternwheeler, which we had been a part of last year. Thankfully, it wasn’t as crowded this year, but we did end up on the bottom floor where most of the families with children in wheelchairs have to sit. The upper deck was completely full by the time we climbed aboard.
We’ve been taking part in Starlight for over a year now and I often wonder why we continue. Not because it’s not a good organization, but because it takes effort on my part. It takes energy, planning, gas and time to participate, but I am NEVER disappointed. I ALWAYS come home with lifted spirits, yet surrounded by the sadness of the harshness of real life. Since Josh’s diagnosis, I’ve come to realize it’s IMPOSSIBLE to separate joy from sorrow.
As my husband, two daughters and Joshie got settled around the far back table, I wondered what the Lord had in store for us this year. Last year, I felt His love and spirit in a tangible way as I watched the families file out at the end of the trip each one hugging Terri and Yvonne, the leaders and planners of these events. My husband and I literally FELT God’s love as we watched the procession of physically broken children and their weary families leave with joy, laughter and happiness written on their faces. We both had stood side by side, marveling as our eyes filled with tears. And I wondered what would happen this year…
Then I saw them, the last family to arrive. There wasn’t really any place for them to sit. We quickly offered to shuffle ourselves around making room for their small wheelchair filled with a precious little girl, their mentally disabled high school aged son and themselves. Once they were settled, the mom and I began to talk, while the father listened. This was their first outing with Starlight and she commented on how hard it is for her to go anywhere with the wheelchair in tow. Full of gratitude for our willingness to make room, she quickly told me her son had been born at 24 weeks gestational age weighing one pound and had suffered many brain bleeds, thus his mental disability. Then she introduced us to her three year old granddaughter, who had also been born at 24 weeks and was unable to walk, talk or even swallow on her own due to brain bleeds! They had adopted her instead of letting her become a ward of the state. I was stunned.
My mind quickly went to my precious first born. Twenty-one years ago she was born by an emergency c-section at 25 weeks weighing only 1 and ½ pounds. But unlike these two children, she NEVER had one brain bleed. She had her share of complications and problems, but she left the NICU fairly whole. In fact, my oldest will soon be graduating from college and will be giving birth to her first child. There was a time when we wondered if she would ever even be able to conceive because of the multiple x-rays, scans, steroids and her prematurity. She definitely had mild physical consequences of her prematurity and sometimes suffered through being teased by her peers because of them. But she always had a healthy knowledge of who she was and where she had come from and what could have been. As an adult now, many people don’t know about her beginning. They don’t know they are looking at a miracle.
As I sat across the table talking with that mother, I knew that could have been me. I knew that was a road the Lord could have had me travel down, but for whatever reason, He didn’t.
Instead, I was given a beautiful miracle…
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Coincidence...
A chance happening, an accident, fluke, or happenstance. But are there really such things as twists of fate? Or are there reasons for the why and how of things?
I believe in a reason and purpose, because I believe in the God of the Universe.
I wrote a blog last June about a very disappointing and tearful day for Josh and me. It was the day we were sure Josh’s trach tube was going to come out. We went to the hospital full of expectations and hope only to be disheartened by the failure of his trach removal. Finally, exhausted and spent, we began to drive home in the late afternoon each of us in the silence of our own sadness. Suddenly we noticed “The Jumper”. She was dressed in white painter pants and a button-up shirt, sporting a Mohawk. Anger etched her face as she fought the two officers trying to pull her down from the bridge railing. Her backpack sat on the ground beside her feet. This quick glimpse of desperation was gone in a flash as we drove by, propelling Josh and I into prayer for this stranger’s life, our own distress easily forgotten as we pondered the despair that would push someone to such a point.
Now fast forward to October. It was the month my husband and I spoke in our large church sharing our journey through childhood cancer with our son, Joshua. I had noticed them in the audience before, young street kids filling up an entire row of seats. The ministry is called Transitional Youth and a young couple drives downtown each Sunday morning picking up the homeless kids who want to go to church. I didn’t notice them in the crowd that day, after all the lights were bright and I was nervous. But the following Sunday, a young woman with a Mohawk came towards me after the service was over. She introduced herself and asked me to pray for her brother who had had cancer when he was a baby.
“The doctor’s think the cancer is back now” she said. I promised to pray for her brother. We talked a little longer and I asked her how I could pray for her too. After she shared, we parted.
A couple nights later deep in sleep I startled awake. "The Jumper" was the same mohawked girl I had met at church! Though I haven’t confirmed it, I’m almost 100 percent sure. I’ve seen her there every Sunday since. Sometimes we speak, sometimes we don’t. She’s touched my heart. A million questions have filled my mind: how did she end up on the streets, what’s her family like, how did she find Transitional Youth, what was happening when I drove by her that day?
Coincidence? Yeah…right…
"Transitional Youth provides outreach, support, and housing to positively transform the hearts and lives of homeless youth through compassion, guidance and the grace of God."
www.transitionalyouth.org
I believe in a reason and purpose, because I believe in the God of the Universe.
I wrote a blog last June about a very disappointing and tearful day for Josh and me. It was the day we were sure Josh’s trach tube was going to come out. We went to the hospital full of expectations and hope only to be disheartened by the failure of his trach removal. Finally, exhausted and spent, we began to drive home in the late afternoon each of us in the silence of our own sadness. Suddenly we noticed “The Jumper”. She was dressed in white painter pants and a button-up shirt, sporting a Mohawk. Anger etched her face as she fought the two officers trying to pull her down from the bridge railing. Her backpack sat on the ground beside her feet. This quick glimpse of desperation was gone in a flash as we drove by, propelling Josh and I into prayer for this stranger’s life, our own distress easily forgotten as we pondered the despair that would push someone to such a point.
Now fast forward to October. It was the month my husband and I spoke in our large church sharing our journey through childhood cancer with our son, Joshua. I had noticed them in the audience before, young street kids filling up an entire row of seats. The ministry is called Transitional Youth and a young couple drives downtown each Sunday morning picking up the homeless kids who want to go to church. I didn’t notice them in the crowd that day, after all the lights were bright and I was nervous. But the following Sunday, a young woman with a Mohawk came towards me after the service was over. She introduced herself and asked me to pray for her brother who had had cancer when he was a baby.
“The doctor’s think the cancer is back now” she said. I promised to pray for her brother. We talked a little longer and I asked her how I could pray for her too. After she shared, we parted.
A couple nights later deep in sleep I startled awake. "The Jumper" was the same mohawked girl I had met at church! Though I haven’t confirmed it, I’m almost 100 percent sure. I’ve seen her there every Sunday since. Sometimes we speak, sometimes we don’t. She’s touched my heart. A million questions have filled my mind: how did she end up on the streets, what’s her family like, how did she find Transitional Youth, what was happening when I drove by her that day?
Coincidence? Yeah…right…
"Transitional Youth provides outreach, support, and housing to positively transform the hearts and lives of homeless youth through compassion, guidance and the grace of God."
www.transitionalyouth.org
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Moving out of the driver's seat...
I’m in the process of teaching my fourth and last daughter to drive. It’s sort of a sad/relieved/amazed kind of feeling as I sit in the passenger seat and encourage her as she maneuvers down the road. I clearly remember how scared I was to teach my oldest to drive. She just didn’t have that natural knack, but my husband and I were also inexperienced at teaching something we took for granted. After all, we had been driving for years and really didn’t think much about the “how to” of driving. How do we translate those skills into the young inexperienced brain of our child? It was painful for all of us, but she learned and so did we.
Just as each of my four daughters is unique in their personality styles and abilities, some of them have been more gifted at learning to drive than others. I have to admit my youngest has been easiest to educate when it comes to driving. It’s part of being the “baby of the family”, I think. She’s watched her older sisters conquer the learning curve and experience the independence of going places on their own. She told me once she was born to drive! She began to talk about driving on her 14th birthday. She started studying her DMV booklet 6 months before her 15th birthday, and then counted down the days until she could take the permit test.
She’s so ready to grow up and yet…she isn’t. Because once she got her permit and began actually driving to and from art class, she looked over at me and said, “Mom, I don’t like driving.” She feels the stress, sees the craziness and seemingly random actions of other drivers and has suddenly realized what a HUGE responsibility it is to get behind the wheel of a car.
The sad part of teaching my last daughter to drive has shown itself in my heart as I’m reminded how I’m moving out of the driver’s seat of my girl’s lives. Slowly I’m slipping into the passenger seat and talking them through as they maneuver down the road of life into adulthood. It’s sort of bittersweet and it’s definitely scary. Sometimes I want to grab the wheel from them. Sometimes I find myself trying not to scream out with warning. Sometimes I’m pushing with my feet onto the invisible brakes on the passenger floorboard trying desperately to SLOW them down. My youngest has watched her older sisters leave home, make choices, seeing the serious side of life through them. She’s lived through a house fire and watched her little brother suffer through cancer treatments. She’s anxious to grow up and be on her own and yet, she hesitates as she watches how hard life can be for her sisters or when she discovers that driving really isn’t that fun after all. That’s fine, I think to myself. Take your time.
My oldest will be giving birth to her first child soon. My first born is becoming a mother. She’s in the driver’s seat of her life along with her husband and her God. I’m a passenger now, there to encourage, there to give advice when asked. It’s sort of the same feeling I had when I began to teach her to drive. It feels scary and I feel inadequate. It’s a big responsibility, this thing called life. How do I teach her what I’ve been doing for years? Giving birth, raising babies, discipline, nurturing, paying the bills, loving my husband? How do I impart what I know to this young mother? I want desperately to take control, telling her how to take each turn, when to brake, and how to anticipate danger, but I know that time is past. I’m in the passenger seat now.
My second daughter is almost completely in the driver’s seat. My third is making her way into the driver’s seat and my fourth daughter is just beginning to move over to the driver’s seat. There’s no hurry. I’ll cherish the time.
I’ll be in the passenger seat soon enough...
Just as each of my four daughters is unique in their personality styles and abilities, some of them have been more gifted at learning to drive than others. I have to admit my youngest has been easiest to educate when it comes to driving. It’s part of being the “baby of the family”, I think. She’s watched her older sisters conquer the learning curve and experience the independence of going places on their own. She told me once she was born to drive! She began to talk about driving on her 14th birthday. She started studying her DMV booklet 6 months before her 15th birthday, and then counted down the days until she could take the permit test.
She’s so ready to grow up and yet…she isn’t. Because once she got her permit and began actually driving to and from art class, she looked over at me and said, “Mom, I don’t like driving.” She feels the stress, sees the craziness and seemingly random actions of other drivers and has suddenly realized what a HUGE responsibility it is to get behind the wheel of a car.
The sad part of teaching my last daughter to drive has shown itself in my heart as I’m reminded how I’m moving out of the driver’s seat of my girl’s lives. Slowly I’m slipping into the passenger seat and talking them through as they maneuver down the road of life into adulthood. It’s sort of bittersweet and it’s definitely scary. Sometimes I want to grab the wheel from them. Sometimes I find myself trying not to scream out with warning. Sometimes I’m pushing with my feet onto the invisible brakes on the passenger floorboard trying desperately to SLOW them down. My youngest has watched her older sisters leave home, make choices, seeing the serious side of life through them. She’s lived through a house fire and watched her little brother suffer through cancer treatments. She’s anxious to grow up and be on her own and yet, she hesitates as she watches how hard life can be for her sisters or when she discovers that driving really isn’t that fun after all. That’s fine, I think to myself. Take your time.
My oldest will be giving birth to her first child soon. My first born is becoming a mother. She’s in the driver’s seat of her life along with her husband and her God. I’m a passenger now, there to encourage, there to give advice when asked. It’s sort of the same feeling I had when I began to teach her to drive. It feels scary and I feel inadequate. It’s a big responsibility, this thing called life. How do I teach her what I’ve been doing for years? Giving birth, raising babies, discipline, nurturing, paying the bills, loving my husband? How do I impart what I know to this young mother? I want desperately to take control, telling her how to take each turn, when to brake, and how to anticipate danger, but I know that time is past. I’m in the passenger seat now.
My second daughter is almost completely in the driver’s seat. My third is making her way into the driver’s seat and my fourth daughter is just beginning to move over to the driver’s seat. There’s no hurry. I’ll cherish the time.
I’ll be in the passenger seat soon enough...
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