When I was 16 years old I spent the summer in a small border town between Austria and Hungry. One country was free the other was not. And in-between the two was No Man’s Land, a space belonging to neither region. It was a barren place seen clearly by both countries, yet unclaimed by either side. And now I live there.
It’s odd living in No Man’s Land a world between. A place guarded on both sides by those who KNOW what it means and those who DON’T. Each side equal in value and goodness, but one area much harsher than the other, a tougher place to live, ripe with heaviness. The other side is more untroubled, care free, lighter. The liberated side doesn’t understand the heavy side, always hoping they never have to cross over. Everyone who lives in the difficult area remembers when they existed on the easier side, but they can never go back. Eventually, they too will end up in No Man’s Land.
Just like me living in No Man’s Land a world between…
Somehow I’m able to step into each region for a time, connecting with both sides. Just this week I walked beside moms and children struggling, confused as they navigated their journey trapped for now on the heavy side. I gave out hugs; I cried with the moms and put on a loving smile for the children, their glowing beauty dazzling my heart. I listened feeling the burden, but knowing it wasn’t completely mine. Then it was time to enter the lighter place and I sat laughing, joking, listening to the silly talk, but the underlying hollowness ruined the lightness. I don’t fit into this world anymore. I never will again. But I don’t entirely fit into the weighty side any longer either. I cross the borders at will and join in moving around each region, never fully present. I’m in-between, isolated from both districts.
Living in No Man’s Land…
Friday, June 12, 2009
Friday, June 5, 2009
It's been a while...
...Since I updated.
Life has been full and challenging and more. Tonight I'm alone sitting here at this kitchen table thinking many different thoughts:
The Sports Outreach Institute fundraiser golf tournament today raised more money than we ever dreamed possible for the poorest of the poor children in East Africa...ONLY GOD.
Amanda King, a precious 18 year old is taking her last breath on this earth surrounded by her loving family...ONLY GOD.
My oldest has moved into an apartment with her husband and baby, yet they struggle in their marriage talking about co-parenting...ONLY GOD.
My second is dating a wonderful young man and I'm hoping no hearts are broken...ONLY GOD.
My third is facing the SAT yet again tomorrow morning...ONLY GOD.
My fourth has a life full of fun, drama and fun...may her spiritual life grow...ONLY GOD.
My husband sleeps in the Tree House with our son, exhausted yet feeling fullfilled again knowing God's blessings...ONLY GOD.
Joshua sleeps beside him, ready for his Lego class tomorrow, hoping the kids won't point or ask him questions ignoring the tracheostomy he lives with...ONLY GOD.
Two of my dear friends struggle against the monster that threatens to devour their only children...ONLY GOD.
And I marvel at my life with a grateful heart...ONLY GOD.
Life has been full and challenging and more. Tonight I'm alone sitting here at this kitchen table thinking many different thoughts:
The Sports Outreach Institute fundraiser golf tournament today raised more money than we ever dreamed possible for the poorest of the poor children in East Africa...ONLY GOD.
Amanda King, a precious 18 year old is taking her last breath on this earth surrounded by her loving family...ONLY GOD.
My oldest has moved into an apartment with her husband and baby, yet they struggle in their marriage talking about co-parenting...ONLY GOD.
My second is dating a wonderful young man and I'm hoping no hearts are broken...ONLY GOD.
My third is facing the SAT yet again tomorrow morning...ONLY GOD.
My fourth has a life full of fun, drama and fun...may her spiritual life grow...ONLY GOD.
My husband sleeps in the Tree House with our son, exhausted yet feeling fullfilled again knowing God's blessings...ONLY GOD.
Joshua sleeps beside him, ready for his Lego class tomorrow, hoping the kids won't point or ask him questions ignoring the tracheostomy he lives with...ONLY GOD.
Two of my dear friends struggle against the monster that threatens to devour their only children...ONLY GOD.
And I marvel at my life with a grateful heart...ONLY GOD.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Healing has come to my home...
It’s very difficult to put into words what has happened over these last four days, but I will attempt it. My husband works for a Christian non-profit and two of his national staff came to visit us from Uganda, Africa. Aloysius and Esther Kyazze work in northern Uganda with war traumatized children, adults, HIV mothers and child mothers. I cannot express in this short space all they do for their people. But I can tell you they have both been gifted by God to see into the hearts and souls of hurting people, bringing healing and peace.
Our time together was short, but full of many meetings, speaking engagements and times of sharing. One morning we asked Aloysius to enlighten us with how he reaches out to these African children who have known nothing but war. Many of the children have been abducted by the rebel army and forced to become child soldiers. Many of them have been forced to butcher their own parents. Many have been forced to become sex slaves of the adult rebels. After escaping they are left emotionally, physically and psychologically damaged. The HIV mothers have been infected through rape or unfaithful husbands. The child mother’s have been tricked by unscrupulous men to have sex for food or a small treat then abandoned by the man and even their own families when they become pregnant. These girls are as young as 13 years.
Because they have known nothing but war for 25 years, this community of people have forgotten how to farm, how to raise livestock, how to be self sufficient. The NGOs in the area have handed out food and aid, but are now closing their offices as the crisis is over leaving these people with no knowledge of how to take care for themselves or how to get on with the business of living. The government is telling them to go back to their villages when their villages have been destroyed. Aloysius and Esther along with their staff and volunteers help teach their people the tools and skills they will need to begin again. They also walk along side of them to help bring emotional healing.
As Aloysius began to teach us how he encourages a traumatized person and helps them begin the healing process, my husband and I realized how broken we had become through Josh’s cancer diagnosis, treatment and continuing medical issues. We had already known this, but it became clearer as Aloysius was sharing with us. The trauma has also impacted our four daughters in various ways. If you have read this blog at all, you will know through my writings of our pain, heartache and struggles. Just the confirmation by Aloysius of our brokenness was enough to begin softening and covering our hearts with the balm of healing. I know we have not endured the atrocities these poor people in northern Uganda have, but our trauma is just as real, just as painful and just as much in need of help as theirs. In my world there are many hurting families due to childhood cancer and I desire to acquire the tools to be able to reach out to them with love, compassion and hope through the Holy Spirit.
Late last night, Esther spoke intensely and from her heart with our two high school daughters imparting an African Mama’s perspective and wisdom on life and God. What a special time that was! As I crawled into bed late in the evening, tears filled my eyes and a song I hadn’t sung in a long time filled my mind. It is titled “There is a Balm in Gilead”. I looked it up this morning and low and behold, it’s an African American Spiritual! I have copied the powerful words below. Aloysius and Esther left early this morning leaving behind a husband and wife who now feel a wholeness returning. Our focus, energy and purpose have been revived.
The healing has begun…
There Is a Balm in Gilead
By: African American Spiritual
Sometimes I feel discouraged and think my work’s in vain,
But then the Holy Spirit revives my soul again.
There is a balm in Gilead to make the wounded whole;
There is a balm in Gilead to heal the sin sick soul.
If you cannot preach like Peter, if you cannot pray like Paul,
You can tell the love of Jesus and say, "He died for all."
There is a balm in Gilead to make the wounded whole;
There is a balm in Gilead to heal the sin sick soul.
Don’t ever feel discouraged, for Jesus is your friend;
And if you lack for knowledge, He’ll never refuse to lend.
There is a balm in Gilead to make the wounded whole;
There is a balm in Gilead to heal the sin sick soul.
Our time together was short, but full of many meetings, speaking engagements and times of sharing. One morning we asked Aloysius to enlighten us with how he reaches out to these African children who have known nothing but war. Many of the children have been abducted by the rebel army and forced to become child soldiers. Many of them have been forced to butcher their own parents. Many have been forced to become sex slaves of the adult rebels. After escaping they are left emotionally, physically and psychologically damaged. The HIV mothers have been infected through rape or unfaithful husbands. The child mother’s have been tricked by unscrupulous men to have sex for food or a small treat then abandoned by the man and even their own families when they become pregnant. These girls are as young as 13 years.
Because they have known nothing but war for 25 years, this community of people have forgotten how to farm, how to raise livestock, how to be self sufficient. The NGOs in the area have handed out food and aid, but are now closing their offices as the crisis is over leaving these people with no knowledge of how to take care for themselves or how to get on with the business of living. The government is telling them to go back to their villages when their villages have been destroyed. Aloysius and Esther along with their staff and volunteers help teach their people the tools and skills they will need to begin again. They also walk along side of them to help bring emotional healing.
As Aloysius began to teach us how he encourages a traumatized person and helps them begin the healing process, my husband and I realized how broken we had become through Josh’s cancer diagnosis, treatment and continuing medical issues. We had already known this, but it became clearer as Aloysius was sharing with us. The trauma has also impacted our four daughters in various ways. If you have read this blog at all, you will know through my writings of our pain, heartache and struggles. Just the confirmation by Aloysius of our brokenness was enough to begin softening and covering our hearts with the balm of healing. I know we have not endured the atrocities these poor people in northern Uganda have, but our trauma is just as real, just as painful and just as much in need of help as theirs. In my world there are many hurting families due to childhood cancer and I desire to acquire the tools to be able to reach out to them with love, compassion and hope through the Holy Spirit.
Late last night, Esther spoke intensely and from her heart with our two high school daughters imparting an African Mama’s perspective and wisdom on life and God. What a special time that was! As I crawled into bed late in the evening, tears filled my eyes and a song I hadn’t sung in a long time filled my mind. It is titled “There is a Balm in Gilead”. I looked it up this morning and low and behold, it’s an African American Spiritual! I have copied the powerful words below. Aloysius and Esther left early this morning leaving behind a husband and wife who now feel a wholeness returning. Our focus, energy and purpose have been revived.
The healing has begun…
There Is a Balm in Gilead
By: African American Spiritual
Sometimes I feel discouraged and think my work’s in vain,
But then the Holy Spirit revives my soul again.
There is a balm in Gilead to make the wounded whole;
There is a balm in Gilead to heal the sin sick soul.
If you cannot preach like Peter, if you cannot pray like Paul,
You can tell the love of Jesus and say, "He died for all."
There is a balm in Gilead to make the wounded whole;
There is a balm in Gilead to heal the sin sick soul.
Don’t ever feel discouraged, for Jesus is your friend;
And if you lack for knowledge, He’ll never refuse to lend.
There is a balm in Gilead to make the wounded whole;
There is a balm in Gilead to heal the sin sick soul.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Sacred Sacrifice...
I recently attended a women’s seminar taught by a published author who focused on helping Christian women become Biblical lay counselors. I signed up for this event for two reasons: First, I find myself in the world of childhood cancer, connecting with mothers whose child has just been diagnosed with cancer or who have lost a child to cancer or whose child seems to be losing the battle against cancer. I ache for these women with deep empathy and some understanding of their hurting hearts. I want to serve them in some capacity. Secondly, I need answers, help and Biblical truth myself. I long for peace in my soul after years of inner turmoil. I struggle with “survivor’s guilt”. Why is my son still alive? I am no better than any other mother who finds herself in a similar nightmare. My son and I are no more deserving.
The speaker surprised me with her small grandmotherly stature and gentle, quiet way of speaking. She was funny too, as she reminded me of many Biblical truths I have heard over the years. But when she took us to the book of Job in the Bible, tears began to slide down my face. Just before Josh was diagnosed with cancer, I had been wrestling with the verse in Job where he states, “Though He slay me, yet will I hope in Him.” I remember thinking I wasn’t so sure I could say those same words, yet I felt a stirring in my soul to say them out loud. Then my son became seriously ill.
Job lost EVERYTHING, his livelihood, his servants, his children and even his health. Yet, he continued to trust God. Of course, he also questioned all God had allowed to come his way. Believe me; I’ve questioned God a lot. There is nothing in this world quite as devastating as watching your precious child suffer. But even harder still is watching your child take his/her last breath. Thank God, I haven’t had to be burdened with that sadness, but I know many mothers who have. Though it doesn’t make it any easier, Job’s children died suddenly. It wasn’t a long, heartbreaking process like two mothers I know are enduring at this very moment.
God the father, on the other hand, allowed and watched His son, Jesus Christ suffer and die. He did not deny us the death of His son for the forgiveness or our sins. Mary, Jesus’s mother, must have born unbelievable agonies as she stood at the foot of her son’s cross. I’ve caught glimpses of this distress as Josh endured cancer treatment. The pain is literally tangible and alive. I sense other mother’s aching just as concretely, the women who are journeying a similar road. And I came to understand thru the speaker, this is my “sacred sacrifice”. I see myself prostrate before God laying down these years of heartache before Him, offering my son to Him, offering all my children and my husband to Him…essentially…offering Him my life. The answers of why or how could a loving God allow this or any of the other deep questions is still there. But it does alleviate, just a little, the “survivor’s guilt” I feel. It does take a little of the edge off of my distress. I’m settled in with knowing that’s all I have to offer Him, though out of my control. It boils down to TRUST.
(Please do not think I am comparing myself or anyone else with Jesus Christ and/or Mary.)
Jesus talks about counting the cost of following Him, but I see how just living life has a cost. For me it has come in the hurt of a child diagnosed with cancer, who has survived treatment, but deals with damaging, life altering side effects. It comes with the knowledge of his higher risks of heart problems, strokes and secondary cancers due to radiation and chemotherapy. It comes with the physical limitations due to a “compression fracture” of his vertebra and the fear of him becoming paralyzed. It comes with the balance of allowing my son to run and play; to be a boy, yet not putting him in a bubble. Would God have allowed this in my life if I hadn’t been a believer, I wonder? Just because I am a follower of Jesus Christ doesn’t mean I am spared any catastrophe. But I wonder why God allowed it. The speaker reminded me the Bible tells us how going through these agonies sifts out the junk in our lives helping us to become more Christ like. Part of me feels privileged with this thought…part of me feels downright angry.
The leader went on to emphasize how all things are for our good thru Jesus Christ. That’s a tough one for me as I watch "L" agonize over the choices she must make concerning her son’s cancer relapse. They’ve been fighting this beast since 2004 with prayer, medical doctors and alternative treatments. "K" whose daughter is in the hospital again due to complications from a trial chemotherapy drug for her daughter’s relapse, debates “quality of life” and what’s best for her little girl. "M", an 8 year old, is weary of the battle as she faces life and death questions with the help of a counselor. Though strong in her faith, she doesn’t want to die and is filled with anxiety. I must trust good will come of this?
I climb into bed telling God I just don’t understand. How can I become more Christ like with such anger in me? How can I become more like Him with this confusion? I hand it over to Him again and again, because there is nothing else I can do. I try to love these hurting mothers with words of encouragement, sending up a thousand prayers a day. I stand beside them sometimes in spirit sometimes in body. The compassion and heart I have for these women surely is Christ in me. This is how I know Christ I am Christ like, by sharing in their affliction.
As a believer, we are to thank God in all circumstances, but I cannot thank God for childhood cancer. It is not from Him, but He has allowed it. What a fine line of meaning in those words. I know we are His creation. I know compared to His holiness, we are deceitfully wicked. I know we really have no rights to ourselves. I know He is just, holy, sovereign and on and on. But I find myself balancing on that fine line trying not to fall off. I can only offer Him what I have endured with His permission as my “sacred sacrifice” being grateful of where I am. My friend "M" has given the ultimate “sacred sacrifice”, her 12 year old son.
I have not abandoned my God…He has not left me.
That’s my sacrificial thanksgiving…
The speaker surprised me with her small grandmotherly stature and gentle, quiet way of speaking. She was funny too, as she reminded me of many Biblical truths I have heard over the years. But when she took us to the book of Job in the Bible, tears began to slide down my face. Just before Josh was diagnosed with cancer, I had been wrestling with the verse in Job where he states, “Though He slay me, yet will I hope in Him.” I remember thinking I wasn’t so sure I could say those same words, yet I felt a stirring in my soul to say them out loud. Then my son became seriously ill.
Job lost EVERYTHING, his livelihood, his servants, his children and even his health. Yet, he continued to trust God. Of course, he also questioned all God had allowed to come his way. Believe me; I’ve questioned God a lot. There is nothing in this world quite as devastating as watching your precious child suffer. But even harder still is watching your child take his/her last breath. Thank God, I haven’t had to be burdened with that sadness, but I know many mothers who have. Though it doesn’t make it any easier, Job’s children died suddenly. It wasn’t a long, heartbreaking process like two mothers I know are enduring at this very moment.
God the father, on the other hand, allowed and watched His son, Jesus Christ suffer and die. He did not deny us the death of His son for the forgiveness or our sins. Mary, Jesus’s mother, must have born unbelievable agonies as she stood at the foot of her son’s cross. I’ve caught glimpses of this distress as Josh endured cancer treatment. The pain is literally tangible and alive. I sense other mother’s aching just as concretely, the women who are journeying a similar road. And I came to understand thru the speaker, this is my “sacred sacrifice”. I see myself prostrate before God laying down these years of heartache before Him, offering my son to Him, offering all my children and my husband to Him…essentially…offering Him my life. The answers of why or how could a loving God allow this or any of the other deep questions is still there. But it does alleviate, just a little, the “survivor’s guilt” I feel. It does take a little of the edge off of my distress. I’m settled in with knowing that’s all I have to offer Him, though out of my control. It boils down to TRUST.
(Please do not think I am comparing myself or anyone else with Jesus Christ and/or Mary.)
Jesus talks about counting the cost of following Him, but I see how just living life has a cost. For me it has come in the hurt of a child diagnosed with cancer, who has survived treatment, but deals with damaging, life altering side effects. It comes with the knowledge of his higher risks of heart problems, strokes and secondary cancers due to radiation and chemotherapy. It comes with the physical limitations due to a “compression fracture” of his vertebra and the fear of him becoming paralyzed. It comes with the balance of allowing my son to run and play; to be a boy, yet not putting him in a bubble. Would God have allowed this in my life if I hadn’t been a believer, I wonder? Just because I am a follower of Jesus Christ doesn’t mean I am spared any catastrophe. But I wonder why God allowed it. The speaker reminded me the Bible tells us how going through these agonies sifts out the junk in our lives helping us to become more Christ like. Part of me feels privileged with this thought…part of me feels downright angry.
The leader went on to emphasize how all things are for our good thru Jesus Christ. That’s a tough one for me as I watch "L" agonize over the choices she must make concerning her son’s cancer relapse. They’ve been fighting this beast since 2004 with prayer, medical doctors and alternative treatments. "K" whose daughter is in the hospital again due to complications from a trial chemotherapy drug for her daughter’s relapse, debates “quality of life” and what’s best for her little girl. "M", an 8 year old, is weary of the battle as she faces life and death questions with the help of a counselor. Though strong in her faith, she doesn’t want to die and is filled with anxiety. I must trust good will come of this?
I climb into bed telling God I just don’t understand. How can I become more Christ like with such anger in me? How can I become more like Him with this confusion? I hand it over to Him again and again, because there is nothing else I can do. I try to love these hurting mothers with words of encouragement, sending up a thousand prayers a day. I stand beside them sometimes in spirit sometimes in body. The compassion and heart I have for these women surely is Christ in me. This is how I know Christ I am Christ like, by sharing in their affliction.
As a believer, we are to thank God in all circumstances, but I cannot thank God for childhood cancer. It is not from Him, but He has allowed it. What a fine line of meaning in those words. I know we are His creation. I know compared to His holiness, we are deceitfully wicked. I know we really have no rights to ourselves. I know He is just, holy, sovereign and on and on. But I find myself balancing on that fine line trying not to fall off. I can only offer Him what I have endured with His permission as my “sacred sacrifice” being grateful of where I am. My friend "M" has given the ultimate “sacred sacrifice”, her 12 year old son.
I have not abandoned my God…He has not left me.
That’s my sacrificial thanksgiving…
Friday, February 27, 2009
It's surreal...
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...
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...
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