White As Snow

The snow is melting quickly today, and I’m glad. Our family didn’t suffer like so many Atlanta citizens did during what has already been coined as Snowjam 2014.  There were no eighteen hour commutes from school or work, no long, cold nights spent in cars or in stores or in the homes of strangers.  We enjoyed the snow – loved it, in fact.  There was sledding with neighbors and hot chocolate with friends and the joy of an unexpected holiday in the middle of the week.  We watched movies and threw snowballs and made memories.


The kids went back to school at 10:00 am this morning, as they happen to attend one of the few schools that opened their doors to students today, and I’m glad.  Our family has had enough of the unusual this month, with my recovery from surgery and all that has come with it.  We need some normalcy in our lives, and three inches of snow in Georgia will never be normal.  We need a return to routine, and school on a Friday is part of that.


But that snow . . . it came at just the right time.  Not for most, perhaps, but for me.  And while I feel terrible for all those people who couldn’t get home to their families, and all those families who couldn’t get in touch with their loved ones, and all those loved ones who were hungry and tired and scared and cold . . .


That snow . . . it made me glad.  I watched it fall, softly and silently covering the ground in white, and I was so glad.


I have had a lot of time to think this month.  A lot of time spent on chairs and couches, while the world circled around me and I waited to heal.  All that thinking has been eye opening.  When you’re busy – driving carpool and cleaning toilets and preparing meals and shopping for groceries – you don’t think much about your heart.  You think about getting things done.  You think about what time you have to be where and which items you need to buy at Publix and when you’re going to squeeze in a workout.  Your mind is so occupied by the motions your body is going through that you don’t have time to examine what’s going on in your heart.


But my body couldn't be busy this January.  It had to be still.  And because I have amazing people in my life who loved me enough to help me, my mind didn’t have to think about carpool or cleaning or groceries.  My mind has been focused on my heart, and in turn, my eyes have been opened.


My heart is filthy.


My heart is greedy and jealous and prideful and angry.  It’s mean and selfish and impatient and judgmental.  I want too many things from too many people.  I’m mad when things don’t go my way.  I expect too much, complain too much, fear too much, hate too much.


My heart is covered in sin and dirt and stains.  I’m bleeding out. 


No one can possibly fix the mess that is my heart right now. 


No loyal husband or loving children or wise friend can do a thing to clean up this heart of mine.  It’s dirty and damaged and disgusting.


You see, that’s what I’ve been thinking.  That's all I've been thinking.


Then, the snow began to fall.  It fell all over the deck and all over the backyard and all over the neighborhood.  There was white everywhere, covering everything.  And as I sat there watching the snow come down, thinking about my heart, I remembered . . .


There is one who washes away the dirt.  There is one who cleans the filth.  There is one who knows the depths of my heart and wants to inhabit in anyway, so he can chisel away the gross and the grime and someday . . . get down to the goodness that lives there because he does.


The snow?  It can make anything beautiful.  It can take a bunch of bare trees and change them into an enchanting forest of ice.  It can conceal the blackest asphalt, making it an exquisite path.  Snow can take an ordinary day, and turn it into a picture of peace.


And the one who made the snow?  The one who can make ALL things beautiful?  He can take the worst heart . . . he can take my heart . . . and transform it. 

That makes me glad. 

“Come now, says the Lord: though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow . . ."

Isaiah 1:18

What Shines After Surgery

Recovery is a blast, y’all, lemme tell ya.  Not sure what made me think I was going to be some grand exception to the six week recovery rule for major colon surgery, but my growing frustration as life passes me by has made it very clear that I thought I would be and . . .


I’m not.

When the doctor says it takes six weeks to recover from colon surgery, he means every day of the entire six weeks.  As in, over forty days.  As in, you will feel uncomfortable and swollen and tired and completely unlike yourself for a whole month and a half no matter how many times you pray to feel better.

Today, I’m almost four weeks into my six weeks of recovery, and so far, I HATE my new semicolon.

Three hours of surgery is a lot.  I guess I get that.  Six incisions is a lot.  I totally get that.  Trust me, every time I try to move even an inch in any direction, I get that. 

I’ve gotten used to the dull ache in my lower abdomen and not wearing anything but pajama and workout pants because my jeans still won’t fit.  I now know the nausea comes and goes, and when I stand up, I should always brace myself for a wave of lightheadedness.  I’ve even given up on staying awake past my children or sleeping in past 4:30 am, because when you can’t keep your eyes open for one second longer and have to go to bed before eight o’clock every night, your body tells you to wake up hours before the sun every morning.  You know, so you don’t get bedsores.  At least the night sweats have stopped . . . most of the time.

I feel quite certain God wants me to use this period of recovery for some purpose I won’t understand for a very long time, if ever.  I can hear him calling me to be still, and friends, it isn’t hard to obey when my body is saying it can’t budge from the chair to do anything.  Besides, 'Property Brothers' is on and this body needs to see the finished renovations Drew and Jonathan made to that horrible house with that couple's generous budget.

The problem with being still is . . . I HATE being still.  Inactivity and me have never gotten along.  I’m not a napper, not even a rester.  I never used to watch TV during the day.  Ever.  Usually, I stand up to eat meals and read emails because, hey, I might need to rush off to do something in between bites and replies and you can’t rush when you’re sitting down.  Stillness feels stifling to me.  I’m not made to be sedentary.  I miss my workouts.  I miss bounding up the stairs and running around in the backyard with the puppy and driving my kids all over town for their activities. 

I miss my productivity. 

And while I am making progress, and my almost healed incisions have allowed for increased mobility that has done wonders for my mental state this week, I have had many moments of dark in this time of recovery.  I have felt depression lurking, its blackness silently creeping up behind me, threatening to settle in all around.

Thankfully, I know the One who drives away all the dark with His light.  And I know those who love Him, and who have loved me because of it.

I have not caught up on my reading during my recovery, as I hoped.  I have not watched every episode of 'Downton Abbey,' as suggested.  I haven’t learned to appreciate an entire afternoon spent relaxing in front of the television, even if a 'Love It or List It' marathon is on.  

No, I have not discovered the joys of rest and stillness.  But I have witnessed a community of people serving Christ through serving me, and I WILL NEVER FORGET IT.

I will never forget the calls and texts and cards and emails they sent.  I will never forget the flowers and gifts and games and goodies they brought.  I will never forget their visits – the way they uplifted me with hugs and smiles and kind words when the pain was constant and the dark was closing in.  I will never forget the support they provided – hosting my children for play dates and driving them where they needed to go.  I will never forget the meals they prepared.  They have fed my family . . . for weeks they have fed my family when I could not . . . and in turn, they have fed my soul.

My semicolon totally stinks, but my people . . .

My people are AMAZING!!!  They are Jesus at work and faith in action and love in the world.  And for me, they are light.  They are the brightest lights of hope and comfort and friendship, and their choice to be the hands and feet of Christ for me and my family have kept the dark away.  I will be forever grateful. 

Want To Be On ESPN?

Dear Son,

I’ve heard people say that life is a game and sometimes it seems like they’re right.  Sometimes it seems like they’re winning and you’re losing and nothing can turn the momentum for anything.  You practice and work and train and you just can’t seem to change the outcome.  The score still says you’re beat.

I don’t think life is a game.  Seems to me that word puts too trivial a meaning on a journey that could never be summed up in a highlight reel.

Still, you’re a ten-year-old boy.  You’ve had some sort of ball in your hand just about every day for a decade now.  You’ve watched endless hours of sports on television with your dad.  You’ve played baseball, lacrosse, and basketball on local park teams.  You’ve played soccer, tennis, football, and golf in the backyard.  You know what it’s like to win a game, and to lose one.  And so, I’m hoping this will mean something to you, my son, because that’s what I’m trying to do, after all.  I’m trying to make sure something . . . the right thing . . . means something to you.

Indulge me for just a moment, and let’s imagine that life is a game, and you’re playing it.  How will you make sure the outcome of the game is the one you want it to be?

Let’s start with the uniform.  Is it important?  Ask any boy who remembers the first time he put on a little league shirt with the name of his team sprawled boldly across the front – the pants with the coordinating pin stripe down the side, the matching socks, belt and hat.  Ask him what it feels like to stand in front of a mirror and know you belong. 

Yes.  The uniform is important.  It lets the crowd know what team you’ve pledged your membership to – for whom you have chosen to play.  It announces to anyone watching that you have aligned your goals with the will of a greater group.  Put on a uniform and you become united with others – your hearts and minds joined for a common purpose. 

What about the coach?  Does the coach have much of an impact on the outcome of a game when he’s not an active participant in the game?  He is responsible for choosing the players on his team, after all, or at least accepting those who willingly join it.  He evaluates their strengths and weaknesses, placing them as often as possible in positions that capitalize on their greatest gifts.  He teaches new skills and improves old ones, ridding players of bad habits detrimental to the collective cause.  He encourages patience, hard work, determination, good sportsmanship, loyalty.  He develops strategies, plans, and plays he believes will ensure victory, despite the fact that winning is never a guarantee.  

Yes.  The coach matters.  The coach is the leader of his team, and a leader always has influence.

How about the playbook - where does it fit in?  It certainly holds important information.  Much thought goes into its creation, and it is highly regarded as a tool for success.  The playbook is the culmination of hours, days, and weeks of principle, practice, preparation, and the plotting of ideas.  It is a design, a tactical map intended to lead a team to ultimate triumph.  Lose your playbook and you’ve lost a critical component for making decisions. 

Yes.  The playbook is a key piece of the puzzle.  It is a guide that encourages the best paths to take.

So maybe life is a lot like a game.  We are often on the quest for a goal, aren’t we?  We are always angling for position, striving for status, trying to reach the finish line.  We are always shooting for something. 

Son, one day you will have the opportunity to play this game of life on your own, without parents standing guard to steer your every decision.  You can play it any way you want – it is your game, YOUR life – and I can assure you there will be choices too numerous to name.  There are uniforms of every color and style.  There are thousands of teams with thousands of goals.  There are coaches galore and playbooks with proposals of all kinds.   You can pick any of them at any time, and every choice you make will have its own set of consequences.

My prayer, sweet Charlie, is that when it comes time for you to pick your uniform, you choose the only one that offers complete protection, because you will need it.  There is simply no way around the fact that you will be sacked in this game of life.  You will be pushed back and pushed down and pushed around.  You will fall and fail and flail, and You. Will. Be. Defeated.  Life is never a steady stream of successes.  Life is a journey filled with smiles and strikeouts, homeruns and hopelessness, goals and grief, touchdowns and tragedy.  Yes, there will be accomplishments.  Sometimes, you will win.  But there will also be setbacks and suffering and soul-splitting experiences that will make you feel as though you haven’t just lost the game . . . you’ve lost everything.

There is only one uniform that will protect you from the realities of life and its games, and that is the full armor of God.  Oh what a beautiful uniform it is – the belt of truth, the breastplate of righteousness, the shield of faith, the helmet of salvation, the sword of the Spirit.  You would look magnificent in that uniform, my son.  And when you wear it, IF you choose to wear it, everyone will know whose team you’re on.  Everyone will know you have chosen Jesus as your coach and the Bible as your playbook and the joy of victory FOREVER. 

You see, you will never lose the game when you choose the right uniform and the right team and the right coach and the right playbook.  You will always win . . . because God always wins.  

If you choose to spend your life playing for God, my son, your life will always be worthy of a highlight reel.  And your prize . . . your prize will be so much better than a medal or a trophy or a title. 

Your prize will be eternity. 

You're Invited!

How many times have I heard my children call for me in the last ten years? 

“Moooommmmmm . . .”

“Mom?”

“MOM!”

Too many times to count, that’s how many.

Sometimes, they don’t really need me.  They call my name just to check, to make sure I’m close enough, within earshot, ready to lend a hand if necessary.   

Sometimes, they call for help.  Fix something, Mom.  Make something, tie something, clean something, find something.  They require assistance, and they require it from me. 

Sometimes, they call because they want me to watch them do something, or show me something already done.  They need me to see, to notice, to break from my life and focus on theirs.

The truth?  I can tune out my children quite easily when they call my name and I know their request can probably wait.  Almost eleven years into this incredible journey of parenthood, perhaps it was inevitable that I would develop the ability to ignore my own offspring in my often preoccupied state.  I get busy doing whatever it is I think I should be doing, and I put off responding to the one name I have heard more than any others in the last decade, certain the ones calling it will move on without me so I can continue in my busyness.

But sometimes . . . sometimes one of my children will call my name with a tone in their voice that begs nothing but immediate attention.  You’ve heard that tone before, haven’t you?  It has an intensity . . . an urgency to it that you simply cannot ignore.  You hear it and instantly understand there is no time for delay - you must rush to answer the call.  Nothing else matters when you hear your child calling you like that.  The world around you fades to black and you drop everything, intent only to reach the one calling, your sole purpose to be with him as quickly as possible.

Jesus is calling your name like that, my friends.

He’s calling mine too, and sometimes . . . most times . . . I choose to disregard his call.  I go on with my life as if whatever I’m doing is more important than the most important thing in my life.  And the craziest thing about my decision to ignore the One who loves me most is the fact that Jesus doesn’t need me.  There is no emergency he can’t solve on his own.  He isn’t asking for my comfort or my help or for validation.  He just wants me to sit at his feet . . . and stay awhile.     

Run. To. Me.

That’s his only request.  So simple and sweet and sacred.

An invitation from my Savior.  And the only response it requires is that I show up.

Lord, let me heed your call.  Let me show up when you whisper my name.

IT'S ALIVE!!!

And by it, I mean me! 

I’m home, appendix free and with my brand new semi colon.  There is still a lot of pain and swelling, but I have never been more grateful to be home in my entire thirty-eight years of life.

Home is nothing short of pure bliss right now, and I promise to never complain about my kitchen again. 

Okay.  I promise to never complain about my kitchen again at least until the end of the month.

Here’s what I need to tell you about hospitals; (I used a semi colon there just for irony – thanks A!)

There are many wonderful people inside hospitals.  

Hospitals are one of the most horrible places on earth.

I spent three and a half days in a highly reputable Atlanta area hospital, 24 hours of which I was so strung out on anesthesia and pain meds I slept and vomited my way through them.  And I NEVER WANT TO GO BACK.

We have excellent healthcare available in America, and I am fully aware of the lack of healthcare many people face in developing countries.  My surgery and consequent hospital stay were in a facility I’m incredibly blessed to have such easy access to, and there were hundreds of others there receiving quality care at the same time I was.  The doctors and nurses were trained professionals, educated in some of the most widely respected medical schools in the world.  I had my own recovery room, complete with a bed, full bathroom, and a television, and I had access to any medicines or health products I could have needed at the push of a button.  Someone came in each day to clean my room, and offered to use only soap and water because of my nausea.  Someone came in each day to deliver my liquid only meals, and didn’t say a thing when he had to remove them an hour later untouched.  Someone delivered me one foot away from the car door in a wheelchair upon my discharge. 

I. Am. So. Grateful.

And yet, I NEVER WANT TO GO BACK.

I know there are children who will not get a meal today, liquid or otherwise.  I know there are babies who won’t get the medicines they need.  I know they are people who haven’t showered in three days and feel as disgusting as I did but won’t get to shower for how knows how long because they don’t have a shower or a house or food or a bed or a television or a hospital.  Please know I KNOW these things and I am so grateful. 

But y’all, hospitals are truly horrible places, and after three and a half days in one, I think America can do better.

Hospitals are supposed to be places of healing.

How can healing come when medicines are being pumped into a body that can’t take them?  When the patient, in fact, has to be the one to suggest perhaps all the heavy-duty pain meds on a continuous drip into a body that hasn’t consumed food in days might be what is causing all the nausea?  When the patient, who thankfully was coherent enough to speak and think for herself (not always the case in hospitals) has to ask if we can just try something by mouth instead?  (Advil is working just fine, my friends, and the nausea was gone almost as soon as that pain pump was removed – I really should have gone to med school, don’t you think?)

How can healing come when one person enters a room where a patient is trying to rest every couple of hours to listen to her heart and bowel sounds (it sounds like a hot tub down there in case your curious - the neighbors can hear my bowel sounds right now without a stethoscope), and then another person comes in every couple of hours, BUT NEVER AT THE SAME TIME, to take the patient’s pulse, blood pressure, and temperature?  Thinking maybe that could be the same person, since the entire process would then take a total of three minutes instead of two minutes but everything would be done at once, instead of every stinking hour throughout the entire stinking night? 

Just a thought.

Along those same lines, they could use a few more classes on time management and multitasking in nursing school, in my opinion.  Please be aware that this very humble opinion comes from someone totally and completely inadequate as a caregiver who could never be a nurse in her life and thank you to that wonderful man who held the barf bag for me and cheered for me every time I vomited into it like I had just finished a marathon.  Still, I’m pretty sure there is someone out there who could train nurses to be able to get both a bandaid and a cup of ice at the same time, preferably within less than seventy minutes.  (Just so you understand I'm not trying to be ungrateful - this was not a one time incident - this happened with every nurse, every time, with everything I needed.)

How can healing come when the food given to someone who just had almost a foot of her colon removed is full of artificial colors, flavors, preservatives and even sweeteners?  Seriously?  Italian Ice and orange Jello for someone who wants to get healthy and never have to go back to the hospital – are you kidding me?

I'm home, and although I know it is wrong, I am finding great joy in my circumstances today.  I’ve showered.  I’ve brushed my teeth and combed my hair and even had a cup of coffee with my creamer that has nothing whatsoever artificial in it.  I’ve taken a few more Advil and I’m resting comfortably in a chair in my home, and I am so very grateful.  There are people in downtown Atlanta who didn’t get to leave that hospital yesterday.  There are people all across the world who don’t have a hospital and need one.

I will remember the man who held the bag and cheered for me as I threw up into it.  I will remember the woman who offered to clean my room with only soap and water.  I will remember the nurse who told me I looked so much better when I could only have looked so much worse.  I will remember the boy who delivered my food and encouraged me to eat my grits. I will remember how lucky I am to have access to doctors with the amazing abilities to provide a higher quality of life for me.  And when I look at the six incisions across my stomach, I will forever remember what a true blessing it is to have wonderful friends who cared enough to pray for me, and a family to come home to when the worst was over.

Thank you, God, for hospitals.  Thank you for all the nurses and doctors who work in them.  Thank you for those unseen in the hospitals – the ones who prepare food and deliver equipment and test blood and stock rooms.  Thank you for medicine.  Thank you for life.  Thank you for friends, for family, and today, maybe more than any day I’ve ever known, thank you, God,

 for home.