hope

March 13, 2014

Beyond Hope

If you doubt that spring is in the air, just visit Christmas Tree Shop on a Saturday afternoon, especially when the temperature has finally stretched past forty. I needed a frame and a lamp, and knowing the danger of entering that store and thinking you can leave with just two items, I tried to put my blinders on. But immediately my senses were overwhelmed with the shamrock green of St. Patty’s Day and the pastels of Easter.

It was a mob scene. Something primal in the human soul goes wild when spring peeks out from under the covers. Carts were filled with pots and shovels and bulbs and grilling accessories. It’s been a very long winter in this neck of the woods. Yeah I know… in Canada, it’s spit in a pond, but we’re not in Canada, hose-head.

I started to think about this shift, how vital it is for us to hope, and how hope is tied inextricably to faith. Proverbs 29:18 states, “Where there is no vision the people perish.”

I will never forget a patient I had many years ago. She came in for an emergency surgery that was fairly routine, like a gall bladder removal, but she had many other chronic health issues, darkly called “co-morbidities”. Things began to go wrong. What should have been minor setbacks became hurdles too high for her to jump. I watched her face as over the course of a few weeks, she began to lose vision.

The other thing I noticed is how those of us in health care unconsciously reject those that fail. We don’t mean to, but we pull away. It’s our way of guarding ourselves from despondency. We stop making eye contact; we perform our tasks diligently then scamper away. For the patient, isolation sets in. Then despair. I remember helping to move this woman from a stretcher back to her bed after yet another test. There must have been six of us in the room but no one spoke to her, even though there was the usual banter. As we pulled her body across the slide board to the bed, I caught her expression, or lack of one. Her gaze was upwards, detached. She had climbed inside herself. She was dying.

I waited for everyone to leave and then I bent my face down to hers and gently turned her face to mine.

“You’re not alone, you know,” I said. Her gaze locked onto mine. She was silent. I told her not to quit, that she was not alone, that God loved her. Tears flowed down her face yet she did not move to wipe them. She didn’t speak but in her eyes she said everything. It was too late. She died soon after, and she did not die from the wound in her body. She lost her way and she died alone, but surrounded by dozens of doctors and nurses.

I walked out in my yard yesterday, just to feel the dirt under my feet after the last of the snow had melted. A few brave daffodil stems are pushing upward through the frozen ground. I remember the first spring after Spence died, how I walked out on my porch this time of year and caught a flash of purple out of the corner of my eye. There, shivering beside the warmth of our chimney, a small cluster of crocuses had bloomed. I looked at them in disbelief, then burst into tears. I cried because they were so frail and so brave. I cried because I hated how time bullies us all forward. I did not want to go forward. I had lost my vision.

Sometimes pain is so loud you cannot hear the still small voice of the Holy Spirit. And darkness settles over you like swamp mud. But I knew that the One who for whatever reason had placed me there, would also never leave me or forsake me. I knew that even if I felt the flames around me, or the waters rising up to my very nose, He would not let me perish. So I walked on. When I began to veer off the path, I could feel a distinct tug pulling me back.

Pain can be a fertile soil of redemption and hope or the hard barren ground of despair. I have watched people I love a lot shipwreck and sink off of the shoals of bitterness and offense.

Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance: perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us. Romans 5:3-5

Whom he has given us…. Also called “Paraclete”: One who consoles or comforts, encourages and uplifts, advocate.

As I look out of my window, there is snow drifting through the air, dusting the ground white again. This is rather discouraging as spring is scheduled to arrive a week from today. Still we have faith that we will use our shovels and grills and Turf Builder because the calendar says so.

But where is our faith when nothing looks familiar? When we really don’t want time to move forward? It takes a supernatural, an “other-worldly” grace to help us step forward when common sense says You will fall, or worse Why bother?; to press upwards like those brave little crocuses.

I close with a poem or song that I found in one of Spencer’s notebooks. I think he wrote it but I can’t be sure. Anyway, I know he liked it and so do I.

Our Hope

Our hope is what is hidden

Not seen with the human eye

Is promised to the forgiven

From a God who does not lie

“We hope for what we do not see”

This gives us hope in itself

The present cannot dictate

What lies beyond our death.

So we will not grow weary

When all we had was lost

Our treasure cannot be worked for

Only Jesus paid its cost.

So when vanity and emptiness

Overwhelm us with despair

We praise God for His promises

With hands raised in the air.

“Set your hope fully on the grace to be given to you when Jesus Christ is revealed.” 1 Peter 1:21

(Scripture added by Spence)

Hope always points to heaven. (Thought added by me.)

September 8, 2012

The Secret Path

The email subject simply said “Thanks for sharing”. It was from a father who lost his two year old son last February and I eagerly read the text that followed. He shared briefly his circumstances, then left a link to an audio of his son’s funeral, urging me to listen. I went home and clicked on, profoundly moved by what I heard.

The father spoke first. I was not only touched by his words, but I immediately noticed the edge in his voice. The sorrow and agony wove through his words, and I remembered the peculiar dominion and freedom that comes with such devastation. We know there is nothing left to lose and having thrown our broken souls upon the Rock of ages, having severed the last cords from all earthly moorings, we are strangely buoyed by an unseen Force that we can neither feel at the time nor understand but His presence is unmistakable. When a person is surrendered to God’s will at this time, there is clarity to the world around you. You see things as they really are, with all the small petty things of life sifted out and you become a mouthpiece for God, a yielded vessel in the purest sense. It is transforming.

This morning I read from Isaiah, “I have chosen you out of the furnace of affliction” and I thought, How strange that You would not only find us in that place but even lead us there; to a furnace, or a desert or the wilderness. Yet He promises, “I will never leave you or forsake you.” I remember so clearly how black the darkness became after my son died. It was the type of black that makes you unsure of your next step, of the air around you, even unsure of up and down; there is nothing familiar. I knew that God was there, His words were behind me, guiding me, His arm was beneath me, and I also knew that everywhere I would go, that Jesus was before me. I was still scared, sometimes terrified, but these things I knew to be true.

In a vivid dream I had in those early days, Jesus was running. I know we don’t know what he looked like but it was him in my dream and he was running fast like you do when there is something dangerous and you are trying to save someone. He had a look of great focus and compassion on his face. And in the dream God told me he was running to catch a girl who was falling. And the girl was me.

I can’t stop thinking of the father of this beautiful little boy who drowned, of the painful march through the year; birthdays, holidays, looking for the laughter, the little steps, reaching out to hold…nothing. Yet in listening to the funeral, the father’s voice so broken but with a familiar strength, I know they will not only be okay, but they will be blessed beyond measure. In God’s peculiar economy, the letting go of everything allows us to receive His “all in all”. The path, so dark to begin with, becomes illuminated as we climb higher in to His glory and we are hidden in the cleft of the rock, where we see things too marvelous for words.

He wrote specifically to say that he and his wife also find comfort from the words of Samuel Rutherford, a 17th century preacher, and Amy Carmichael, a missionary to India. (See Resources on the HOPE page). The following poem is one he found written by Amy Carmichael, who suffered many years while serving in India. I’ll end here. May you find the Secret Path.

WITHERED LAWN

(by Amy Carmichal & based on John 4: 14)

“Shall never thirst” —My God, what does it mean?

My wells of joy are dried up, and the dawn of this strange day discovers all my lawn, that yesterday lay green, A stretch of withered grass; and the white may that bordered it is gone.

My desolate day lengthens to weeks; will the long weeks be years? Henceforth must only tears suffice me? “Never thirst!” Are the words mockery, framed to ensnare? Nay, God be true though my own heart be liar! When was He ever a wilderness to me? As waters that fail? Thou pricking, stinging brier, false stabbing thought–go trail thy venomous thorns elsewhere! O God, my Father, help me.

Thus he spoke–the man whose heart God broke, but broke in pitifulness. Though by a stroke He took the dear desire of his eyes, it was but to surprise him with greater Love. For far more full of incommunicable delights, the fountain on the heights, than wayside pool, however sweet with fringing flower and fern; and those who learn the secret path that to the fountain goes, whence comfort flows, would tread it ever. But just then, of this only the border of the coming bliss was shown to him — as in the desolate dawn Father and son in a new union, one, walked hand in hand across the withered lawn.

April 2, 2012

The Winter That Wasn’t

: Rosie on the trail

We New Englanders have been left in the perplexing position of having not much to complain about this winter…weather-wise. We will always complain about something. But this winter may go down, quietly, as the winter that wasn’t. A bizarre autumn blizzard sucker-punched the inland states, leaving us all hyper-prepped for the worst winter ever and then…nothing. The Cape got one sloppy mediocre blizzard that was undetectable two days later after 50 degree weather erased every trace.

I was thinking of this as I walked a familiar trail in the woods this morning. The soft covering of pine needles have turned golden-red through the mild season, making the trail easy to navigate and comfortable to hike. A little over a year ago, the same trail was coated in ice and the woods off to the side had a base of snow, not deep, but there for most of the winter. The trail was treacherous and I fell several times even though I tried to keep to the side on the snow. But the woods are thick with brambles (I think that’s what they are) so I’d delicately negotiate the trail, only to slip and slide helplessly on the ice. Once the pain subsided I would laugh out there in the silent woods. Rosie, my dog, would backtrack and stand next to me, looking embarrassed. I think she was hoping no other dogs would see her owner in such a ridiculous state.

Now that March has come to a close we are even more perplexed. We thought surely the sleeping lion would awaken and claw at us with frost and gale. But instead, the flowers are blooming… a month early. This makes me think about perspective. I spent most of my grown life as a certified cynic, a Murphy’s Law advocate. But something happened when I met Jesus Christ, something subtle at first. I heard about this man Jesus who touched the Untouchables, made the blind to see. He stilled a violent sea and caused a mob of angry men to put down their stones and leave, with just His words. This touched something dormant deep within my heart, sort of like those brave little daffodils shivering out there now in the cold wind. It was hope. Now, over the years, God has transformed me into a shameless optomist.

Sometimes, depending on where you’re standing, hope can seem like a curse, or like a simple-minded mule that knows nothing else other than to move forward. I’ve been there, not wanting to budge, feeling like hope was for others and wishing it would just move along taking all those fools with it.

But now I think more like this: Hope takes courage. I will never argue that the earth is not filled with unthinkable evil , injustice and sorrow. But I also know there is a Savior, a Redeemer, a Risen Lord. “Endurance produces character and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts by the Holy Spirit.” (Romans 5:5). This is glorious! If we don’t praise Him then the rocks will cry out. I can hear them tuning up…

The wariness over the weather has subsided and the verdict is out, the winter was “not bad” despite a still remote chance for an April blizzard, which HAS happened twice in the last 30 years so….As they say in this neck of the woods, “If you don’t like the weather just wait five minutes!”It’s tough on us Yankees, we depend upon the weather to give us something to complain, I mean talk about. I tell my two sons that they’re soft now that they live in the Deep South.

But recently, after a thoughtful pause following a reluctant assent to an easy winter, someone suggested, almost cheerfully, that we will be paying for it in the future. “Just wait and see what the summer’s like!” he said with that all-knowing nod, like we are all lazy morons for just standing around and looking at the flowers. Better get ready. After all, this is New England.

January 31, 2012

Power of Forgiveness

: Jermaine and Murph prior to event

Last Friday night, “The Power of Forgiveness” was held at my church. The flyer said it would be an unforgettable event and it surpassed that for me. I have to start by saying that this whole idea started on 9/11/11. We watched a video at church about a young man who died in the World Trade Centers and I became emotional and left. I get that way when I think about other mothers losing their sons. Dave Murphy Jr. saw me bolt out the door and he followed a few minutes later, finding me weeping in my car.

Dave was one of several young men that came to know Christ shortly after Spence died. He and a few others let me mother them, cook for them and I’m sure at times even correct them and there is a closeness we have that just comes from walking a road that has seen the worst and best of times. My tears dried and we began to talk about Spence and how it was coming up on ten years since he died and Dave said, “Let’s do something to celebrate all God has done!” It cheered me up but later I thought maybe he said that just to make me happy. Yet a seed was planted and the vision grew.

He laughs at himself and calls himself a “control freak” because he has a standard of excellence and knows the way he wants things done. He admits at times he goes a little over the top. But the spirit of excellence was so evident last week during this event. And most importantly, God showed up and stayed the whole time, drawing people together from every element and walk of life on Cape Cod and from local churches in Tiverton and Providence.

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at old headlines announcing Spencer’s murder without feeling my heart jump. I’ve told my story dozens of times yet I still find my voice changing, my heart racing as I recall that night in the ER. But as I looked out over the fellowship hall and saw all the faces of people I’ve come to know and love within the confines of the most painful ten years of my life, I can do nothing but praise an ever- loving and merciful Father in heaven, whose power to heal, to redeem and transform is boundless.

I couldn’t sleep that night, although exhausted and spent. Jermaine told me he couldn’t either and then I talked to Dasia, Murph’s wife and she laughed and said he didn’t either. The wonder of God does that. A month ago, when I asked Murph what I could do to help, he just looked at me and said “Nothing. I just want you to be blessed.” Well done, Dave, well done.

View “Power of Forgiveness” video by One Way Pics:

http://www.youtube.com/user/onewaypics

January 23, 2012

Hope For the Busiest Day Ever

On a clear winter morning, the sunrise over the bogs in Hyannis can be spectacular. The navy sky fades to cobalt then a prism of violet to orange and if there’s some scattered clouds around it can look other-worldly. This takes the edge off of getting up for work when it’s dark out, especially dark and freezing, like it’s been. I like to leave early with a mug of hot tea and sit in the parking lot in front of the bog where I can pray and talk to God and try to get my heart and head in a good place before I head into the hospital. In the spring, it’s lighter out, and it’s fun to watch all kinds of birds waking up. It doesn’t seem nerdy to me to be a bird-watcher anymore. Maybe that’s what happens with age.

The hospital at 6:45 a.m. reminds me of one of those Richard Scarry books I used to read to my boys when they were little, “The Busiest Day Ever” or something like that. Just from the parking lot to the door I see nurses, doctors, housekeepers, food servers, nurse’s aides, maintenance crew and administrators. Except unlike the book, they are people, not cats and beavers and worms. (Yes,worms wearing hard hats, I remember that part)And we are all busy, already, before the stress of another day can really weigh in. That’s how hospitals are.

There’s a window I pass on my way to the floor overlooking the bog and it catches me, at least this time of year. The sun is edging up in the black sky and I can see over to my right a huge glass med-surg wing and I know the day is just starting there for a lot of patients, many tired already. Behind me is a building filled with sad stories of sickness, trauma and pain. In the midst of all that there are many good reports and happy endings. But there is also sorrow and unspeakable loss.

Shortly after my son died, I made a corkboard called “The Board of Hope” and tacked anything to it that would help me to look up, to stay focused on who God was, not who I was or wasn’t. I’ve learned over the years of nursing that everyone wants to hope, from the expectant mom in maternity to the chemo patient in oncology. And when a person stops hoping, they quit. As I take in God’s magnificent display in the eastern sky, I ask Him to help me be a light in someone’s darkness, like the Board of Hope. Maybe it’s being able to laugh with them, or listen or just get a ginger ale or blanket. It seems so simple but there are days I walk back to my car at the end of the day and wish I could‘ve done so much more.

The good thing (I guess) is that tomorrow I get another chance. The Busiest Day Ever will start again and as the sun warms the eastern sky over the frozen cranberry bogs, God will help me do it again. It’s what He is, Hope and what He does. So when my amazingly loud and obnoxious alarm clock jolts me out of bed into the frozen blackness of a new day, help me remember Lord, to “be joyful in hope”, and to be your messenger of grace and light no matter how dark it is out there.