We left as soon as we could after church on Sunday. Because we are crazy (and cheap) we decided to take our little Toyota pickup. It has a tiny extended cab with two seat belts. There are 3 seat belts in the front. Two plus three is only five and since there are six of us, we were short one seat belt. Not a problem exactly, because if you are over sixteen you don't have to wear a seat belt in the back seat, and I am over sixteen. That put me in the back. I sat on a pillow, because there isn't really even a seat in the middle in the back. My knees were close to the front seat and the boys crowded me from the sides.
We were excited about leaving. It's amazing the discomfort you can put up with when you are excited. But since it was a six hour drive and we left at 8pm, we began to become tired. We restlessly squirmed about trying to find a place for heads and feet and legs. Eventually I ended up on the floor. This was a very tight squeeze! Parts of my body kept falling asleep. Feet were pushing me, a child was on top of me at one point. I tried to shift, so a new part of my body could fall asleep. I started thinking about the Jews jammed into boxcars during WWII. Pure torture.
But we made it...
Friday, July 3, 2009
The Camping Trip -- Part 1
On Friday before we left I was sitting in the living room with my boys, and I asked them if there was anything they would like me to pray for them. Micah wanted me to pray that we would have a good trip, so I asked him what would make it a good trip. He replied that he would not like rain or running out of gas. We talked about how something that seems bad can actually be good, depending on how you look at it. We don't know everything that God is planning. (Referring also to my previous comment that I don't want God to just give me what I think I want, but what is good for me. I don't want to be a spoiled 3 year old, but a trusting one.)
So later that day we went to Walmart to pick up some glue to patch our raft and some batteries. After we parked I removed the keys from the ignition and put them in the pocket beside the door. Micah saw that I took the keys out and assumed that I put them in my pocket. Logical really. He proceeded to lock all the doors on the truck and the back window. He told me, but it was already too late. I remember -- not just what I want, but what I need. Bad things could be good..... In the store I reminded my boys about what we talked about that morning, knowing that we were going to have a hands-on-example in just a few minutes. The few minutes turned into a lot of minutes as I wandered around the store looking for glue. I could not find it. Even with help from store personnel I still had trouble finding it. But finally we left the store.
At the truck, the boys realized our fate. I must say that by this time I was able to have a good attitude about walking home, even with 3 little boys, although I still fought it. Especially when Shiloh started crying and crying, because he didn't want to walk anymore and his feet hurt. Turned out he had blisters on both his heels by the time we arrived home.
It begins....
So later that day we went to Walmart to pick up some glue to patch our raft and some batteries. After we parked I removed the keys from the ignition and put them in the pocket beside the door. Micah saw that I took the keys out and assumed that I put them in my pocket. Logical really. He proceeded to lock all the doors on the truck and the back window. He told me, but it was already too late. I remember -- not just what I want, but what I need. Bad things could be good..... In the store I reminded my boys about what we talked about that morning, knowing that we were going to have a hands-on-example in just a few minutes. The few minutes turned into a lot of minutes as I wandered around the store looking for glue. I could not find it. Even with help from store personnel I still had trouble finding it. But finally we left the store.
At the truck, the boys realized our fate. I must say that by this time I was able to have a good attitude about walking home, even with 3 little boys, although I still fought it. Especially when Shiloh started crying and crying, because he didn't want to walk anymore and his feet hurt. Turned out he had blisters on both his heels by the time we arrived home.
It begins....
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Title
I remember the day my brother died. Of course I remember, but sometimes I just feel the need to relive it all again. To write of it, or talk of it. My mom and my dad stood on each side of his hospital bed. I looked at just the three of them and it reminded me of when he entered the world. Just him and his parents. I think that was one of those moments when I thought he was dying. We had such hope for him to recover. The doctors thought we were crazy. I don't blame them. We knew that God could do anything, but more than that we had been praying in Morgantown that if God was going to save his life or take him home to Heaven that he would do it quickly. After that things just seemed to roll quickly into place. He was suddenly being airlifted to Pittsburgh. We thought this meant that God was working quickly to save his life, because we thought that's where he needed to be to be healed. Looking back I see that God still answered that prayer. We just didn't understand. He was moving him to Pittsburgh to die quickly.
It was during the night. We were losing him. None of us really slept or showered or ate regularly. The waiting room for the ICU was the shape of a U and we had overtaken one whole side of the U. We were laying on the couches, not sleeping. My sister-in-law might have dozed, but she woke with a start, half out of it, sat up and said, "He's going." She went into the ICU to see Danny. You know he's in pretty bad shape when the doctors and nurses just let you walk in at any time. There was a mostly naked man having medical personnel perform some tests, but no one tells us to leave. It's just one big room separated by curtains. Machinery everywhere. My brother was the youngest one there.
I will never forget his eyes. I cannot even write it yet. Maybe someday I can. My dad didn't want anyone taking pictures of him. I wish I had a camera. Not that I really wanted a picture, but my sister never even saw him. The last time she saw him was about 8 months earlier when the family came up for a visit. Then he was cremated and so she never saw him at the funeral. She couldn't be there before the death, because she was nine months pregnant. (She was actually in the hospital the day he died having a baby.)
Some say that it is a bright spot in the midst of all the pain to have a new life. But I don't see it that way. It feels like her birth is overshadowed by this darkness. This pain that is brutal. Her birthday will come and no one will feel like celebrating -- or they will, but feel like they can't.
Danny kept getting worse that night. I went in with my mom and Liisa. I knew this was the last time with him. I told him to hold Ian and tell him we love him, then I told my brother I loved him and said goodbye and walked out. He was losing circulation -- causing more organs to fail, limbs to die. He wasn't getting oxygen to the brain. They suspected brain damage and then the eyes...
When they finally turned off the machine that morning, my husband said his heart rate was all ready at zero. It was so silent. (Except for crying.)
Then my mom touches him (she was probably already touching him, my mind is fuzzy at times, and says, "We'll see you again, Dan."
She was on the other side of the bed beside Liisa and the pastor and his wife. I was between my dad and my husband. They closed the curtains around us.
Then Eric says, "I'm still holding out -- God could raise him even now if he wanted to."
Liisa says, "God will hold you by his righteous right hand, He will strengthen and help."
I just cried and cried and cried and cried. I wanted to collapse on the floor. I wanted to run away and run and run and scream. I know God will help -- I've seen it. But I think there is a time for grief, not lack of faith, just not needed to fit everything into neat answers. (I am not saying that was what they were doing -- they were sharing their hope with us all, but for me, I just needed to cry.)
Then the kids came. It was so soon, right after almost. I don't think they even knew their daddy was dead yet. They are so young, so precious. I hate death!
We left the hospital. It was cold and snowing. My brother's change of clothes for his hospital recovery were in the car still. We didn't have to pay for parking -- I guess that's a perk when someone dies.
We arrived at the home where we were staying. It was like a small hotel/home for people that had family in the hospital and needed an extended stay. The lady in charge met us in the entry and put her arm around me. She said, I know you're hurting a lot... She was balm to my soul. The pain was so tangible. Like my whole body was bruised or sore. We went to our room. I'm not sure where my boys where. Maybe my aunt still had them. She met us in the room. I remember her, but I can't remember much else. I took a shower and then I did collapse. The water poured over me. I couldn't stop the ache, it felt so real. Like my body was physically beaten. I cried broken, half-hearted, pitiful noises. Then we slept.
It was during the night. We were losing him. None of us really slept or showered or ate regularly. The waiting room for the ICU was the shape of a U and we had overtaken one whole side of the U. We were laying on the couches, not sleeping. My sister-in-law might have dozed, but she woke with a start, half out of it, sat up and said, "He's going." She went into the ICU to see Danny. You know he's in pretty bad shape when the doctors and nurses just let you walk in at any time. There was a mostly naked man having medical personnel perform some tests, but no one tells us to leave. It's just one big room separated by curtains. Machinery everywhere. My brother was the youngest one there.
I will never forget his eyes. I cannot even write it yet. Maybe someday I can. My dad didn't want anyone taking pictures of him. I wish I had a camera. Not that I really wanted a picture, but my sister never even saw him. The last time she saw him was about 8 months earlier when the family came up for a visit. Then he was cremated and so she never saw him at the funeral. She couldn't be there before the death, because she was nine months pregnant. (She was actually in the hospital the day he died having a baby.)
Some say that it is a bright spot in the midst of all the pain to have a new life. But I don't see it that way. It feels like her birth is overshadowed by this darkness. This pain that is brutal. Her birthday will come and no one will feel like celebrating -- or they will, but feel like they can't.
Danny kept getting worse that night. I went in with my mom and Liisa. I knew this was the last time with him. I told him to hold Ian and tell him we love him, then I told my brother I loved him and said goodbye and walked out. He was losing circulation -- causing more organs to fail, limbs to die. He wasn't getting oxygen to the brain. They suspected brain damage and then the eyes...
When they finally turned off the machine that morning, my husband said his heart rate was all ready at zero. It was so silent. (Except for crying.)
Then my mom touches him (she was probably already touching him, my mind is fuzzy at times, and says, "We'll see you again, Dan."
She was on the other side of the bed beside Liisa and the pastor and his wife. I was between my dad and my husband. They closed the curtains around us.
Then Eric says, "I'm still holding out -- God could raise him even now if he wanted to."
Liisa says, "God will hold you by his righteous right hand, He will strengthen and help."
I just cried and cried and cried and cried. I wanted to collapse on the floor. I wanted to run away and run and run and scream. I know God will help -- I've seen it. But I think there is a time for grief, not lack of faith, just not needed to fit everything into neat answers. (I am not saying that was what they were doing -- they were sharing their hope with us all, but for me, I just needed to cry.)
Then the kids came. It was so soon, right after almost. I don't think they even knew their daddy was dead yet. They are so young, so precious. I hate death!
We left the hospital. It was cold and snowing. My brother's change of clothes for his hospital recovery were in the car still. We didn't have to pay for parking -- I guess that's a perk when someone dies.
We arrived at the home where we were staying. It was like a small hotel/home for people that had family in the hospital and needed an extended stay. The lady in charge met us in the entry and put her arm around me. She said, I know you're hurting a lot... She was balm to my soul. The pain was so tangible. Like my whole body was bruised or sore. We went to our room. I'm not sure where my boys where. Maybe my aunt still had them. She met us in the room. I remember her, but I can't remember much else. I took a shower and then I did collapse. The water poured over me. I couldn't stop the ache, it felt so real. Like my body was physically beaten. I cried broken, half-hearted, pitiful noises. Then we slept.
Goodbye
Michael Jackson has died. It's strange to me -- it seems like he's always been a part of my life. Not that I've ever been a fan, just it was that scandal or the next. It seemed like I was always hearing about him and now he's gone. I am saddened by his meaningless existence. Not to be harsh, just that, what does he have to show for his life? Obviously many think he was a talented musician. My own husband, who is much more a music buff than I, has told me that he had talent. But it just feels so empty, and hopeless for him now. His tragic life had a tragic end.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Merciful and Mighty
This I recall to my mind, therefore have I hope.
It is of the LORD's mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not.
They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness.
It is of the LORD's mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not.
They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Who says
People say you should sign a will. The night before my brother went in for surgery, we reviewed his will. It's one thing to plan your life when you are alive, but when you are gone, the choices aren't about you. If things go wrong -- "Just pull the plug, I know where I'm going" my brother says. What? Easy for him to say, being well, talking about something that to him isn't even a reality. You just don't think that it will really happen before you go into surgery. But then when you are lying there, supported by machines, bodily organs failing, unable to talk... do you really expect your wife or your mother or any family to just "pull the plug". The choice was not his to make.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Where Can I Go to Resign?
Ok, so I'm definitely not a perfect mom, but why couldn't I even be an average mom. Why don't my children listen to my instruction. Why don't they believe that I am trying to do what is best for them. What do I do differently? What have I done? Why do they keep sinning? I suppose I know in my head that they are sinners, but sometimes it just shocks me when I see how bad they really are. I guess without Jesus there really is nothing good, and I should be shocked when they do something good.
I must be crazy to be a mother. I mean, who signs up for a job like this? A job you pour your entire life into, a job you spend hours in teaching, correcting, pleading; only to be ignored. A job that you are so committed to, and your heart is so attached to, that you can be so deeply wounded. Who agrees to this kind of pain? The pain of pregnancy, the pain of birth, then the pain of them going their own way -- bent on destruction.
Not to mention the work! It is endless and mostly unappreciated. Then there's the sacrifice -- your body, your health, your freedom.
I must be insane.
I think of my own mother. I think of all the trouble I caused her, and she still loves me. I think there is Hope. I am in a battle, and must fight to the death.
I think that death might be mine.
I must be crazy to be a mother. I mean, who signs up for a job like this? A job you pour your entire life into, a job you spend hours in teaching, correcting, pleading; only to be ignored. A job that you are so committed to, and your heart is so attached to, that you can be so deeply wounded. Who agrees to this kind of pain? The pain of pregnancy, the pain of birth, then the pain of them going their own way -- bent on destruction.
Not to mention the work! It is endless and mostly unappreciated. Then there's the sacrifice -- your body, your health, your freedom.
I must be insane.
I think of my own mother. I think of all the trouble I caused her, and she still loves me. I think there is Hope. I am in a battle, and must fight to the death.
I think that death might be mine.
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