Today Mara is sixteen. Where has the time gone? I've missed these last few precious years of her life. But in her card I wrote this, from Psalm 16:
"You will fill me with joy in your presence."
"All's grace," I read in a new book. Injustice? Selfish moments? Illness? All's grace, and we can
always give thanks, because the ingratitude was the Fall and our God redeems all and if only we have eyes to see. And if your eyes are bad, get some glasses, or the Word of God. If that doesn't work, it might just take time. Hindsight is twenty-twenty and Moses saw God's back after he had passed by.
I feel oppressed, lying in this prison bed. Door closed, life of my child noisily fleeting outside. I carried him and I still carry him in my heart yet I can't get to him. Didn't Christ come to free captives from dark rooms? Is oppression just an illusion? Or maybe it is a window. Look through the glass and see the grace behind this dark. Somewhere...
How to wait patiently in dark pain, wait for relief, world waiting outside,
and instead count gifts... I stare at the light on the floor, tiny patch under curtain. Fan blades above that look like wings. I count gifts. Because God is always present and always there is joy in his presence.
Soft bed
Silence
Room-darkening curtains
Time to pray
Yes, all these gifts. Grace is here. But these I've already counted, before and before and before. What else is here in this small room without pictures or decorations? I pray for owl eyes, to see in the dark.
Which is worse, to be chronic or to be terminal? Every person who is chronic will ask this question. When it goes on and on and on, you wonder when there will be an end. And then you end up wondering if there will ever be an end, and maybe it won't get better until the ultimate end, death itself. When you are chronic, you can be thankful you are still here to see snippets of their growing up. To give them as much as possible. But when you are terminal, your comfort is in knowing the pain is winding down, ending for both of you.
It doesn't matter, she says. Either way, the end is coming for all of us. The bigger question is, How will I spend these waking moments in between?
Our red fitted sheet grew a long hole in it. It wore thin and tore. I teased Shane that it tore because he is large and always destroys things. But we both know how much time I have spent in this bed the last few years.
Bible study basics, getting out of the comfort zone or slowing life down or realizing the need for God – those are no-brainers now. Just normal life. What I
need is the ability to stand long enough to do the dishes. Or to get my son a snack. To
live. To stand at the window and take in light and movement. Freedom to listen to a neighbor's starting car engine would sound like heavenly praise to me, fill my cup.
To always end up in the bed, days on end, life stops. Death seems near. Hope seems distant. But, I learn, the only thing I really need to be fully alive is this: Gratitude. Can I have that here? I practice.
Heavy new sheets
How do you continue naming moments – original ones – from solitary confinement? When all you can do is sleep through the late twenties, or lie awake in the dark, hours upon hours. How to hunt for God in dreams? What is there to see in the dark?
Even here,
the joy is even here, even now. I confess, I would like to see these grace moments, here. It would be so much better than praying, hoping, wishing for that imminent, ominous healing miracle minute after empty minute. Seeing any kind of
God-gift now has become more needful than revealing yet one more cause for repentance.
Dark, and quiet, and pain. They are enough? We can learn and glean from them, yes. But how long, O Lord? How long in the dark? How long until I can see beauty again?
It won't be
too long until the next gift. An hour more in the dark? A day? Joy will bust through that door and trounce to the bedside and say, "Hi, Mommy!"
The Mailman will call from route seven with his 742nd "Hang in there, honey. I'll be praying for you. I'll try to get done as soon as I can. I love you."
His voice
Little one's eyes
Gifts. There is always a gift, and gratitude precedes the joy, and joy keeps me alive.
Mom sends a text from downstairs: "You need to tell me how much longer you need me to stay."
She needs to get home to make her cherry dessert for dinner club. I don't answer. I don't know how. There is a hidden joy in this moment in the dark.
Please, Lord, let me see it.
Mom here
Healthy child
I am only beginning this business of counting blessings. And I'm beginning in the dark. But maybe with practice, God will shed more light, and I will learn to count higher.
