Untie The Ribbons

Toward the end of November, my brother sent me a picture in an email.  He'd been walking through a German market on the streets of Chicago, and spied a cuckoo clock display.  I replied to his message by telling him the picture made me very sad.  I also jokingly asked him to please get me one after seeing the hefty price tags.  He answered, "You are the only person I know who'd actually want something that would make you sad."  I still haven't quite decided if he was implying I'm much too sentimental...or simply odd.
Even my earliest memories of my grandparents' house include their cuckoo clock.  I never outgrew the wonderment of waiting for the door to open so the cuckoo could emerge to sing its song.  Bedtime at their house always filled me with a sense of peace and contentment.  As the house grew quiet, Grandma would sit at the kitchen table to record the day's events in her diary.  Each night, she faithfully wound the cuckoo clock.  I can still close my eyes and picture her standing in her robe as she pulled on the chains.  The sheets and blankets at their house had a unique wonderful scent.  I would crawl into bed secure in the promise of happy dreams.
Our family celebrated Christmas in Houston this year.  I ended up staying home with Jason, and sending Eli with my sister's family.  After their return, my sister presented me with a wrapped box from my brother.  When I tore off the paper and lifted the lid, I was truly stunned to see a beautiful cuckoo clock of my very own.  (Ok, yes I cried)

"Each day comes bearing its own gifts.  Untie the ribbons."  ~Ruth Ann Schabacker

Sweet By And By

When I made my pumpkin pie this year, I saved back a little square of crust.  I sprinkled it with cinnamon and sugar before sliding it into the oven.  Before long, my kitchen began smelling like Grandma's house.
Although I hold fast to the  promise that I will see her again, oh, how I miss hearing her say, "Hello, dear" before she hugged me close.

We shall sing on that beautiful shore
The melodious songs of the blessed;
And our spirits shall sorrow no more,
Not a sigh for the blessing of rest.
In the sweet by and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore.

Unconditional

My parents came for a visit over the weekend.  They arrived with the usual items in their luggage: pictures from their latest trip (beautiful Venice this time), newspaper articles of interest, a loaf of homemade bread, and other assorted little treasures.
Ah, but they were also accompanied by those things less tangible.  They arrived bearing a warm embrace and the transparent joy of being here.  They brought a fresh energy, and breathed new life into our little home.  My shoulders immediately felt lighter.
The only time my gas tank is full is after a visit from my parents.  My dad somehow finds a way to quietly slip away to fill it to the brim.  My mom works some kind of magic on my kitchen sink with Comet cleaner and an ordinary sponge.  Before I can realize our toilet paper is running low, Dad walks into the house with an 18 pack of double rolls.  We are likely set for toilet paper until Christmas.
Besides lifting some of the physical load, my parents buoy my spirits.  They offer encouragement and advice on both mundane and overwhelming issues.  They play tirelessly with Eli and make Jason laugh.  Since Mom and I are both insomniacs, we share late night chats.  She often thinks of something she forgot to tell me, and knocks on our bedroom door.  Last night after she told me "one last thing" and left our room, Jason whispered, "She'll be back."

Today Mom told me that Glen Campbell was diagnosed with Alzheimer's earlier this year.  He was one of our favorites when I was growing up.  Mom and I would listen to him in the kitchen while we ate tomato soup.  She told me this afternoon that she especially enjoys his song titled "Unconditional Love".  I feel this song aptly describes my mom and dad.  I'm grateful every day that God blessed me with such loving parents.

The Secret Of Being Content

Our Bible class this morning focused on being worn out emotionally.  You might say I could personally relate to this feeling.  Whenever life becomes too difficult, I send my sister an email that simply says, "I am weary".  She rarely needs clarification or asks me to elaborate, and yet knows exactly how to encourage me.
Lately I've been struggling with being content in every aspect of my life.  It seems as though everyone around me is moving on in some way.  They are changing jobs, buying new homes, or relocating to new cities.  I often feel as though the days stretch out ahead of me without any hope of variation or progress.  I'm reminded of lyrics from a song by The Weepies: "the whole world is moving, and I'm standing still".
I'm not particularly proud of these musings.  In fact, they often take me by surprise.  I honestly would not welcome the chaos and stress that inevitably surround such upheavals.  I constantly tell people that I crave calmness, so am puzzled by these longings for change.
I feel as though God is providing gentle reminders that we are indeed making forward progress.  Last weekend, I watched in awe as Jason and his brother walked their sister down the aisle at her wedding.  There was a time when Jason had to be moved from bed to wheelchair on a board.  Now he walked with a proud look of concentration on his face.
When Jason first came home from the hospital, he was unable to visit his mother's home because of the stairs that led up to her door.  These were actually the first stairs he eventually attempted.  It took three people (one of them being a rather terrified wife) and a cane to make that initial climb.  This week when we stopped by to deliver a piece of Jason's birthday cake to his mom, he fairly bounded up those steps in his eagerness to see her.
Just yesterday I came across a copy of an email that my sister sent out to friends and family while Jason was in the ICU.  It was written shortly after he started waking from his coma.  It said, "He looked around and looked at Donna, and seemed to have no recognition of her at all.  She was devastated."  Now every single time I enter the room, Jason's eyes light up and he smiles as though he's been waiting all day to see my face.

"Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail.  They are new every morning."  (Lamentations 3:21-23)

Resilient

I constantly wonder what unseen lasting effects our struggles will have on Eli. Even in the days before he was born, life was chaos around him. During the week before Eli's arrival into this world, Jason had surgery for a serious bacterial infection. On the night before my planned induction, I found myself at home trying to pack gauze into Jason's incisions. This was my first attempt at this particular task, but unfortunately was not to be my last. I was so afraid that I was doing it incorrectly, and that he would not heal properly. I remember my parents knocking on our door after arriving from South Dakota at the exact moment of my slight meltdown.
Jason was able to be present for Eli's birth, but the next day was admitted to the hospital for another surgery after more infection was discovered. My time in the hospital was split between holding Eli in my room while quietly crying and visiting Jason's room on a different floor to throw myself onto his bed while sobbing (it's possible that hormones played a small part in my dramatic response). Even so, the situation seemed terribly unfair. Jason was missing those first precious moments with his son. We were heartbroken when Jason had to remain in the hospital, and was unable to bring Eli home for the first time. When he was finally able to come home, he still needed to spend his time recovering rather than bonding with Eli. My mom stayed to help me with Eli while Jason's mom took over Jason's care. Two years later, Jason was back in the hospital with a life-threatening condition (Fournier gangrene and sepsis). The ICU was not a place for a toddler, so Eli spent most of his time with my sister and her family. Although Eli couldn't fully understand, he knew his dad was very sick, and that all was not right in his little world. I remember one day when my sister brought Eli to me at the hospital. She said simply, "He really needs some time with you." I had been so focused on willing Jason to survive that I hadn't been able to realize how desperately I needed this, too. That afternoon, Eli and I took a nap in the waiting room together. The warm weight of him on my chest soothed me as nothing else could. Jason spent Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's in the hospital. We did everything in our power to create normalcy for Eli. Jason's health remained tenuous over the next several years, with multiple hospital stays followed by recovery at home. In November of 2007, when Jason began experiencing lung, kidney and blood clotting issues that evaded a definite diagnosis, we had no idea the outcome would be so devastating. Eli was at school the day in February when I called an ambulance. Even though we didn't tell him at first how serious the situation was, he was old enough to sense it. At one point, I visited the hospital chapel and decided this would be the quiet place I would take Eli to tell him if Jason passed away. During those first critical days when he was given a dismal chance of survival, I sat beside his bed day and night, while Eli slept at my sister's house. After he suffered his brain injury on the ventilator, I stayed even though he spent the next weeks in a medically-induced coma. I counted the hours until the neurologist would come each morning and bring him out of sedation to see if he would show signs of response. During the subsequent weeks in the ICU, my parents stayed at our house off and on. I left the hospital early each morning so I could take Eli to school, while Dad replaced me in Jason's room. He sat with his coffee and crossword puzzle, so he wouldn't miss the report when the doctors made rounds. When school ended for the summer, Jason was still in the hospital. My mom put her life on hold to stay with us. Dad made the drive back and forth to South Dakota so he could preach and tend to the farm. After Jason was transferred to a dismal long-term care facility an hour away, we drove back and forth to see him. We celebrated Eli's seventh birthday in Jason's room between his dialysis and physical therapy. Gradually, Eli began deciding to stay home with Grandma rather than make that trek back and forth. She did a wonderful job of distracting him and keeping him entertained. Finally, when Jason was transferred to North Kansas City Hospital, we were able to spend the night with him again. That first night in his room felt like a slumber party--we were overjoyed to be able to sleep under the same roof again. Jason proclaimed, "I'm so glad we decided to do this...stay in a hotel!" Even though he was confused about the details, he recognized it as a celebratory occasion. When Jason eventually came home from this third hospital, he needed continual care, so I often had little energy left for a boy who had endured so much. Jason was still in a wheelchair, needed supplemental tube feedings, and was going for dialysis treatments. I tried to keep everything in balance, but this proved impossible. I kept telling myself that children are resilient. Meanwhile, Eli was trying to adjust to the changes in his dad along with the lack of enough attention from his mom. Jason was physically unable to be the kind of dad that Eli remembered. Jason's personality was also drastically altered those first years after his brain injury. While he has made great strides, he isn't the same dad as before. We are still working on rebuilding the close relationship between father and son. I am actively trying to find ways to include Jason again in homework, discipline and activities now that he is more able to participate. One morning last week when I woke Eli for school, he told me he didn't feel well. I knew his allergies had been bothering him, but also felt he was well enough to go to school. After I'd exhausted all my reasons that he needed to go, I became frustrated and left the room. Pretty soon, Jason got out of bed after hearing our discussion. I heard him gently say, "Son, you need to go to school." The next thing I knew, Eli was dressed and putting on his shoes. Jason sat back down on the bed, grinning from ear to ear. It had been so long since I'd seen him looking as proud. What a difference those few words made for both of them.

So far so...good?

I'm rather proud to report that, twelve days into the school year, I have yet to drive Eli to school while wearing my pajamas.  This is not to say that I would win a beauty contest (or, sadly, be a runner-up for Miss Congeniality...but that's a whole other topic).  I continue to hold my (funky morning) breath all the way, wondering if this will be the morning I have a flat tire and must face the world with Tina Turner hair and pillow creases on my cheeks.
I've been fairly successful so far in being more organized.  I remembered to send lunch money and to join the PTA.  I returned all the various paperwork in a timely fashion.  I even salvaged Box Tops from items in our pantry.  I remembered (ok, just this morning) that Eli's teacher said he could take a water bottle for these hot days.  Eli was sweet enough to inform me that he's been the only student without one.  Sigh.
Eli has made the transition surprisingly well.  He gets up in the morning without grumbling and cheerfully completes his homework in the evening (except for a minor incident with cursive, which is the bane of his existence).  We've even breezed through two whole Mondays without a call from the school nurse stating that Eli was complaining of a stomach ache, sore throat, or (insert obscure ailment here).
Ah, but I'm not naive enough to believe these carefree days will last.  I'm fairly certain we shall return to our slacker ways.  Soon I'll be tossing Eli a waffle as we race out the door...him without his backpack and me sporting leopard-print pajama pants.

My Love

Yesterday I said, "Jason, this is August 3rd...what's tomorrow?"  He grinned and replied, "August 4th?"  Happy Anniversary, dear husband.  Maybe you'll remember this song. :o)