And then, God spoke to me through a cactus. Or: how He makes all things new.

   One of our giant saguaros out front toppled over and crashed into our house a few weeks ago. The night of October 20th, to be precise. Our house is fine; we have a foam roof and although it may not be pretty it's apparently good at keeping cactus out. We were surprised to say the least, and I have to admit I was a little bummed. I know, it's a cactus. But those ancient "trees" of the desert are beautiful in their sky-high majesty! However-it was just a cactus, and considering the news we got from a friend of ours earlier that same day...perspective.
     Then came the next morning. The house was still quiet and dark; Adam was on a run and all three kiddos were asleep. I walked out to snap a few photos to show our families the danger of living in the desert, and, oh, maybe for instagram because how often does a giant cactus fall in your yard and magnificently smash a prickly pear so that it blows all over the place? It was pretty amazing. And beautiful, in the early morning light. And as I walked back into my kitchen to start making my morning smoothie, I started crying.
 Seriously?!? I'm crying over a cactus. What the heck is wrong with me?!? was my subconscious thought.
But from inside, I heard a very familiar still voice....
It's not about the cactus. 
And in that moment everything crystallized and I got it.
      As I stood there and the knowing washed over me, the tears really started to roll and I had to put the blender down and just hold onto the counter and sob....because the Lord had just spoken beautiful truth to me through a cactus and even though my heart was breaking for our friends that day, I couldn't help but see the awe-struck majesty of a Lord who would speak to me through a cactus. (And the ridiculousness of it. I could see that too.)
     You see, the day before a good friend of mine texted me while I was out running errands sans-kids. The gist of it was that my 28-weeks pregnant friend realized she hadn't felt baby move in a day or so, and was going to the midwives to get checked. She asked for prayer, and you can bet I prayed all thorough that hour-long barre class.
     When I got out I had a text saying there had been no heartbeat detectable with the Doppler, and she was headed to the hospital for ultrasound confirmation. By 5 that night we found out that yes, she had lost the baby. Adam and I, we're not strangers to death or grief and really, who in this world is? So our hearts broke for our friends and the rest of the night was spent talking, praying, reaching out to them, praying...talking.
Not even a sparrow falls but that He knows it.
     I wish I could describe to you in less than 55,000 words what happened the rest of that week and even into the next...the grief and the sadness, but more so the holiness of it all. The night we lived through in just a fraction of what they lived through, waiting to hear the news that she'd delivered their small daughter. That they'd finally met tiny, still Mercy. The updates of moments with her throughout that one day with her; of the only memories they would make with their small daughter in their arms. Painting tiny nails pink, taking hand and footprints, holding close to their hearts the little one whose heart beat no more. But I can't, except to tell you what my friend said in one of her texts- that it was the most beautifully sacred day they'd ever had.
       Beautifully sacred. Holding their stillborn daughter...no anger, never anger in that day; although there was-is- sadness. Mostly there was just an overwhelming sense of the presence of the Lord pervading it all and making beauty from their ashes. Just as the light made beautiful the wreak of the cactus in our front yard that morning.
I knew all about it, and I know all about Mercy. I am not a god of cruelty, of mistakes, of senseless pain.
Not even a sparrow falls but that I know it....
    And this is what I saw: He has conquered death. Not a new thought, really. It wasn't part of the original plan, death; it wasn't meant to be this way. It came in with sin. This is why death is so weird and just....heavy. I hate death, in a way. I'm not afraid of it, not angry with it...I just plain hate that this is what humanity has brought upon ourselves with our choices to sin. The traditions surrounding death, the rituals...it's all to try to understand, to say goodbye, to hold on longer.
But He has conquered death.
    I knew this, of course. When Erica died and then again with Celine the Lord carried us through those valleys with so many, many beautiful touches of His presence, revelations of Himself, His goodness, His peace...even in the midst of so much grief. But it took me being on the outside and watching someone else going through the valley and experiencing so many of the same things to really get it. You see, as Christians who profess Christ is the only Son of God; that He died for us and thus paid for our sins; as we gladly repent and admit we can't do it on our own, be good enough, try hard enough to get to heaven we know He's conquered death to make the Way for us. But this I didn't fully realize until that week.... 
His death on the cross and conquering of the grave did not simply make the way to heaven for us. It also gave Him the power to come alongside us in our grief in a new way. In the most beautifully holy, sacred way it enabled Him to bridge the solitude of our grief, of death, and create Beauty from Ashes. ALL of the Ashes. ANYONE'S Ashes.  He does, and He will, always, because of His love for us-- as well as for His glory-- and so He carrys us through the places we once had to trod alone. By His death, He earned that right.
Not even a sparrow falls but that He knows it.
Not even a cactus falls but that He's there to catch the healing tears of grief.
And so He continues to make beauty of the ashes. 

Diary of a PA student('s wife): the First Term.

 
    Somehow, just like that, it's August. Somehow, the craziness of PA school has made things time-warp...no longer are we in the first month of school. We raced past that milestone without blinking, and the kids and I flew to Ft. Collins to spend they week of midterms with my folks, and half of this past week with great friends up in Flagstaff. You know, so Adam could bury himself in bodyparts (that sounds weird, but it's kinda true) and come out victorious. Or at least still standing.
   Somehow, we are adjusted (for now, at least) to his crazy study schedule and I have learned to balance having my husband home but not available 90% of the time. I'm seeing more and more just what an incredibly beautiful support system of friends and family we have...I've gained insight from sistercousins on how to deal with the days when it's overwhelming...and then the hubby comes home and must go study. I've been reminded by a dear friend and mentor that each minute does not last forever; and that there isn't a limit to how many times you can ask God for the strength and patience to make it through this temper tantrum and not freak out too each day. I see that even in the hard times, in the exhaustion, in the trips by myself with the kids when I throw up on the airplane as we land in a crazy lightening storm; there is still a beauty there to grasp that does not come from me. (My daughter kept singing joyfully, "oh, no, you never let go; through the calm and through the storm..." and the baby bounced up and down and laughed at the turbulence and Pax stared at the lightening flashing just outside the window and exclaimed, "Oh, wow!!" 18,000 times during that landing...)
      Adam and I are both soaking up more than ever the beautiful truth of, "Seek first the Kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things will be added unto you," (Matt. 6:33)  Adam has learned to be efficient in his studying; and it has made his time more productive. Like drinking from a fire hydrant. He's been home every night for dinner (when we're in town), been there for bedtime every night; and although sometimes I feel the absence of "us" time more than others; the kids know their Daddy will be there every night. That's HUGE right now with the hours some of the students are keeping-but we knew it was a priority. We're both finding out, again, the importance of true connection with each other every day in some small way. And that good communication is worth its weight in gold. And that love notes are never, ever overrated. And so we press on....
    The kids slept better in Colorado than they ever have at my folks' house. It truly was Grace, because as they sleep all-too-often so goes my day; as was evidenced 2 weeks ago when the baby was cutting his one-year-old molars and up three times a night and then the bigs started getting up (for no reason I can find) several times a night themselves which all added up to a very tired, half-lonely, sleep deprived mama who caught a bad sore throat and may have had a tiny breakdown one morning in which the words "it's not fair!" poured out with my tears....for about 2.5 seconds. Until I realized, again, that there is no guarantee of fair, only of grace.  Having the right priorities, being intentional, meeting the needs of my husband and kids, filling up my heart with the Lord's goodness daily, checking my attitude...these things are essential. Wonderful. But they don't guarantee an "easy" life, only a life rich with goodness. Some days I have to look harder than others to find the richness. But it's always there.
   It was there on my bathroom mirror later that same morning, where my husband had written:
 What to say?
Know that even in struggle you have great purpose.
Your effort...your great work is NOT in vain.
Your Lord God sees and loves you.
He is your strength.
He is your comfort.
Look up and be encouraged.
(yes, I absolutely know how wonderful he is. He knows I think he's wonderful, too.)
  
     And then there's Celine..the grieving we are all going through along with all the craziness of PA school is continual. We think about her often, of course. Some days, the kids come to me and simply say, "I miss aunt C.C."; to which I can only reply, "Oh, honey, so do I,". But we don't ever leave it at that. We talk about where she is, what heaven might be like, what she might be doing. Why she left. Who she's with. We've had more conversations about the what-ifs of heaven in the past 3 months than I ever have before...because they want to know what it's like. Except I don't know what all of what it's like, of course; so I tell them what we do know and sometimes we "maybe its" the rest. But we always, always end these conversations with good memories about times we spent with her...because that's the best way to remember her and celebrate her life. And I want them to remember her.
    It breaks my heart a little, sometimes, when Blythe asks me what she used to do with Aunt C.C. She's three-and even though she's very smart, she's too young to remember some things very long. So I talk about how we were in Paris with her when Blythe was almost two; and when Aunt C.C. was here for her third birthday and played tea party with her new tea set. How Celine loved to carry B around long after she actually needed someone to carry her because B was so tiny.
    I think about the picture I found on my phone (which used to be her phone) just a few weeks ago of Celine and her sushi and I smile even as I tear up a bit; and I am thankful for this chance to teach my children that it's ok to grieve, it's good to let yourself feel the sadness because it means they left an imprint in the softness of our hearts; but that joy-the good memories and the knowledge of what comes next-always comes at the end. I find myself wishing our kids had memories of their Aunt Erica, too; but instead I give them mine, so when they think of both their aunts together they have an idea of who she is, too.
   So tonight, Adam will come home. A bit late, but he will be here. We'll eat breakfast for dinner and play in the pool and put the kids to bed exhausted, since there was no napping  today. And I'll go to my computer, put on my headphones, smile at my studying husband across the room....and remember again how very far we've come to get to this point. How very blessed we are. First term finals almost done. Next week, we will rest and just be together and talk and talk and talk.
I can't wait :)

In which I admit I don't understand. Except....I do.

Sometimes, I pretend not to understand this world. Sometimes, it feels good to just let myself feel the injustice of pain....and forget the rest.
We just got news of another sister who died young...the sister of a guy who was a youth leader with us in Durango, another lifetime ago. Bad car accident. The day we left Durango, my inlaws heard about a woman they know there who had gotten the news about a different car accident, that one in Wyoming...their daughter was gone. So was her boyfriend. Acquaintances from Durango, now relocated to Montana, lost their daughter at 30 weeks in utero...she had a heart condition; if she'd lived to 34 weeks they could have done surgery. But 30 weeks....she was too tiny. So she flew away, too....that was the day before Celine died.
Sometimes, I don't want to look any deeper than that; to try to understand it. Except, I already do understand it.
       I get frustrated with the way our world is right now. The pain, the sorrow, the cancer that takes young moms or dads away "too soon" in our eyes; the friends struggling to make ends meet; the teenage girl with internal pains no one seems to be able to solve. Those friends struggling with unfaithfulness in their marriage; the other ones who want a baby so very badly; the one struggling with depression. The school shootings, the bombings, the innocents abandoned and hurt...and there's so much hurt, so much grief, so much Ache.
      And then we get home and our baby, after a week of sleeping well, starts waking up 3 and 4 times at night and I'm so very weary from everything in the past few months, and I don't think I can do it.....and I get frustrated with his little one year old self (lame) and yell at God in my head that I JUST NEED A BREAK and for the kid to SLEEP and I know, I know that's the selfishly wrong response...that if that family in Montana just had their little girl here with them, they wouldn't care if she ever slept through the night....
Sin sucks. My selfishness is sin. Free will, free choice is a beautiful thing... But sin sucks. It's what made this world what it is, right now.

Please hear me...I am NOT saying these things happened because of something sinful these people
did. (Well, except for the unfaithfulness. That's obvious.) I am NOT trying to preach. I'm
telling you what I'm learning in the depths of my soul...things I need to write down so I don't forget;
so that someday, maybe, our kids will have some insight into this time. I AM saying that the reason these things hurt so much...the reason we cry out "Why, God??" and feel this Ache, this sense
of injustice is because...this wasn't the original design. And whether or not you believe in God, I 
know you still feel that, too. That something just isn't right here. 
I know it because you were created by Him, too, and deep inside there was placed in you a longing for the things of God. For God Himself.
          When God first created man it was to live in a perfect world...death wasn't part of it. Except He gave us the freedom to choose, because he wanted a relationship with us. Not a bunch of obediant puppets. And once they chose to sin (as we choose it, too. Ever lied?)...then death entered the picture. And things started fall apart...like bodies. And diseases came into the picture.  And pain. And grief. And babies who don't ever sleep through the night....
The beauty of all of this-everything spirling away from perfection and into chaos-is that, if we choose to see it, it shows us even more clearly that our God is all about restoration. About making the broken whole again.Thank goodness. This is part of what Adam talked about at Celine's service-how now, because of Christ's sacrifice, every death, every pain, every tearing of your heart can be redeemed. Turned into something beautiful, and whole, and restored. 
The scars don't ever go away. The ache is still there, at times, because we still live here. But although we long for the day when the ache will be gone for good and we will dance in His presence, somehow...even here, somehow He is using my scars-their scars-your scars- to form an even more beautiful, glorious tommorrow. And right now, that truth is what we are leaning on. "...weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning," Ps. 30:5 b

In which we cry out to God.

I'm shocked, yet again, at how quickly things change.

         One moment we're eating dinner Sunday evening in a little cafe in an equally little beach town in Brittany, trying our best to keep our American children from behaving like, well, American children....and the next we're walking on the pier when Adam's phone rings again.

I will never forget that moment.

I was walking a little ahead with the baby, watching Pax as he ran ahead, wild with exuberance about being at the beach. Then Adam was yelling at me to come take Blythe...I thought he was frustrated by her refusal to walk, but as I went back and took hold of her he urgently said "look at me. Look at me!" and when I did, he mouthed "Bad. REALLY BAD."

Oh, his face....! He was crying, and I knew instantly someone had died. My first thought honestly was that it was my father-in-law...he's 68. It's the "logical" choice. Except death isn't logical....

I remember moaning, unthinkingly going on my knees and grabbing the kids to me; telling them we needed to pray, right then, and beginning to pray out loud for my inlaws. After a minute I looked to catch Adam's eyes. I'll never forget the grief, the devastation, the anguish I saw there. "Who??" I mouthed.

"Celine." "She's dead...!!"

I think I would have collapsed with grief then if I hadn't already been on the ground, holding my two oldest. Tears came hot and suddenly. I remember moaning Oh, God, no! ...why??

         Celine (my sister-in-law) suffered from seizers from the time she was about 2. It was a struggle for her, making her at times afraid to try something new for fear that she'd have a seizure; it was an anguish to my mother-in-law, as it would be for any mother watching their child hurt. As Adam got more into his premed classes, we became fairly certain-although she was never formally diagnosed-that she had epilepsy. In the end, complications (horrible ones) from a seizure Sunday morning (April 28th, 2013) caused her death....and it's all so much like a terribly eerie case of deja vu. Almost eleven years ago, on June 29th, my sister died tragically young just weeks after she had started PA school. This time, it's his sister-only 19 years old- who is gone so tragically. And Adam starts PA school in June.

           My heart aches. What else can I say? It's awful, yet still so unreal. She is suddenly, tragically gone..we walked to the beach, which was thankfully abandoned. We talked a little, cried a little, wandered around stunned a little...I called my parents and, in tears, told them the news. Adam gave one huge yell of grief. And then we just held each other and watched our three kids playing happily in the sand, the sun slowly sinking behind them, unaware of how suddenly all of our lives had changed.

            We'd only arrived Sunday afternoon to the little fishing village filled with quaint, white washed cottages, blue shutters, and cobbled streets. It's the town where Adam and Jerome spent summers with their French grandparents, growing up; and it's one of Adam's favorite places on earth. I fell in love with it too. I have always loved the Northern California coast, and after the bustle of Paris, the northern-California-esk coast is much more our style. I can't help but feel it's part of the reason we were there when we found out-if we had to be in France when she died, that place, at least, is healing. Paris-for all its' culture and beautiful architecture-is not a healing place for us. The kids were thrilled to be here. And now we are in limbo.

        We want to be with our Durango family right now. That goes without saying... but between technical issues with the cell phone we have here and language issues with the airline's customer service, it took a day and a half and a trip back to Paris to get flights ironed out. We'll be flying out of Paris Thursday around noon, getting in to Denver Thursday evening. A lot of people have been wondering what progress had been made on our getting back Stateside, so there you go.

         I can see the struggle on my husband's face....the sadness, how unreal it all is at times here. The desire to be with his parents, the grief that she's gone; our inability to do much of anything, it seems, right now. I know how he aches inside...and I know how hard it will hit him when we finally make it back to Durango. How hard it will hit both of us, most likely- to see his folks; to stay in the house where she grew up and lived her whole life. To find her truly gone. I wish I could take the hurt away from him, somehow. I know I can't. But I also know that, if he lets himself be comforted by our Holy Father, this baptism of grief will refine him as a grain of sand is refined in an oyster-layer after layer, tear by tear, until it becomes a Pearl.

I found one yesterday morning, in a tidepool. An oyster, that is. Unopened. It's silly, but I brought it home. Hoping maybe there will be a pearl inside it. Pearls stand for tears, they say...both joyful and sorrowful. Weeping may endure for a night, but Joy comes with the morning. It's just that sometimes, the night lasts longer than you ever thought it would.

           A picture of Celine flashed into my head last night, as I stood on the beach just minutes after hearing the news. I saw her in heaven, still herself but so much more herself-whole, straight, peaceful, shining with joy and health. Which of course is the truth. She was laughing, the smile that was seen when she was truly happy here on earth spread wide on her face. Her hair streamed out behind her, still long and dark but now lit from the back by a Light. She was talking to several people, bright and dressed in white-their backs were to me so I couldn't see their faces. But there was Joy there. And Peace. And Wholeness.

       There's a lot I don't know right now. What God will work from these ashes; how life will change now-I don't say how it can go on, because I've walked this road before and it does go on. And there is joy and silliness even now at times in the distraction of our kiddos. We're waiting until we get Stateside to tell them-trying to get through the flights first. Pax knows something is up, but not what. I don't know how my children will react to all this-they loved their Aunt C.C. very much. And she loved all her nieces and nephews very much, too. I felt the fear start to creep in a little as night drew closer the first couple of nights-and with God's help I fought it off. There wasn't much sleep for me yet; how could there be? But instead of the thoughts I was dreading there was music. Praises to God were running through my head all night long. I do what I can to help my husband's heart and know it will never be enough; but I also know we're not alone. And I know our God heals.

I know He works all things together for His glory. And I know that when we are weak, He is strong. I can feel His strength more and more, today, as friends around the world are praying for us-thank you, dear friends. Please keep lifting us all up. Adam's parents in their devastation, Jerome and Tiff there on the front lines, us with a marathon of flights and jetlag and another road trip to get to them. Thank you for your words, your prayers, your love. We love you, too.