Sunday, November 1, 2020

I stand in your room...

 I stand there, my right shoulder pressed hard against the cold,  unforgiving metal of your door frame. Your photos are gone. The sweet grand babies that graced your walls, erased... your soft fuzzy blankets, your snuggly slippers, your sweet smile...  My heart aches so hard that it squishes out from the corners of my eyes. Unlike parents, nurses do have favorites. The ones who always make us smile, or laugh, or remind us of the real reason that we do what we do. For me, you were that person. Your sweet smile and your cheerful words never failed to brighten my day! Thank you my friend, you will never be forgotten. 

I stand there, outside the entrance to what used to be your hall. Now it’s the lockdown unit where the bravest and best among us fight with all they have to beat the horrible odds that our adversary stacks against us. I truly did not think that anything would take you, and yet you’re gone... your giggle, your curses, your attempts to slap me silly for an infraction that occurred so vividly behind your beautiful eyelids... you with all your vivacious life and spontaneous laughter. I am so grateful I got to know you! You taught me things that no one else could. Thank you my friend, you will never be forgotten. 

I stand there, my hand brushing the hair from your eyes and the tears from mine. You are but a shell of the human you once were. This enemy we fight has not yet stolen the breath from your body, but by its isolating nature has taken all the breath from your soul. Loneliness is etched in your face, even as you sleep. My heart breaks... I remember the first day I met you, how you hugged me so fiercely, thanking me profusely for some small thing I did for you. Your generosity and affection constantly amazed me. Thank you my friend, you will never be forgotten... 

I stand there, on my staircase, my eyes on your signature hanging on my wall. I can still picture you the last time I saw you, a giant of a man in every way, striding across the parking lot towards the church where I was about to be married. Your bride of so many years proudly on your arm. As I stand here in my little house the enormity of what the world has lost in you overwhelms me. As a child I thought that your office had to be the best place on earth. As a teenager when I hit my growth spurt it was you and your tremendous height that convinced me that being tall wasn’t so bad. When I fell in love for the first time and got myself one thoroughly broken heart, you wiped my tears. Your giant hands set two broken bones for me, and your giant hugs soothed my bruised and battered heart many times. You gave me such a gift just by being yourself! Thank you my friend, you will never be forgotten.

I stand here, alone in the night, the wind whipping around me... and I feel the pulse of the pain of the world in my heart... we have all lost so much. This virus has stolen lovers, friends, parents, children, siblings, relatives, and enemies. The grief in the world is palpable. So wherever you are right now, and in whatever way you are fighting this monstrous disease, be that shopping online, working in health care, practicing safe and effective prevention when at work or out and about, forgoing important parties in the hope of slowing its spread, whatever you are doing, I want to say this to you: Thank you my friend, you will never be forgotten. 

Wednesday, April 11, 2018

I had a secret...

I had a secret. For nearly half of the number of years that i’v lived on this earth, i had a secret. A black, mean, soul-devouring secret. I got my secret when i was 5, and it lived and breathed and created death in my heart until i was 18. As a hospice nurse, i can see how cancer grows in the human body; its angry hungry cells ever seeking to expand, desiring to suck the life from its host. The longer it lives, the more it controls and destroys... So it was with my secret... Shame, hurt, fear, and worst of all an overpowering need to control my own life... these symptoms of my secret haunted me. From the overweight child to the overly responsible adolescent to the deeply depressed and suicidal teen, my secret chased me. It created in me a darkness so vast that i dared not venture to close to the edge of it for fear of falling in and never getting back out. But God. But Jesus. He knocked and He called. He proved Himself again and again as the Lover of my soul. He did not give up on me. Daily i donned the black and baggy, desperate for hiding and anonymity from my secret even while my desperate heart craved light and joy. But Jesus never minds the black and baggy. Jesus never heeds the ‘Do not disturb’ sign on a hungry heart. Jesus never forgets the pain of our secrets... so He kept knocking... And then, i opened the door of my heart to Him. His love poured into and over and through my secret. It poured out of me through my eyes in rivers of gushing darkness and fear... The arms of Jesus took the form of the arms of my dearest sister-friend, His hands worked through hers, drying my tears and making me tea. His voice spoke through her silence, giving me permission to grieve the lost years and the shattered places. The healing of Jesus swept my secret, shattered its lies, and exposed it as the evil from satan that it was. That night, everything changed. The sweetest healing began. The most joy-filled life imaginable swallowed me in a wild storm of beautiful colors and glittering light. And that, that is why my heart and soul burn w Fire and Life, aching to share Him with you. Because i KNOW that He is Life. I know that apart from Jesus your secret will kill you. Without His power to blaze glorious Light and Life through your heart cancer, there is no hope. And i know the incredible freedom and life-altering peace and joy of healing. He never gave up on me. He still fills me daily with His Light. His power and the joy of His Presence pulse through my every fiber every single day. Sometimes my secret still makes me sad. Sometimes my heart has to be rinsed again. Jesus is always there. His arms cradle me. His hands wipe the tears. Sometimes i am sad at the scars my secret left. I don't always like the things in my life that would not be there had i not had a secret... But then Jesus whispers to me “Scars only come from healing, I want to show up and shine through your scars...” and so it is that i'm telling you now. I had a secret. It nearly destroyed me. But Jesus loved me anyway. He loved me wildly and passionately and so much that He gave me all His life to heal my gaping wounds and destroy my secret. There is no life apart from Him. I love Him wildly, crazily, and not nearly as much as He loves me. My life is beautiful now. My scars are still tender. They will likely always cause me some pain. But the lie that my secret gave me; that Jesus did not care enough to stop my secret from happening, has been shown and proven as just that, a lie. I know now that He was there. He never turned His face away from me. Even as my tiny child heart shattered, so His almighty God heart did. And then He waited, arms open, hands reaching to lift me, for 13 years as i tried to hide my pain and brokenness.
Tenth Avenue North says is so well...

So you thought you had to keep this up
All the work that you do
So we think that you're good
And you can't believe it's not enough
All the walls you built up
Are just glass on the outside
So let 'em fall down
There's freedom waiting in the sound
When you let your walls fall to the ground
We're here now
This is where the healing begins, oh
This is where the healing starts
When you come to where you're broken within
The light meets the dark
The light meets the dark
Afraid to let your secrets out
Everything that you hide
Can come crashing through the door now
But too scared to face all your fear
So you hide but you find
That the shame won't disappear
So let it fall down
There's freedom waiting in the sound
When you let your walls fall to the ground
We're here now
We're here now, oh
This is where the healing begins, oh
This is where the healing starts
When you come to where you're broken within
The light meets the dark
The light meets the dark
Sparks will fly as grace collides
With the dark inside of us
So please don't fight
This coming light
Let this blood come cover us
His blood can cover us
This is where the healing begins, oh
This is where the healing starts
When you come to where you're broken within
The light meets the dark









Wednesday, September 20, 2017

I love a man...


I was looking for a cute quote to put on an email to my coworkers when I saw this... Instantly in my mind I saw the night that I met my Strider. I was about as nervous as a girl could be! My dear brothin (cousin/brother) had been wanting me to meet this strange and intriguing creature for years and I wanted nothing to do with him. I remember thinking "Oh he looks nice, not scary at all really, I don't think I'll like him all that much." Boy was I wrong!! When I met him he had a black eye, courtesy of one of the quietest and most demure girls I have ever known. Evidently her soft ball skills are quite something and not nearly so shy and timid as the rest of her!

I remember what he was wearing (most likely because there are pictures of the night) and I remember that he mostly made food (some things never change). There was so much I had no idea of at the time. I didn't know about the long and arduous journey ahead of us. I had no way of knowing that when my sweet Keisha died it would be this man who built her coffin and dug her grave. I had no idea that he would be the one who would wipe away every tear on the day that I had to relive our house fire. I didn't know that he would be the one who would wash dishes when I went away to work at night and would cook me amazing food when I come home in the morning.I also didn't know that he would be the one who's messiness nearly drives me out of my head, or whose fishing obsession sometimes feels like a disease (as in its catching for me). I had no idea then that he would be the one who would make me laugh, cry, sing, and clean for the rest of my life!

I love this man. He is the calm to my crazy, the black to my colorful, the dreamer to my worrywart, the chef to my casseroles, the balm to my heart ache, and the coolness to my emotions. I love this man, and I am grateful every day for him and for God working it out so that he loves me too. Amen.


Sunday, September 17, 2017

I was 13 again...




There are, for all of us, moments in our childhood that shape and define us. There are times that we never forget, words spoken or actions taken that mold our hearts and lives forever. The very first such memory that I have is of my oldest brother Veldyn (18 yrs older than I) taking me with him to drag out a deer he had shot. I was 18 months old. I know, its crazy, babies are not supposed to remember that young, but I do. We have no pictures of the event, so I know my memory, fuzzy as it is, is truly a memory. The over arching feeling that associates that memory for me is one of importance. The reality that my big strong brother wanted to take me with him sent me the clear message that I mattered to him and that he liked being with me! 

Another shaping memory I have is from when I was about 4 or 5. My sister Deanne (14 older than me) required something of me that for some unknowable reason made me angry and I stomped my foot to show the depth of my frustration. My punishment was that for 5 minutes solid I had to stomp that same foot. To this day when I am tempted to loose my temper at a situation, I can feel the slightest burn in my right thigh. 

Possibly the most shaping event of my childhood occurred when I was 13 years old. My family's house burnt to the ground, leaving us homeless and stripping me of the only truly safe place I had ever known. As a child I was not prone to playing with others, making friends easily, or, heaven forbid, immersing myself in dolls! Rather, I was an animal and adventure lover. Most of my time was spent outdoors, preferably with at least 5 animals around me. Most of the world was scary for me. I loved to be home, on my own farm, with my own family, and most of all my own favorite places and creatures. Twinkle, Blackie, Magnolia, Teeny, Flame, Ember, Krista, Bo, Sparkle, Americas, Macon, and a myriad of nameless but still beloved cows, rabbits and chickens were my friends. I even had a pet mouse named Little Bit (which my parents never knew about) who lived in the ceiling of my bedroom. Every evening I would take bits of food and tuck them up inside a hole above my top bunk bed and every night Little Bit would eat the food and then poke his face out to look at me and listen to my troubles. Of course I had to whisper because my sister slept on the bottom bunk and heaven forbid she should hear my secrets OR know about Little Bit! I now suspect that Little Bit was actually not only one but possibly many mice since this tradition lasted for several years. 

That day, the day of the fire, I lost something much more than my house; I lost my security and in many ways my identity. One of my clearest memories from the day is of myself running full tilt down our gravel road toward the neighbors with the sound of the windows exploding behind me. Our whole church came out that day. They surrounded us, they lifted us, they gave us all that we needed to carry on. For three days they put their lives on hold and they helped us clean up. Their actions were incredibly giving and loving. They saved my parents sanity! But I, a child full of bluff and bluster and fear, was completely lost. I was exposed, without any way to hide or any ability to get back home. I was trapped in a world of chaos and action, clutter and the stench of smoke. My bedroom was directly across the hall from the source of the fire so absolutely nothing remained of my things. Not the shell casing from the first deer I shot. Not my favorite ever poster of Eeyore. Not the beautiful little ceder box with the idyllic picture of the First Nation princess on the front, not the little basket that my grandpa and I sent back and forth for years with our 'fleas' in it, and not the beautiful hand carved school box that my dear friend Mr. Blackwell had made for me. No clothes or photos or even my shell collection could be saved from my room. I was utterly destitute. The bed where I had wept and prayed over tiny dead birds, sick calves, drowned kittens, and mauled bunnies, begging God to bring them back to life, was gone. There were no spots filled with the comforting reality of my own possessions, thoughts, dreams and space. 

I have now lived significantly longer away from my childhood home than I lived with it, and yet, when I think of home, that is the place my mind goes. I can't count the number of times I have dreamed of that house, of the barn, of the little pond, and the creek, and the old milk parlor that was my favorite place of all. One would think that after so many years the loss would be healed. And yet, today, when the firetrucks came and the firemen dragged their hoses across my lawn, and our whole church gathered to watch the "Brown House" as we call the abandoned and condemned dwelling that sits between us and our church, be burned to the ground by the fire department; today when I opened the window to the home I now own with my husband and I smelled that acrid black smoke and I heard that horrible crash of breaking windows, today I was 13 again. I was 13 and my world was crumbling and my heart was breaking and I could not rescue my sister's house cat. I was 13 and the place that was my safety was being invaded by huge trucks with loud sirens and by all the people in my church who I loved but somehow feared. I was 13 and I could hear my newest batch of kittens crying pitifully in the pump house from under the freezer as the smoke curled its evil fingers around into their tiny lungs. 

Its tonight now. The house is gone, completely consumed by the roaring flames. I've been dreading this event for months. Again, a fire leaves me vulnerable. This time I am not homeless, but my privacy is compromised. No-one knows exactly how many pairs of underwear I own because they are the ones who had to go out and buy them for me, but they will know if I step out my door 'less than dressed.' This time my clothes won't smell like smoke for days. This time my sister won't cry herself to sleep at night in the new double bed we share because her heart is broken over her cat, who was her baby. So its not the same. Its not even close really. 

This time I'm all grown up. This time I can separate the reality of life with the unreality of MY life. I know that it will be ok. I know that the heart of God is safer than any beautiful 140 acre ranch. I know now that it can be safe to be vulnerable, that the people God puts in our lives can be trusted with our brokenness, and that 'home' is not actually a place, but a relationship. I know these things now, but I did not always know them. In the bright light of awakeness I can say and think and feel these things, but in the darkness of sleep they are not always so true. And this makes me wonder, what is true for you in the light of open eyes that does not remain steadfast in sleep? 

Wednesday, September 6, 2017

Death is my miracle...

Right now its time for the yearly back to school... My friends all over fb are posting pictures of their darling little munchkins all dressed in their sweetest new outfits, holding Pinterest worthy signs that state their age and grade and all other highly pertinent facts about the coming school year. They are so beautiful! Every single picture fills my heart with a joy that I can't quite explain. To know there are people in the world who are producing or adopting children and then giving them this amazing opportunity of education... It thrills my heart! 

Life, this life, is a miracle. Each soft head of bouncing curls or bristling scalp of buzz cropped boyishness... Each set of sparkling blue eyes and every pair of ponderous brown ones. Every birth that is given to every baby in the world, it is a miracle that makes the angels sing and every mother heart soar... Undoubtedly to most it is the best miracle, but it is not the only one. 

For some of us, this new life, this birthing, this creating, this bringing forth of a love so powerful it shakes the sky, this is not our reality. And we, no matter how difficult it is, must find another essence, another joy, another wealth of beauty and light and inspiration. We need a miracle too. For me, that miracle is death. It is the caring and the love and the incredible bond that forms between nurse and patient. It is the overwhelming honor of sitting at a bedside as the intense work of dying is being done. It is entering the fray of spiritual battle with all weapons drawn, begging the God of all creation to extend His love one more time. It is seeing the light in the eyes of a saint who knows she is bound for glory. For me, this miracle is in being the hands of Jesus at the most vulnerable time in a patients life. 

This is what I want to tell people when they ask me why I work as a hospice nurse: Right now, life is not my miracle. Right now, God has given me the gift of a season with death. My job is not dark, or gloomy, or depressing. My job is not full of sorrow or angst or fury. It is, rather, beautiful. It is, for me, a constant reminder of man's need for Christ, of Christ's love for me, and of my responsibility to share His vast love and power with all that I meet and touch. Someday, I pray with all my heart that I can say "I have no greater joy than to know that my children walk in Truth..." but now, in this season of my life, I say instead "I have no greater joy than to know that my patient walks with God..."

Saturday, March 4, 2017

A Family for Cherish


In my mind, her name is Cherish. If I'm totally honest I have to tell you that I don't actually remember her name, but I think she would be ok with that, because I know that God knows her name and that when I pray for Cherish He smiles at her and lifts her up in His hands.

She came into my life about mid-morning on the day that I was privileged to work in intake. Her dark eyes were filled with worry and her small body carried every tell tale sign of stress and desperation. The first thing about her that caught my attention was her mangled left arm. Her hand was twisted back and the skin of her entire forearm bore scars that made it seem as if it had at some point been melted violently and had never fully cooled again. I would later come to realize that that was exactly what had happened to Cherish... 




As her story tumbled out I realized that it was eerily familiar to me, and later that night as I thought through the story in Mark 9 verses 14-29 I understood why. At a very young age Cherish had begun experiencing "Attaques" (attacks) that, although they had never been diagnosed because proper testing is not available for her, I can only imagine are most likely seizures, mini-strokes, or some form of heart condition. When she was 13, she fell into a fire during one of her attacks and her arm was burned horribly and never healed properly. Although the skin was intact on the day that I met her, it was obvious that the arm still caused her great pain. Throughout her life, Cherish has faced untold hardships due to her attacks and not has been at all helped by the fact that many in her life believe that she is possessed by a demon. She is alone now, no parents, siblings, children, or friends to count on. She has no one to carry her to Jesus and ask for healing as the father of the boy in Mark 9 did, or at least she had no one until Jesus showed her to me... Now though, Cherish does have someone, and because I am a part of the Body of Christ, and you, my dear friend, are a part of that Body too, I am asking, begging, you to help me lift Cherish and every other beautiful and hurting soul in her situation up to our Father God who can and will heal her spirit and body in His time. 




When Jesus' disciples asked Him why only He could drive out the evil spirit (or was it simply epilepsy?) that possessed the boy in Mark 9 He replied, “This kind can come out only by prayer.” I know that Jesus is holding Cherish in His all powerful hand right now and that He always will, my request to you is that you would join me in being her family who can provide for her better than any earthly family because we can give her the gift of prayer and all the joys that it can unleash for her from the bounty of heaven. 


Tuesday, December 13, 2016

White Death...

Hey Y'all, how goes it in your neck of the woods? 
           Here, in Wisconsin, the White Death has begun, and this year, for the first time, I am seeing it for what it really is (to me) and I thought it might be helpful for some of y'all to understand a bit more what it is if I explained it. 

           I talked to my mama today and found out that in my gorgeous home state of Mississippi it was 50 degrees, rainy, and humid... Winter perfection. It's muddy, and slippery, and dreary. Tomorrow it could be 30 or it could be 70. And to me, it is both wonderful and delightful. 

           Here, on the other hand, it was a grand whopping two degrees when I got in my car to go to school at 6:45 this morning. As pulled out of my driveway my car bucked and groaned and protested (yes I let it warm up for awhile before leaving) and to be honest I completely understand. My tires squeaked and rubbed on the ice that had formed 'snards' on the mud flaps. Mud flaps. What is mud exactly?? Oh yes, it's that gooey brown substance that I grew up hosing off my daddy's vehicles in the roasting hot summer sunshine. It's also something that I don't think I've actually ever gotten on my vehicle since I live here, which makes me incredibly sad. But that's off topic. My point is that it was very very cold here. 

            I've been trying to explain to Jared the overwhelming grief that settles on my heart when it snows. The other day someone asked me what I thought of the snow and when I admitted that it feels like death to me someone else said "Well at least its beautiful death!" I understand this sentiment. The snow is beautiful. It is truly lovely when it lies unspoiled and perfect on the fields. I can see the beauty, just as I can see the beauty in a genuine fur coat, that doesn't make the fact that it symbolizes death any less real to me. 

           To me, snow is strange, it is cold, it is slippery, it is foreign, and most of all it is absolutely unrelenting. There is no escaping snow. It wraps the world in its icy grip and it simply does not let go. I am starting to learn that spring always comes, but the truth is that to me it doesn't feel like its going to. When the snow falls, I cry. That's just how it goes at our house. With all my heart I MISS the rain and the mud and the warmth and the changing weather. 

         So, all of this is true, and no matter what I do or say it's not going to change anytime soon, I know that. BUT, this is what I am learning. There is life in the White Death. God called me, a very happy to forever stay in Mississippi girl, to this far away and frozen land. He brought me into a family of people who were raised here and who feel exactly about this place as I do about my home state. He placed me in a tiny house by the railroad tracks with a man who thrives on the beauty of snow. He gifted me with the gracious love of a whole church full of people who are accustomed to snow and ice and winter and who actually think of it as a joy to live in. To all these people, I am the odd one, which has historically made it much tougher for me to cope with the White Death. But GOD, who called me here, is gracious and loving and gentle and He is teaching me that I can embrace the beauty in the White Death and lean on Him to get me through the eternally long months of winter in this frozen tundra.

        So here is the moral of my long sad tale: for me, the winter is a time of grief. It is the time of year when home feels a million miles away and when I am reminded every moment that I am not in the South, that I am not in a place that is normal or comfortable for me, and that I must make a place for myself here, no matter how frozen it is. I know that to many this may seem trivial, but for just a moment stop and consider what your White Death is, and know this: God's grace is sufficient for it too, no matter how unrelenting or icy it may seem. Amen.