Finding God in a Box of Salt

We have had quite a year of "opportunity for growth" (as my friend calls it). First I broke my leg, then our daughter had a miscarriage, then, before my leg was completely healed, I developed ian infection in my foot and a month later had to have surgery to drain it, then developed sepsis and subsequent renal failure. I was very sick and had to be on daily IV antibiotics for weeks. When I was finally almost better, I fell off a friend's deck and had bruised ribs for a few weeks. As that was healing, my husband had a stroke, landing him in the hospital for a week. A week later he ended up in the hospital again.

The bottom line is we are running at about half power income-wise right now, have medical bills that exceed our mortgage, and are in a place of having to completely trust God for our provisions and our health and our future. Frankly, this is where we all are anyway, whether we realize it or not; it's just absolutely clear in our lives at this moment.

Five years ago this season, we lost my mother-in-law to a stroke. Nevertheless, she is still here with us in our hearts and memories. She used to say, "Out of salt, out of money" and my husband still says that. This past month, my son had used up the last of our salt doing various science experiments, and the almost empty container sitting on the counter calls out to me, mocking me, "Out of salf, out of money."

Today, a friend brought a care basket from some coworkers (most of whom we don't even know). As I was putting various items away in my pantry, I came upon a box of salt. And this precious box of salt spoke over and above the empty one sitting on the counter. "I see your need. Your provision comes from Me, and I will take care of you."

While I was pondering this, my son skipped into the kitchen, noticed the salt on the stove and said, "Mommy, how did they know we needed salt?" God knows.

As Deep Cries out to Deep

I have experienced some dark times this year. I'm not sure which was the darkest part; the days after my surgery when I was so sick I thought I was going to die, or the weeks after I got home when I was so sick but didn't know if I would ever get well or just live in misery forever.

First off, let me say, I would be happy to die. I know that a much better place awaits me. But all I could picture, as I lay there pleading with God for my life, was my 8-year-old son, my husband, and my grown daughter. My daughter would get through, but she has already suffered so much this year with the loss of her daughter. My husband would make it, I think; but it would be only by God's mercy and grace. It takes both of us to raise our son, and both of us to keep us afloat financially. I could not imagine how he would deal with the stress, physically, financially, emotionally, psychologically. God would provide, but still, if I could spare him that road... And most of all, my son, who has so much growing up to do, and who really needs the balance of both his mom and dad. I called my friend Laurie in tears, begging her, "If I die, please make sure my boys are taken care of." And then things got better. Laurie came the next day and we had a time of worship and the whole atmosphere of the room changed...and things began to improve, though I was still quite sick. God put me on Gordon's heart that night and he prayed for me. Friends from church came the next day and prayed for me. Laurie and Dan came the next day and prayed for me, and that night was the last of my fevers and chills and sweats and vomiting. People kept coming and praying, and calling, and praying for me.

After I came home, nausea and fatigue and diarrhea still plagued me. On top of that, I had people coming to my house, poking me and prodding me and just invading my life. And there were countless doctors demanding I come see them. And Gary was stressed out, trying to work and take care of me. He couldn't fit in driving me to town for all those doctor visits. And I was too exhausted to go. Did I mention the overwhelming nausea? Forcing myself to eat, but having no appetite. Feeling like I wanted to heave my innards out all the time....On top of that, no one could tell me why I felt so miserable. Perhaps the kidney failure? That was the best guess. And no one could tell me if my kidney function would ever return to normal--or even improve. I was faced with the thought of living the rest of my life sick beyond bear.

The worst part was that I had no hope. If someone could just tell me, "Yes, you will get better." Then I think I could have tolerated it better But I had no hope. In the hospital, I could draw myself to worship God. I could say to Him, "Not my will, but thine." with regard to whether I lived or died. But this nausea. This unknowing. This hill that had no end. These waves that just kept coming and coming, with no end in sight. At least death would have been an end. I was struggling so with making peace with God about living the rest of my life in nausea.

I had to get to church, but I could not drive our manual because I could not push in the clutch with my left (wounded) foot. Gary got sick, very sick, with a GI bug and could not take me the second Sunday after I got home (the first Sunday, I was just too weak to go still). So I asked a friend to give me a ride the next Wednesday, but when she didn't show up, I knew that it was the enemy keeping me from where I really NEEDED to be. I needed to physically submit myself to God and go, to say PHYSICALLY, "I will still worship You; I will still acknowledge Your sovereignty, even though I don't understand or know what You have planned, or have faith or hope in my future." And so I climbed into my truck (after Gary moved the car for me) and drove myself to that Wednesday service.

And people were glad to see me. And they prayed for me. One woman told me she had faith for me where I did not, that I would get better, completely better. Another man told me that they were not letting me go. I needed to hear all that. I DESPERATELY needed to hear all that. By the next week, the nausea was gone and I had improved immensely--to the point that I could have hope for myself that I would continue to improve.

Forgive my personalization of Psalm 42:6-7, etc.

My soul is downcast within me; therefore I will remember you from the land of RiverBend; from the heights of kidney failure--from immense nausea. Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls; all your waves and breakers have swept over me.

And in the future, remembering how He has brought me through, I will say, "Why are you downcast, O my soul? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God."

When to Praise the Lord

Deuteronomy 8:10 "When you have eaten and are satisified, praise the Lord your God for the good land he has given you."

Every morning, my cat Mermott comes in and jumps up on my desk, sitting between me and my monitor, and we have a short little session of head butting and cheek petting, before she jumps down and does whatever she does all day. This morning, however, she did not jump up on my desk, but stood on the floor beside my chair. When I tried to pet her, she walked away. When I tried to pick her up, she let me know in no uncertain terms that she wanted down. After a while, I realized the bathroom door, where we keep the cats' food, was closed. Later, after she had eaten and was full, she came in and jumped up on my desk, ready for pets and full of purr.

Luke 22:17-19 "After taking the cup, he gave thanks and said, 'Take this and divide it among you. For I tell you I will not drink again of the fruit of the vine until the kingdom of God comes.' And he took bread, gave thanks, and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, 'This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me.' "

A short while after Mermott had eaten, Buster came in from outside and stood at the office door meowing at me. I talked to him and he talked to me, as is our routine; and then he went and ate, and left.

One cat thanks me with a belly full, the other thanks me for the meal he is about to receive. I remember when I first read that Deuteronomy scripture, I wondered, why then do we pray before we eat?

Over the last weeks, I have struggled. I have struggled with doubt about whether God would bring me back to complete health, with whether I would spend the rest of my life living with this horrid nausea, with how expensive I was going to be to keep alive, and how much my life was worth. Perhaps these things seem obvious or trivial from a different perspective; but from the depths of nausea and depression and in the midst of the unknown, these are not trivial questions. Part of me knows that God will give me the grace and the means to do anything He calls me to. If He asks me to live with nausea for the rest of my life, He will give me the grace to endure it. If He asks me to live with kidney failure, He will provide the means for treatment for that. But, on the other hand, there is the nitty-gritty, day-to-day struggle....and it's been hard...and I have been losing the battle. I don't see God's grace provided to me. I'm not able to do what I want to do. I'm barely able to be civil to the people I love most.

But last Wednesday, at church, people prayed for me. Dennis said, "We will not let you go." And others told me they had faith that I would get well--even when I didn't have that faith. I realized that they were holding me up. When I could not stand, when I did not have faith, they held me up and had faith for me.

And as I pondered my two cats this morning, I realized that I was being Mermott, praising God for what I had already eaten, for the healing that had already taken place---but God wants me to be Buster, to thank Him for the meal I was about to eat, for the healing that will come.

Hiatus

Just in case any of you are wondering where I have been. I got an infection in my foot that had to be surgically opened and drained, and then I developed sepsis from the bacteria getting into my bloodstream, then my kidneys failed....So I am home now, after 10 days in the hospital, on IV antibiotics for weeks still, battling nausea and waiting for my kidneys to recover. Prayers are welcome. I will post again soon, but I think I need to feel better first.

To My Angel

The following was written by Laura. Today is the day Nadia Joy was due. Sadly, she died before she could see her mommy and daddy. But we all love her dearly just the same and look forward to seeing her one day in heaven, completely whole and untarnished by this world.


To my angel.....

My sweet girl,

You were due today. It seems strange to even think about that, since it's so far from when you were born. Maybe all mothers remember the due dates too... You'd be 16 weeks old now, if you'd have stayed. Smiling, cooing, those wonderful milestones. I'd best not linger on the things I miss, lest I forget what I've gained. I miss you terribly! It's like waves at the beach. I won't even know where it came from, but I miss you again so fiercely...

I've changed so much these 16 weeks. It amazes me still that you've done more in such a short time than I'm likely to accomplish in my whole life. You've taught some that there's more to life than their world. For others, you've softened their hearts. You've taught some how to grieve, and how to be vulnerable. That it's okay to cry, and to feel. You have deepened relationships, and secured friendships in ways you'll never know. Most of all, you have brought people to the Father. For some it's a new relationship, for others, it's a deeper one. I know that you yourself are not capable of these things, and that it is indeed the Father himself who has used you for His glory.

I miss you so. But you have brought me closer to my Father, and I know him better. I have found new Joy nestled in His arms, a security I never could fathom. And He is still my hope. I still wish I could hold you, hear your voice, see your smile. I wonder what kind of woman you'd have grown into. I love you. I love you more than I can express. I will always love you.

Though the sorrow may last for the night, His joy comes in the morning.

It's been many nights, and many more will come. But He is still holding me up. I was thinking the other day about God holding me, and comforting me. He understands my pain. I realized that He really does! He lost a Son! He knows what it's like to lose a child! I started thinking more about His understanding, and I realized that he doesn't ask us to do what he hasn't. He understands loss. He can grieve with us. He lost a child, and at some point Joseph died, so he lost a parent. He knows what it's like to be tempted, and what it's like to be misunderstood. He's had neighbors and siblings. We constantly shun Him, tell Him he's not good enough. When he asks us to give up ourselves, he's done that too!

What an awesome God we have! He has indeed brought good from the pain, and I know he's not done. He's given me a new insight and a deeper understanding of who He is. I can say with certainty, "God is good!"

"To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that he might be glorified. " Isaiah 61:3

My prayer now is one of thanksgiving. That though I miss you, and will miss seeing you grow, I have gained a treasure more precious than silver. I will never stop missing you, and I look to the day when I will see you again, ever praising the One who created us.

Mom

He was my Sunday school teacher.

The men in my family are pretty closed about their emotions and pain. K boy, when he is hurt, usually crawls off into a corner and suffers quietly. It's when the house is quiet that I know to be concerned. And when he took a wrong turn over a waterfall recently and landed on rock in an inch of water after a five-foot drop, he merely said, "I'm okay, I"m okay." And when I insisted he MUST hurt, he said, "It's only pain."

So when one of his Sunday school teachers (his friends in the know say his favorite Sunday school teacher) died unexpectedly and suddenly last week, I was not surprised that he took it on the chin without wincing. This is his style. I have looked for subtle things over the past days to see if there was any indication of "hurt", but he remained stoic.

The memorial service for his teacher, Don, was today, originally scheduled at the same time as K's swim meet. So I left the choice up to K as to which one to go to. He thought all afternoon yesterday about it and decided he wanted to go to the swim meet. But God knows what K needs and arranges things. The swim meet went really quickly and was over by 2:30. The memorial, about five minutes away, got pushed back to 2:00; so I made the command decision that we would go. All K would say was, "I don't want to." I asked him why and he only repeated, "I just don't want to." Nevertheless, something inside me said we should go. So we went, and being late, stood out in the foyer listening and watching on the monitor to Brian's beautiful tribute to Don, and I picked up a "program" with Don's picture on the front. A card fell out, and as I didn't know Don well, I tucked it back into the stack of programs. But K said, "What was that, Mom?" So I told him it was a card to write a memory on. When I turned back to look through the window, K pulled the card out of the stack, took it to a table where there pens and started writing. When I glanced his way, he said, "Don't look. I don't want you to read this." But later, as I was helping him find the basket to put it in, I read it over his shoulder. It was unsigned and simply said, "He was my Sunday school teacher."

So, Cindy, when you find a card, written in an 8-year-old's cursive, in big letters because he did not have his glasses with him--please know that it came from the depths of the heart of a boy who did not know how to express the hurt in any other way.

Picking Blueberries

My friend and I went walking through town early the other morning and we went a block or so out of our way to pass by some blueberry bushes that the city planted by the old train engine. As we were picking the ripe berries off the bushes, leaving the green ones (there are several different varieties planted), an older man got out of his car and said, "Are they ripe yet?" We answered, mouths full of juicy, sweet berries, "Oh, yes." But as we wandered away to finish our walk, he looked at the remaining berries on only one bush and said, rather annoyed, "They are NOT ripe yet!"

The fact is, apparently we are not the only ones who have come to appreciate the berries. Many people now, as they walk by, selectively pick only the perfectly ripe berries, and leave the rest to ripen for another day.

Years ago, a friend of mine bought the rights to a blueberry patch, and recruited quite a few of us to help pick for her. Picking blueberries for the harvest is quite a different experience than picking them in the park one at a time. When you pick them for harvest, you wrap both hands around each clump, and strip the berries off, ripe and unripe together, and then later sort through them, discarding the overripe and the unripe berries, as well as any leaves and twigs.

It occurred to me, as I sat in church listening to Gordon talk about Don Gibson, who recently--unexpectedly and suddenly--went to be with the Lord, that perhaps now God wanders through the believers, picking only the ripest, sweetest ones. But the day is coming when He will harvest ripe and unripe together, and sort us all out later.