From Michelle. 10 March, 2011.
Dearest friends and family,
Sometimes we forget to see how far we have come on this journey. We take our cues from those who see us only sporadically. Steve’s progress is mirrored in their astonishment and delight. It is indeed a vibrant miracle, but in the seemingly uneventful wasteland between acute care and normal life, Steve and I sometimes lose our vantage point. And yet, the progress is measurable and real. Target and even Costco are now ably negotiated, and thanks to the shopping cart, one might never notice the extent of Steve’s limitations as he strolls around like any other casual shopper (really, he is there for the exercise!). As I write, Steve climbed upstairs into the boys’ loft, only for the third time, but done now with little fanfare and a great deal of confidence. Most happily, Steve has regained a significant amount of bowel control recently which ushers in a whole new level of independence and dignity, as well as eliminating much of the arduous morning routine. These are no small victories in the world of spinal cord injury. Even among our few “walking quad” acquaintances, these are rare gems of progress. Sobering is that even among these star recoveries, all of them have some permanent level of compromised function. At nine months post-injury, however, it is early days yet, and so we hope for the best even as we prepare to accept whatever we are given. Amazingly, our prayers and yours continue to be answered with astonishing speed thus far, and so we continue along this vein until we are directed otherwise. Keep praying, friends!
We now flirt with an edge of normalcy. As a child who grew up abroad, or a third culture kid (TCK), I learned of a term called the “hidden immigrant”. This is a TCK who returns to their home culture after living abroad. At “home” in this strange environment, they may look and behave like everyone around them, and yet all the while an entire world of experience and cultural background remains hidden. There is an enormous disconnect between what the outside world perceives and what is in fact true. For a TCK this masked inner world of experience along with the expectation to fit in is one of the most difficult aspects of life in the “home” country. Steve is now entering a similar phase in his recovery. On the outside, Steve appears increasingly normal. A casual observer might not realize the effort it takes Steve to walk. They may not notice the stiffness in his fingers. Certainly they cannot know about the strange sensations or lack thereof that create an otherworldly and often distracting context for every waking moment. Nor can they discern the tragic events that have led to this place. When Steve uses the wheelchair, there is immediate deference and concern. Without the chair, however, the outer marker of inner suffering is gone. On the one hand, this heralds an amazing amount of progress. Joy! On the other, we are frequently reminded that we are not quite there yet. A disconnect is developing between what the world sees and Steve’s actual experience.
I find myself writing less because these types of adjustments are more slippery and less dramatic. We are joyfully, miraculously well and yet we are also still among the walking wounded. We forget that we are, in a sense, ill, and then suddenly we are reminded. We carry on. We welcome the return of old patterns of life only to discover that they simply cannot be the same. There is the danger of malaise. One is so close, and yet simply not there.
In the past few weeks, wrestling has returned to our house. This was, of course, a favorite pastime for our three young boys, especially with their papa. Steve deeply grieved the loss of his ability to connect with our boys this way, and so the slow return of strength and agility that allows him to brokenly resume rough housing has been a treat. This time, it is a more cautious choreography. Nevertheless, I frequently hear giggles erupting from the bedroom where Steve winsomely pretends to be ferocious despite his relative weakness. The boys are delighted and gladly play along within the soft and forgiving confines of our bed. The other day, however, joining in the joyful, reckless fray, I noticed that I had lost my best defense. Steve is no longer ticklish. He no longer feels very acutely in his arm pits. This is how I discovered that in fact the altered sensation begins much higher on Steve’s body than I had realized, just below the top of his shoulders. Such are the mixed moments, the delights and the intrusions of reality that make up daily life.
There are twenty-six miles in a marathon. Doctors say we have about the same number of months of recovery, give or take a few. We are only nine miles in. Apparently progress will begin to slow. The weight of the reality of loss will begin to grow even as Steve begins to weary of the long march. I feel that we are beginning to touch on this phase of recovery. Someone who has been here asked, “So, have you hit a wall yet?” We are getting there. The same person said that the second year is the hardest. We are anticipating this. We will be nearing the end of the obscure sketches of recovery and coming up against the harsher contours of what is left.
And yet, and yet, God has been so good. After a period of running hard, I am only just coming to a place of resting in Him. I don’t quite remember how to do it. This new context throws me off. The answer lies somewhere in allowing my weakness to usher in Christ’s strength. Paul had a thorn that taught him this way:
2 Cor 12:8-10 Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.
This is fertile ground for Steve and I, a gift to be unwrapped and examined with great diligence and awe. I know that if we keep our hearts open to this humbling, if we can cease to strive, we will come upon God’s sweet companionship in new ways, and find a different kind of strength in that embrace. For Steve this spiritual discipline resounds throughout his body. There is a strange grace and acceptance that permeates the moments when we are not measuring our progress in human terms, when we are not trying so hard. The gift of those early days after the accident was an utter helplessness that allowed God’s amazing love and provision to shine through the many cracks in our countenances. As we become more able, and as we taste the beginnings of a more normal life, it will become tempting to stand in our own strength again. But the marathon is far from over. Please pray for hearts that remain open, fertile ground for God’s wisdom. Please pray for strength for this middle stretch of the race.
We continue to move forward in faith. In just two weeks Steve will preach his first sermon since the accident. Later this month, we will travel as a family to visit Steve’s parents in Florida. We have begun to set in motion our return to Manila in August. All of these seemingly normal plans are great leaps into the unknown for Steve and I. Nothing is the same and we cannot predict how this will proceed. We step out onto a precipice in darkness and hope that the coming dawn reveals instead a gentle slope. So far, it always has.
We are grateful, as ever, for your prayers.
With love,
Michelle