From Michelle. 30 March, 2011.
Dear Friends and Family,
We find ourselves embraced in the familiar fluid warmth of a humid Florida afternoon. Steve’s parents have been coming down to Florida for many years, and several times we had gratefully escaped the dreary March weather in Seattle to visit them here when our big boys were young. And so we counted down the days for this break and for family.
Returns such as this, however, take us by surprise. Instead of simple joy, we find ourselves gazing through another window into loss. As a family, we have left the safe confines of the new life we have built, the countless things that make it all manageable. Our “new normal” painfully shifts and expands to encompass a new set of circumstances. Our hearts are equally stretched to find new goodness amidst the bitter taste of things we cannot regain. We scramble to establish new rhythms and roles, our emotions clambering along behind us.
I had forgotten the severe partnership that a vacation with little ones used to entail. There was a sweetness in the end-of-the-day exhaustion, as we looked at each other, acknowledging that we could not have done it without the other. The endless lugging of bags and favorite binkies, the constant checklists of favorite and irreplaceable blankies and stuffed animals not to be lost or forgotten, the coaxing of naps in strange places, the unpredictable permutations of mood in sleep deprived children, my handbag hurriedly stuffed with wrinkled diapers and crumbly snacks for the road. It was always worth the adventure, and we were willing to brave anywhere on the planet at any age. We did it together.
Now Steve’s fingers stiffly refuse to apply sunscreen, and he watches the children while I lug the luggage. With a look he lets me know when he is too tired. We calculate distances, we nervously eye the sand or the ocean and wonder how he will manage. Steve quietly does all he can not to be a burden, and more. We do our best. At night we look at each other and try to find thanksgiving in the new landscape. We offer each other grace. We pray for strength.
I keep circling back to thanks. “The Lord is at hand; do not be anxious about anything but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving make your requests known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.” In my head I have been trying to coax myself back to the place I had been in the beginning. In those early, terrifying days, my utter helplessness engendered an equally total surrender to God. Each moment was permeated with an element of holiness. I had a visceral sense of God’s closeness. I was infused with thanks. There was peace. As Steve regained independence, I too became more self-sufficient. My spiritual eyes dimmed.
Now a discipline of thanks is required. Trauma no longer takes my life by storm, ravaging all of the trivial details and forcing me to look up. And thank God for that. Steve keeps a list. Every day he writes down five things he is thankful for. He says this is what is getting him through this latest Wall. Coincidentally, friends gave me a book recently also espousing a gratitude list, not for the list making itself but for the shift in perspective it engenders. While I strain against the confines of such practical habits, my spirit longs for the same result.
I have been juggling perspectives. From the perspective of June 17, everything is a miracle, a sweet taste in the mouth of rich mercy given, of more moments with Steve, of magical healing. From the perspective of a lifetime prior to June 17, all is heart-wrenching loss. My spirit jumps between one and the other, wondering which is the “right” or most accurate path, struggling to faithfully give thanks in the balance. What I am beginning to realize is that what I really need is the perspective of this moment, this twenty four hours. Do not worry. Each day has enough troubles of its own. The biblical wisdom reminds me to let go of what went before, both the sooner and the latter.
Tonight, as I explored with Steve my struggle to absorb our new normal in this no-longer-familiar setting, the perspective I’d been praying for came slamming into my dull spirit. I was processing my smaller losses with his greater ones in plain sight. A host of images flooded my heart, drowning my complaints. Steve’s equable laughter as he tried unsuccessfully to throw a ball to the children in the pool, fingers too slow and stiff, holding it too long. Him standing at the water’s edge watching the boys jump waves, watching me go in to keep them safe. Him walking slowly and determinedly up the path, far behind the children’s rushing feet and mine. Him telling me some sweet thing about me that would go on his gratitude list. I had forgotten this day to give thanks for walking legs and arms able to embrace and protect my children at will. I had forgotten to give thanks for the simplest of gifts, the simplest of joys: healthy children, loving husband, food, water, sand.
I am still learning the discipline of gratitude. I am still learning to live in the moment. As I look back on the early days when it flowed freely, the word echoing in my spirit is “surrender”. Do not worry, the Lord is at hand. Pray. Be thankful. Talk to God. But above all else, surrender to His presence, and to the moment at hand. And perhaps begin a gratitude list. Those are the things I know to do. Now for the discipline to practice them faithfully.
Among the countless things to be thankful for: Steve preaching for the first time, standing the entire time; Steve swimming for the first time in the pool, first doggy paddle, then freestyle; Steve walking in the sand.
With love,
Michelle