From Michelle. 28 April, 2011.
Dearest friends and family,
Happy Easter! Although we have been silent, our lives have not been quiet. On the contrary, we have been orchestrating the profusion of activities to be accomplished in the slim numbering of days between now and August first, when we are tentatively hoping to touch down once again in our beloved Manila.
For the most part, we have been meeting with folks. Since June we have lived an insulated existence, dictated by the fullness of daily life, but also by the emotional demands of recovery. Tragedy engenders a protective response. The instinct is to curl up, fetus-like, and hide the tender parts. To willfully unfurl and offer up the raw, the harmed, the fleshy scars, is an act of profound trust. To reengage is an act of faith. As those scars heal, however, we are reemerging, eyes blinking in the light of friendships long neglected, absorbing the warm rays of good conversation and blessed relationship, tiptoeing back into responsibilities laid aside for such a time as this. Is it coincidental that this reemergence mirrors the season, our heads peeking up along with the flowers in our garden?
As I look around with fresh eyes, a new appreciation evolves. Every week there is more reason to give thanks: a kind word, a card, an act of service, a donation, a meal, a child we have never met still offering daily prayers for Steve’s healing, a family passing on their basketball hoop to the boys, the countless professionals who weekly offer their skills to Steve for free, the ongoing concern for our story amidst a thousand other heartaches. The wave of kindness is so large, so continuous, that I am at times quite literally overwhelmed by it. As a new transition approaches, I lay awake at night asking myself, how can we ever adequately thank for what went before?
Somewhere in that question, alongside the almost giddy gratitude that bubbles up is a bewildered sense of inadequacy. How in the world did we come to deserve all of this extravagant goodwill? Jesus said that it is more blessed to give than to receive. And yet so much of our faith revolves around the initial act of receiving, receiving the outrageous gift of a son by a father, so that we too might be called children of God (John 1:12). Isn’t it outrageous? Isn’t it utterly scandalous? Doesn’t it fly in the face of every karmic philosophy this world has ever designed? Who among us would ever pay that price? When I come to the Good Friday moment and kneel in front of that absurd and lavish love, I am quite simply carried away by the wave. I’d drown just to be thrown up on that distant shore, the Easter promise that lies beyond the death of me. In stretching out my hand to receive the gift, I acknowledge my need. And the love that ensues from the gift received is sometimes reckless and wild, and it carries me to a strange and unknown destination. As I am carried into the mystery, I surrender to Love itself. At its core, my faith requires me to receive. In my outstretched palm lies my surrender. So when the wave of generosity and kindness comes and threatens to overwhelm, and I want to grab a life vest and do something to earn it all, I imagine the grace that works in me only when my hands are open, and I surrender to the wave, whispering in my heart, “thank you, thank you, thank you.” Thank you.
Steve continues to work hard, making steady progress. Among his current challenges, he is watching the children in order to allow me to go to a retreat in the Colorado mountains with one of my closest friends, while he simultaneously prepares and delivers a sermon at five services this Sunday at UPC. It is just like Steve to leap this way, powered by a generous desire for my fulfillment. I am once again riding the wave, this time away from him and into the mountains, into reflection and nature and God, wanting so much to help and yet called to acknowledge my need and receive. I worry about how frustrating it will be to change a diaper with his stiff fingers, or how tired he’ll be staying up after the boys go to bed in order to load the dishwasher, but he will do it and that is a miracle in and of itself. Mostly, selfishly, I wish I were sitting in the pews to hear him preach. Other progress trickles in like a leaky faucet, slow but steady drips into the chasm of what remains. Perhaps his fingers move with a little bit more fluidity. Perhaps he can walk a little bit further. We hold out our cup, thirsty, and wait impatiently for it to fill. Sensation remains elusive. The other day Steve managed to maneuver himself into the bath tub, a first. His reward upon landing in the steaming hot water, however, was a sensation of mild coolness. It was only when his hands entered the water that he realized the heat.
On Easter, I stood in front of three services and said this: “I choose to believe that God’s work in us through this affliction carries a deeper weight than the affliction itself. And that God is doing a work in our hearts that will last far beyond our bodies, if we can continue to look up. To me, that is the resurrection life.” A bold statement of faith. We wait, sometimes frustrated, sometimes patient, with our physical reality a pitiable half empty cup. But then there is the ocean of gratitude, love on a cross, the Easter promise of resurrection life. What will last for always? What matters for an eternity? We lift our eyes and for a moment we sense the promise, and for a second we receive the gift. Today, I will try to surrender to the wave.
With love and thanks,
Michelle