There will be a benefit concert for Steve at University Presbyterian Church, on Friday, October 15, at 7:30pm. All are invited–please spread the word.
The evening will be led by Walt Wagner and Sue Nixon, with musicians from University Presbyterian Church, First Presbyterian Church of Bellevue, and Mars Hill Graduate School.
Steve will share a few words, and an offering will be taken to benefit the Steve Lowell Ruetschle Special Needs Trust.
For all of those living in Manila or the surrounding area, there will be a benefit concert for Steve on Oct 25, 2010, at Onstage at the Greenbelt Theater.
This concert features a wide variety of talent, including Gary Valenciano, Kitchie Nadal, The Company, Rachelle Gerodias, The Artists of Repertory Philippines, Trumpets, The Union Chancel Choir, UCM Children’s Choir, and more!
Tickets are available from P 2500 to as low as 800 pesos. If you have any questions, email Alice Pamin.
From Michelle. 4 October, 2010. 3 p.m.
Dear friends and family,
I confess that I have been stumped this last week about what to write. How does one follow up Steve’s first steps, the high of those miraculous stumbles that since have become slightly more controlled but still fragile and performed with the greatest effort? Now to the work of it. I have to pay attention to the details to see the miracle continuing. A foot slightly more elevated, an extra round in the living room. Really, it’s not hard to find. Every step remains a miracle. Otherwise life continues much the same, though on a slight downhill trend, flowing just a bit more each day. We are finding the beginnings of a rhythm. Some predictability is entering in, and the long-accustomed sense of immediate crisis is beginning to recede.
This weekend I watched all four of my “boys”. Our help for Saturday morning fell through and we had none scheduled for Sunday, but we all welcomed the unusual opportunity to function as a family unit. It was messy, and too much t.v. was watched by the children as I took care of Steve, but all in all, we managed. For the boys it was a treat, I think. As pastor’s kids, their ongoing complaint is that we do not get enough family time, and this period, with its steady stream of caregivers and visitors, is just a different iteration of the same. Taking stock, it is amazing to see that we can manage on our own. When we stepped out of the hospital, blinking in the daylight, we felt fragile as newborn babes to this new life. But already in just a short month we have become accustomed, even proficient. The house was clean. The kids fed. Steve cared for. An almost normal family weekend.
Blessings continue to come in daily portions, reminding us of goodness all around. We are beginning to sleep. After some disastrous experiments with medications, and a regular waking every hour and a half for the first month home, we have had several good nights, with only one or two turns, and deep sleep between. I can feel my energy returning. Steve has more to catch up on than I, but even he appears more lively.
On Saturday we took a walk, the first truly brisk bit of exercise since June. Of course, it is not exercise for Steve! He wheels along effortlessly and I try to keep up! But with every step, as I follow that wheelchair, I am giving thanks for my legs. The day was glorious, and our house is not far from the ocean. We paused to talk and pray in the sunlight, and I managed to sit on his lap, our instant portable bench! All of that glory. Even though Steve could not take strides into that gorgeous scene, he was blessed by it. The glory of God sang and ministered to us in each glinting bit of sumptuous green against that gorgeous backdrop of ocean and sky. We walked home refreshed and a little bit more healed, a little bit more alive.
We continue to thrive on your wonderful notes and emails and cards, the amazing meals that so often grace our doorstep, and the ongoing prayers. As the marathon drags on into its fourth month, the faithfulness of family and friends, and even strangers united either by circumstance or prayer, is amazing to me. Ecclesiastes praises the beauty of more than one, saying among other things that a cord of three strands is not easily broken. We have tested that wisdom to its limit, and found it to be true. I have mentioned before that one of our greatest lessons in this time has been the value of community, but as the race continues, the lesson sinks deeper and we are all the more astounded by the depth of your commitment, both near and from afar. Two concerts will be happening this month, one in Seattle and one in Manila, and I am not sure how to even take in the generosity of all of those hours of preparation by their participants. It is humbling and awesome beyond measure.
Challenges remain also. Steve’s Medicaid application still has not been approved. Though we have no reason to believe he will be denied, the uncertainty and the ongoing details and paperwork remain a mountain to climb. Patience, patience. Our home is on the cusp of sale, we hope, but not yet finalized. Steve still wrestles with the physical challenges, the strange sensations, the lack of sensation, the stiffness of fingers long unaccustomed to moving, the pain of his injured right shoulder, the work of moving a foot. Every day we stretch and work muscles in the hope that they will return.
Psalm 30 spoke to me once again this morning: “I will extol you, O Lord, for you have drawn me up and have not let my foes rejoice over me. O Lord my God, I cried to you for help, and you have healed me. O Lord, you have brought up my soul from Sheol; you restored me to life from among those who go down to the pit. Sing praises to the Lord, O you his saints and give thanks to his holy name. For his anger is but for a moment, and his favor is for a lifetime. Weeping may tarry with the night, but joy comes with the morning. You have turned for me my mourning into dancing; you have loosed my sackcloth and clothed me with gladness, that my glory may sing your praise and not be silent. O Lord my God, I will give thanks to you forever!” v. 1-5, 11-12.
Indeed from the very earliest stages I have felt God’s sweet whisper that joy will come with the morning. We see glimpses of it now, and believe that more is to come. In the meantime, we covet your prayers, which not only carry us but bring us joy. While the pace of care and therapies is intense, with few breaks, it is also taking on a distinct monotony. Patience is a treasure to be found, buried somewhere in this new life. Steve and I loved our adventures, and in another time we would have been out and about, exploring, meeting new people, engaging in groups, learning and growing. Now we are consumed by much simpler tasks and the energy this takes leaves us with little left at the end of the day for more exciting endeavors. Please pray with us for patience and endurance as we (especially Steve!) do the work, for presence of mind to see the glory which abounds, and for faith to anticipate the joy.
With deepest gratitude,
Michelle
Many of you have requested our address. It is:
7700 175th St. SW
Edmonds, WA 98026
These first two were shot by Michelle during a rehab session at Harborview
This video was shot by Mark Ruetschle (Steve’s brother) at Pushing Boundaries:
From Michelle. 26 September, 2010 9 a.m.
Dear friends and family,
Another week has flown by with its own unique set of challenges and triumphs. It has been a landmark few days… but I’ll start at the beginning.
Last week we went as a family to the beach. We are still tentative about outings. The strangeness of navigating the world in a wheelchair, the time it takes to load and unload Steve, and the sheer emotional nature of experiencing life in a more limited capacity keep Steve close to home much of the time, outside of the host of therapy appointments. We are all the more grateful for the beauty of the home we’ve been given, since we do indeed spend so much time in the safety of its confines.
But on this day we ventured forth. We had heard that there was a park with handicapped access nearby. It proved to be a lovely place, with a wild beach and few people. There were a few set backs: the five inch ledge where they’d placed boards to keep an area from flooding – we called a stranger to help and guided the chair for a bit of off-road climbing! – and the fact that the paved part ended right at the end of the tunnel at the beach, so that Steve could proceed no further. Steve enjoyed his little perch, however, watching me and the boys play in the sand and in the water, and we all enjoyed the fresh air and a taste of wild nature after our extended domesticity.
As we wheeled back to the car we discussed the bittersweetness of being outside together yet separated by the sand and the chair. Steve said, “I now have even more incentive to walk again.”
More prophetic words could not have been spoken. The next day at our Harborview physical therapy appointment, the therapist casually suggested that Steve try the parallel bars. These are set up for one purpose alone: to support people while walking. We both stammered out our enthusiasm but not without a little bit of trepidation! Steve was, after all, standing, but still struggled to lift his legs while in that position, and only for very short, concentrated periods of time. I think we both felt that at best he would take a few steps and collapse, exhausted.
I stood far off where the camera could capture the spectacle and held my breath, praying for a good experience for Steve. Right before the appointment I had also prayed for encouragement: “Lord, please encourage us today. If you mean for Steve to walk, please give us a glimpse of it today.” You would think that I would pray such prayers often, but much of the time I am more preoccupied with finding grace for our present, to humbly embrace what has been given.
Steve pulled himself up with the help of his therapist and began tentatively to move forward. One leg and then the other. Painfully and with the greatest of effort. But his legs and feet were responding! Slowly he made his way to the end of the bars. I think we both thought he was done, but no. The therapist said, “Ok, now turn around.” Amazingly, Steve did. And back to his chair. And one more round.
I was weeping the whole time. In June, as Steve was lying in the ICU entirely motionless from the nipple line down, I had a secret prayer I prayed. It was that on our 10th anniversary, December 30th, 2010, Steve would take a few steps. Now, I was seeing it far sooner than my wildest dreams and secret prayers could have imagined. I laughingly scolded Steve, who knew about my prayer, that he was not supposed to be doing this yet!
The next day, Steve did it again, this time in a walker in our bedroom and then in our living room, accompanied by two physical therapists. The next day, he did it again at another appointment. We are elated. Steve feels tentative as well, as he navigates this fresh hope. As he says, the closer he gets to walking again, the more fragile he feels. Indeed, the hope becomes so burning and so close to realization that the possibility that it might not be realized becomes all the more painful. We cannot know how well Steve will walk – whether it will be for only a few steps, whether it will be with a walker or a cane, whether it will be with braces, or in complete freedom, but at this point I feel that we can confidently say, he will walk again. Somehow. His fingers, his altered sensation, the inability to feel hot and cold, the level of strength he might regain remain in question, but this amazing milestone remains. First steps! Long before our anniversary! And for this we are grateful beyond measure.
You’d think that with all of this grace, all of this amazing, undeserved, wonderful recovery, we would be continually elated. The walking moments remain small pinnacles of light, however, in the continued drudgery of the day to day. It still takes several hours to get Steve ready each day. He still watches us play on the beach. We still inch along with all of agonizing paperwork and detail. We still trust in the darkness, not knowing where we are headed. As I write, I am stealing time amidst the daily preparations and Steve is patiently enduring his daily regimen. But I was reminded again this morning of the verses that were given to me at the very beginning of our vacation, this time in the Message translation: “Don’t fret or worry. Instead of worrying, pray. Let petitions and praises shape your worries into prayers, letting God know your concerns. Before you know it, a sense of God’s wholeness, everything coming together for good, will come and settle you down. It’s wonderful what happens when Christ displaces worry at the center of your life. Summing it all up, friend, I’d say you’ll do best by filling your minds and meditating on things true, noble, reputable, authentic, compelling, gracious – the best, not the worst; the beautiful, not the ugly; things to praise, not things to curse. Put into practice what you learned from me, what you heard and saw and realized. Do that, and God, who makes everything work together, will work you into his most excellent harmonies.”
This faith journey cannot be solely fixated on whether or not Steve is healed. It must be about so much more. For there is much that is true and noble and beautiful in our lives. The discipline, the journey, the exercise for us is to see it and embrace it despite all that is also ugly, dark and cursed. These first steps are a part of that journey, a gift, a mercy and a grace that helps us to see. And for that, we humbly rejoice!
Love,
Michelle
From Michelle. 17 September, 2010. 2 p.m.
Dear friends and family,
I am writing from the now familiar corridors of the Harborview Medical Center, where Steve spent eight long weeks in rehabilitation. While Steve engages in a host of appointments, I get to enjoy the putrid green and yellow shadows of the hospital basement cafeteria and reminisce about our continuing adventures this past week.
A highlight was a trip to the pool, just Steve and I. As most of you know, Steve had been to a pool once before where he stood for the first time unassisted in the water. I was absent from that momentous occasion, however, and eager to try this method, where my size and strength mattered little in assisting my love. After a few discouraging days, it proved to be a sweet and encouraging time for us both.
Going to the pool is no small matter. There is getting changed, with heavy limbs, pressure stockings, belly bands and other tricky paraphernalia to navigate in the chair, there is the temperature of the pool as Steve has little ability to regulate his body temperature, and there is the not so small matter of getting Steve from his wheelchair into the special contraption that lowers him into the pool. On Steve’s previous visit Steve had two experienced therapists and a strong male friend to assist him in the process. This time we were on our own and feeling both tentative and excited about the process.
Needless to say, we managed to navigate all of it, and with a few adjustments and floating devices, we had him standing in the pool! We did a few warm up exercises, kicking and bending the legs, and then we were off… walking. Steve held on to my shoulders and looked me straight in the eye and lifted a leg. While this took an extraordinary amount of effort, every muscle necessary for the movement of walking seemed to be present. Then Steve lifted his other leg. And again. And again. While at times his balance wavered, or his left leg tried to cross his right, essentially, Steve got to feel his body walking again. And again. And again. I kept expecting him to be finished, but he wanted to do more, and more. We inched our way to and fro, his face grimacing with the effort, but an occasional elated smile breaking through. Back and forth we went in the small distance of the pool at which he was sufficiently supported by the water but where I was still able to stand (mostly on tip toes!). A great number of elderly folks swam by, and kids splashed away in the opposite corner, but we were so engrossed in our little miracle moment that we hardly noticed. The great effort it cost only made the achievement of that moment sweeter. We cannot know how strong those muscles will become, and whether or not they will be able to function that well against gravity, but here in the pool, for that moment, Steve could walk!
Moments like these are the footholds across the chasm I spoke of last, the love and hope that rises forth from unexpected places to buoy us onward in the dark. A friend sent a poem that described it aptly:
We travelers, walking towards the sun, can’t see
Ahead, but looking back the very light
That blinded us shows us the way we came,
Along which blessings now appear, risen
As if from sightlessness to sight, and we,
By blessings brightly lit, keep going toward
That blessed light that yet to us is dark.
-Wendell Berry
As we look forward the darkness still blinds us. Not only Steve’s fingers and legs, but every future prospect remains hidden from view. Our team of caregivers and our call for this year remain only dimly lit. I have been praying for a sense of purpose for this time that has been set apart, beyond what is obvious: Steve’s healing. Knowing God, I expect that far more is happening both within us and beyond us than what we can see in the plain, brutal reality of Steve’s injury. It is this journey and these events that I am more interested in. My hope is that with all physical certainty wiped away, our spiritual vision might gain in clarity. Our vulnerability is in that sense truly His strength. We continue to walk in blindness toward the light!
With love and deepest gratitude always,
Michelle
With a little assistance Steve is able to stand on his own for brief periods of time.
From Michelle. 11 September, 2010 12 p.m.
Dear friends and family,
It has been a long week or so since my last post. While we are engaged in mundane life, nothing has in fact been mundane. All of the things we would have considered simple in the past now require a new routine and problem solving: getting a fork (only the one with the special large tube so Steve can grip it, please), how to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, how to wash hair, how to put on clothes, how to get out of bed, how to get someone’s help when you can’t get out of bed yourself to get them, when to put the boys to bed and also put Steve to bed on time (a whole routine in itself!). And then the not so normal details: where to keep the many medical paraphernalia where people can best find it, how best to manage the dreaded bowel programs, which and how much medicine to take, where to dispose of the needles after shots, when stretches can best fit in, what is the best physical therapy regimen, how to coordinate the various appointments and the driving, childcare, etc that we need to do to get there, what pool is warm and has a lift for the handicapped to get in, who might make a good caregiver and what to pay them, and so on and so on. While one day all of this will feel normal, right now it is new and requires effort.
There have been both tragic and hilarious moments. Twice now I have left Steve in bed and become so immersed in the clamor of children and the flood of questions and details requiring my attention that Steve has yelled and languished helplessly, unable to get help or attention, a dreadful feeling. On a more humorous note, I cannot seem to get wheelchair driving down. In trying to direct it across the room, I am a train wreck, and Steve laughs at my clumsy efforts. Hopefully no reflection on my car driving skills!
We have had tender moments of caregiving and moments of great frustration as Steve has to endlessly direct and request in order to do the smallest thing from taking a sip of water to turning over in bed. I am developing some strange skills: I can now put on pressure stockings with the speed and alacrity of any nurse, administer a shot without flinching and efficiently maneuver Steve’s body and numerous pillows for the frequent turns throughout the night and early morning.
Steve has a far higher learning curve. He must learn how to pay attention while trying to ignore the strange nerve sensations shooting through his body, or the odd feeling that he is sitting on a slab of ice. He must focus on how to curve his fingers around a fork, lean to the side without falling, lift a leg or a hip with all of his might in order to assist a caregiver. Psychologically he must fight discouragement when he cannot grip his hand to shake someone else’s or go to the bathroom or feel hot and cold in his body; he must learn to ask boldly for what he needs despite feeling like a burden; he must learn how to address the curiosity or discomfort or grief of others as they interact with his disability and his wheelchair. I am amazed at his sheer dedication to getting up every morning, despite the fact that that process alone can take one to four hours, depending on how thoroughly we want to prepare him for the day. But he rises, again and again.
Some of the highlights of our week have been the visit and help of our sister-in-law Laura, the increasingly more common sight of Steve practicing standing at the kitchen sink, Steve’s first therapy sessions with various therapists (everyone always does something new!), the boys blowing kisses from the school bus windows, happy to go to school, watching Zephyr’s delight as he zips around on his new scooter with Papa at his side, and, as always, various communications from all of you!
I have certainly been pushed to my outer limits this week. Zephyr has been sick, and I along with him. Because my body is tired, my patience is diminished and I feel my humanity and inability to do this alone. As Steve faces so many challenges, I feel my inability to make it better for him. While the details are slowly coming, and the long list slowly shortens, the details and unknowns remain many, and the list long enough. On many levels and in many areas, I simply cannot do this in my own strength. I am often reminded of an image I came across in a study I did with my Tuesday small group in Manila this past year. It is an image of faith. In it, a traveler comes to a deep chasm. It is dark. There appears to be a bridge, but due to the darkness, he or she can only see the first step. There is the other side, beckoning, but no sure route to get there. The traveler takes a step, not knowing how the rest of the bridge will look or how long it will take. Not knowing many things in the darkness. But knowing that a light beckons him or her onward. I know there is an “other side” and I know there is a light beckoning me onward, but I don’t know how I will get there, or what the next step looks like. I can only take the one step that I can see. The rest is up to God. And I trust Him.
My verse for today: “For while we are still in this tent we groan, being burdened – not that we would be unclothed, but that we would be further clothed, so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life. He who has prepared us for this very thing is God, who has given us the Spirit as a guarantee. So we are always of good courage. We know that while we are at home in the body we are away from the Lord for we walk by faith, not by sight. Yes, we are of good courage, and we would rather be away from the body and at home with the Lord. So whether we are away or at home, we make it our aim to please him.” 2Cor5:4-9.
Please continue to pray with me first and foremost that we would please him. Please also pray for Steve’s healing. While his legs gain strength, his shoulder ails him terribly and prevents much work on his arms. His fingers seem to stiffen and have not noticeably improved of late. His sensation remains highly compromised from the nipple line down. At the same time, there is progress, in balance, in leg strength, in skill, and in core strength. We do not know the next step across the chasm. On an entirely different note, seemingly insignificant but also realistically important, our house remains on the market. Please pray that it would sell, or that we would have wisdom in what to do with it.
We are, always and continually, deeply grateful for your prayers.
Love,
Michelle
A note from Kim… (Steve’s Sister)
My husband Greg and I spent last weekend in Seattle. It was great to see Steve, Michelle, the boys and to meet new friends like Heather, Sean and Annie. Greg and I arrived Friday and spent several hours at Harborview with Steve. I will always be grateful for that afternoon together sharing memories of the past few months, old times together and the possibilities of what lies ahead. Since time alone with Steve is such a rare commodity, Greg and I felt like we won the lottery. What a treasure that afternoon at Harborview has become.
Saturday arrived and Steve came home! What a miracle that was… His boys anxiously awaited and prepared for his arrival. Finally, their Papa would be home. For me, the mere realization of Steve and Michelle’s new life together began to unfold. A myriad of questions, decisions and uncertainty abound.
That being said, I know in time those questions will have answers, decisions will be made and a new normal will arrive. A new life together will be born! Michelle is an incredible woman, wife and mother to whom I will forever be grateful for everything she has done and continues to do for Steve and her family, for loving my brother unconditionally and in the most humbling of ways.
Thank you dear Michelle…Thank you!
Greg and I were so grateful to have been part of his homecoming this weekend. What a gift that was seeing my brother navigating around his new home with that infamous smile that everyone has come to recognize and love. A dinner of Thai food (Steve’s favorite) and a toast with close friends and family completed the evening. As Sean said so well…love was abound!
For me, leaving Seattle on Monday morning was extremely hard. As his only sister my heart aches in ways words will not express that so much distance lies between us. The plane ride home was spent in quiet and tearful meditation…for each tear shed a moment of gratitude laid before God for our time together along with a gentle request for the many needs of this family. That their new normal arrives sooner than later, and that this community of both friends and strangers continue to embrace and love and look after my brother, sister-in-law and family.
With love and hope from afar…
- Kim and Greg
