At Home...Where it Hurts

In my mid-20s, I was part of a small Bible study group which was, truth be told, probably more of a 'find your spouse' study group than anything else.  We had a lot of fun and spent ridiculous amounts of time together as a group.  Church functions, discovering new restaurants, pool parties, bowling, Christmas decorating, weekend trips, shopping, football, Spades tournaments that lasted for days, New Year's eve parties, and more than a few late night races between those of us who had fast cars (and yes, I was one of them). One particular weekend, very late on a Saturday night, we were exploring how we felt about the serious topic of life.  Everyone had to write on a piece of paper one word to describe how they felt about death. We scribbled on our papers and folded them up, laid them in a basket, and one person began reading all the words out loud.  "Scared", "dark", "alone", "final", and "trapped" were just a few of the sentiments.  Then our self-imposed leader read mine: "peace". 

Now don't get me wrong: I love being alive and want to squeeze every moment I have out of it. A friend said to me recently (in her elegant, slow Southern drawl), "Dawn, I hope when you reach the end of your life, there's no more dance left in you."  Her simple statement hit me deeply as someone who has faced a terminal illness and, praise God, lived to tell about it. I truly don't have a death wish. But as far back as I can remember, I've never been afraid of it.  Death has always seemed to me a warm blanket of rest. And letting go. And peace.

For the past several years, I've had the wonderful privilege to be part of a volunteer ministry at my church whose primary focus is caring for families as they navigate the dark waters of a loved one's terminal illness.  As one of the leaders, I am often the first point of contact for a family after they have been advised by their doctor that it's time to 'call in hospice'. Our small band of volunteers serve as a sort of liaison between the family and hospice care. Many of them have never heard of hospice and don't fully understand what it is, so we help them understand the language of 'end of life' care.  We also help with the daily tasks of life: housecleaning, yard maintenance, preparing meals, laundry, grocery shopping, and day-to-day errands, so that family members are able to focus on caring for their loved one.

There is no time or energy for hiding behind masks here. Grieving before a loved one draws their last breath takes on many faces, and we have learned that no one has the right to dictate how another walks down the path to good-bye. Sometimes they need to laugh so they don't fall apart.  Sometimes they need to vent - and there are no rules about language here. Sometimes they need to weep. Bitterly. Sometimes they need to ask questions and try to answer what is destined to remain unknown.  Sometimes they need to sit and embrace the silence. But they don't want to be silent by themselves. There is an unspoken comfort that comes from simply having a warm body close enough to reach out and touch. Even if they don't

People often ask why we do what we do - especially when they hear about us for the first time.  "You mean you go into a stranger's house and clean their toilets?" Yes.  "Why on earth would you practically move in with someone who's dying?" Because they need us.  "Wow - you guys are weird."  The families we care for would disagree.  There are many answers, and we all respond in our own way. But for me, the answer is two-fold: meeting people at the point of their need is what Jesus does. Not to over-spiritualize or set ourselves up on some kind of pedestal, but for me it is truly that simple. However, a very strong secondary driving force, and probably what drew me to this in the first place, is that I feel very much at home with people who are broken.  Whether they are broken because of their own choices or choices that were made for them or choices that were forced on them, I am drawn to them.

After being unemployed for almost a year (three days shy of one year to be exact) I've been incredibly blessed to begin working with an organization whose focus is providing a safe haven for ministers and their families in crisis. It is a comprehensive, intense program (on average from 12-15 months in duration) which offers relocation, housing, counseling, and childcare when necessary in an effort to provide healing and restoration to ministers and their families who have had to walk away from their calling - as a result of their own actions, or the actions of their home church.  I was initially thrilled about this opportunity because it meant I would be writing - and getting paid for it!  But it didn't take long for me to realize that once again, I'm submerged in an environment where people's lives have been shattered.  Men questioning their failures. Women questioning their marriage. Children questioning their future. 

The vast majority of the time, I will not personally interact with these families. Most of them I will probably never even meet.  But what we are doing is helping them put their lives back together. The 'safe haven' we provide is guiding them to an honest and authentic relationship with God, themselves, their families, and their church. It is a painful process. Peeling back years of unresolved or unexplored issues to face the core of their own souls.  And then to slowly, gently provide the balm of restoration. To help them stand again, scarred from the battle, but equipped with tools to win the war. I can't say I love my job because it doesn't feel like a job. I love what I am a part of. I love knowing that families have a place for hope.

And I feel very much at home.

Lessons on Lesser Things

I love music.  With the exception of rap and jazz, I love every kind of music from 70's rock to classical and everything in between.  Music moves me emotionally (soundtrack, Somewhere in Time), spiritually (Ginny Owens, If You Want Me To), and at times physically (Blackfoot's Train, Train, or Kirk Franklin's Stomp).  This morning was different - I got all three in one song.  Driving home from an appointment with a new eye doctor in one of those rare instances when no one was in the car with me, I was actually listening to my station of choice on the radio.  The song started playing and immediately caught my attention because it opened with a piano solo.  A bit of a haunting melody, I turned up the volume.  And then she started singing.  The first few words grabbed me and I turned up the volume again.  By the time I she reached the chorus I had pulled over on the side of the road and stopped the car. 

I've been hearing a lot about burdens lately.  The cares of this world.  Trials. Storms. Thorns. In general, the stuff of life that pulls us down. Talk to your friends, ask your neighbors, strike up a conversation with a total stranger, everyone is struggling with something. And for all of our "don't get too close; don't ask me to open up" masks and barriers, most people are quick to share the weight of their heart.  Bad times have a way of leveling the playing field.  We all feel a kindred-ness of spirit.  My pastor has been dealing with this subject a good bit lately.  Even our old (very old) friend Job, from the oldest book in the Bible, suffered the unimaginable loss of his property, his crops, and tragically, his children.  His initial reaction was shock and grief, but unbelievably tempered with insight and understanding.  Job 2:10 records these words which Job spoke to his wife, "...shall we accept good from God, but not trouble?"

It's hard accepting trouble.  We are born into this world naked, cold, and screaming.  Someone clothes us, cuddles us, and speaks tenderly to us. And we are calmed.  Expectation established.  In those very early moments of our lives, we somehow develop the belief system that trouble should never darken our door.  Heartache should never touch our family.  Disappointment and frustration should never furrow our brow. But we know, we know, trouble is never far away.  Someone once said that we are either coming out of a valley, in the middle of a valley, or heading into one.  I personally feel like I've been in a valley for quite some time.  Not of anyone's doing or not doing, simply the stuff of life.  Which is why the song I was listening to on the radio hit me right between my frustrated mind and disappointed heart.

The song gave me perspective.  Helped me shake off my self-imposed assumption that I'm being ignored by God.  Even spanked me firmly on my seat of self-pity.  What if, as the song says, God loves us too much to give us the lesser things?  For you, wherever life has brought you this day, in this moment, stop.  Listen to the music and words of this beautifully simple, deeply profound work of art. 

 Blessings.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1CSVqHcdhXQ

It's the Speed Bumps

I have a dear friend whose husband is undergoing a stem cell transplant this very day to fight a rare form of cancer his doctors discovered a few months ago.  Turns out, because he is a diabetic, there is a specific protein used as a marker at his checkups.  A spike in that protein marker was the red flag that alerted his medical team to do more testing, thus finding the cancer.  His prognosis is good, very good in fact.  As I shared coffee and a bit of an emotional visit with his wife recently, she said almost in passing, "for all the hassle of [her husband] being a diabetic, it may very well be what saves his life."

When I was diagnosed with cancer almost ten years ago, our midwife found a lump in my breast at my 8-week "well baby" check.  I wasn't scheduled to have a mammogram for several months and there was no reason the midwife should have examined my breasts that day.  But she did.  They could very well have shrugged it off as hormones related to the pregnancy.  But they didn't.  And the pregnancy with my third child  may very well be what saved my life.

After my first surgery - a lumpectomy - I developed an infection at the surgery site.  Our doctor was dumbfounded as it was extremely rare for an infection to occur with what he referred to as a 'clean' surgery.  I was on antibiotics for ten days before we could schedule the next surgery.  Because of the Christmas holiday and a skeleton crew in the lab, there was a delay getting the results.  This caused a delay scheduling the third surgery, a mastectomy.  At the time, we were frustrated with the multiple surgeries which delayed the start of chemotherapy.  After my chemo treatments ended we had a very narrow window in which to deliver Stephen before I began radiation.  The last week before he was born Stephen gained enough weight to avoid going to the NICU.  If there had been only one surgery on the front end, I would have started chemo several weeks earlier.  Stephen would have been born several weeks earlier, meaning he would most certainly have had days or even weeks in the NICU.

We all have had experiences similar to this.  Maybe not cancer, or diabetes, but what about the time you walked to your car and realized you had left something you needed in the house?  You took those few seconds or even a minute to go back inside.  And as you were driving you came upon a horrible accident, one that you could very well have been involved in had you left on time.  Little things like a forgotten item, big things like cancer or diabetes, every day, seemingly insignificant, sometimes frightening or frustrating.  May I encourage you to be mindful of today - and even thankful for - the speed bumps?

But Do You Like Me?

I remember well the Saturday night that my now-husband and I were sitting on the sofa watching a football game on TV.  It was a college game and we are both huge fans of the SEC (read: shameless plug for UGA).  During a commercial break, he kissed me on the back of the head and said, "I love you."  Without missing a beat, I turned to face him and asked - very seriously - "yes I know, but do you like me?"  Cue the crickets chirping.  Long, very long, ear splitting silence.  He looked at me like I had asked him for the secret to nuclear fission. 

What he heard was a question that he didn't have a clue how to answer.  If he answered 'yes' surely more questions would follow.  If he answered 'no', it was a safe bet he wasn't going to see the 4th quarter of the game.  What I wanted to know was simple: if you didn't love me, would you still like me?  In other words, if you met me at a social gathering or knew me as a co-worker, would you like me as a person?  Would I be counted among your circle of friends?

It has become a joke over the years and he always laughs it off with an "I will never understand the mind of a woman" shrug of his shoulders.  But I've heard this question played out in movies, sitcoms, and my daughter's 6th-grade circle of cheerleaders and softball players.  It seems to me that the female mind needs assurance that, in fact, we are not just loved but liked.  Love is one of those once-you're-committed-you-can't-go-back-on-it concepts.  Like on the other hand is the epitome of choice.  As in, I like to be with you, you make me relaxed and happy and comfortable and if I talk your ear off or we sit together in complete silence, it's all good.  I want you to be one of the first people on my invite list because I know whatever I'm doing will be more fun if you're part of it.

I think what I was really looking for that evening was the assurance that after we married and the proverbial honeymoon was over, would he still be glad he was with me? When the inevitable disagreements came and the bills piled up and there was no time for dating because the kids had baseball and dance and school projects, could we still be on the same team?  At the end of the day, if we couldn't be 'lovey-dovey', could we still be friends?

I'm happy to say that after almost 17 years of marriage I think, at least on most days, my husband likes me.  He may never understand my question - it may never make sense to anyone that plays host to the male mind.  But to me and every other woman I know, from my 5-year-old niece to my 96-year-old grandmother, I believe some of the most heartwarming and comforting words we ever hear are, "I like you.  And I choose to have you in my life."

I think it's safe to say that deep down he's glad I like him, too.