Kiss Your Miracle

Meeting up with my mom and sisters was definitely the highlight of my weekend. They stopped in Ocala for dinner on their way down to Sanibel Island for a week of sunshine with my aunt, uncle and cousins. They plan to stay at our house for a few days on their way home, but I was excited to see them now too, even though it was just for a quick hour at Panera.

I especially wanted to see my mom. Last Friday she took a horrible fall off her bike after her dog, Jack, got spooked by a squirrel and ran top speed into her front wheel (you can read the full story on her blog, Getting Through This). Though she managed to escape major damage, half of her face and her left eye are now an unnatural combination of red and purple. She’d told me over the phone she didn’t feel that bad, but I didn’t believe her since she rarely complains about anything.

When Sky first saw my mom yesterday she studied her carefully and then solemnly said, “Midgee owie,” several times before chattering away as usual. But I felt like crying. Why did this have to happen to my mom? Hasn’t she dealt with enough recently? My dad’s death was less than five months ago. It seems to me that my family doesn’t need another reminder that life is fragile.

But later that night when I said those very words to Adam, he responded, “You know, as hard as it is, I only benefit from being reminded of how fragile we are.” And as I thought about it, I realized he’s right. I would never welcome pain into my life or the lives of the people I love. But when I’m forced to acknowledge just how delicate we really are, it’s more difficult for me to take others for granted. I’m less casual with my words, more motivated to serve, and more willing to pay attention and listen carefully. Like Adam said, I benefit every time I’m reminded to be less self-centered.

I just wish I’d been reminded differently and that my mom didn’t have to suffer such an awful fall.

The other day I opened a package from my mom. In it I found my dad’s old cell phone. The service was cancelled several months ago after his death, but the SIM card and battery still work fine and my mom thought Sky would like to play with it. The first time I handed it to Sky she immediately turned it on and began chattering away, thrilled to have a “real” phone of her own.

For me, the phone stirred up a sudden rush of emotions. When Sky set it aside, I picked it up and held it for a long time, turning it over, looking at the scratches across the front. My dad used this phone to call me last year on September 22^nd. He and my mom were on their way home from the hospital, where they’d just learned of his terminal cancer.

A month later, I was in the car with them, heading home from another trip to the hospital for treatment. I’m not sure if the cancer was in his brain at that point or if the heavy pain meds were clouding his thoughts, but he was very confused by then. He could no longer make calls by himself, but he still wanted to use his phone. “I need to call Nelson,” he told my mom, who was driving. “Okay,” said my mom, pushing my brother’s name on the contact list and handing the phone back. When my dad got Nelson’s voice mail, he left a long, rambling message and then paused at the end. He stumbled over his words and then instead of saying goodbye, wrapped up with, “In Jesus’ name, Amen.” My mom’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror and we were suddenly both smiling. It was sweet to think that when dad was confused and couldn’t find the proper words, he defaulted to prayer.

Memories of the last two months of my dad’s life – both good and bad – and the reality that yes, he really is gone from this world forever crashed over me harder than they ever have and I started to cry. I cried so hard it seemed like the tears would never stop. Images of my father in the last days of his life are difficult to forget, and when I remember them I can’t help but wonder why he had to go through so much pain and then die. It’s still confusing to me.

The next morning I listened to a podcast by Francis Chan, who pointed out that we tend to think God owes us answers to the questions we have about life and pain and death. We like to imagine ourselves arriving in heaven and hearing God’s great explanation of suffering in the world. But Chan pointed out that God will not be the one on trial; it will be our judgment day. God is the Father and we are the children.

It made me think about Skylar. She fights me when I want to change her poopy diapers and it’s really annoying. I know she doesn’t understand right now that it’s better to be clean than dirty, and that being clean involves the process of being changed. I’ve explained it to her before, but her little brain isn’t able to understand just yet. I find myself saying to her, “Sky, just stop fighting and trust me on this one, okay? Hold still and let me change you.”

The day after my crying session this week, God reminded me that he is the Father and I am the child. There are things I will never understand during my life on earth. But instead of feeling frustrated at being put in my place, I actually felt relieved. My dad’s sudden and horrific death doesn’t make sense to me or probably to anyone in my family, and that’s okay. Living a life of faith means trusting God in the middle of our confusion, not intellectually working our way out of it. A child is under no pressure to have things all figured out and I’m grateful God doesn’t require that of me; He only asks me to come to Him.

Some women believe birth is a beautiful experience unlike anything else, and I would agree with that statement. But before birth comes labor. My Grandma Johnson used to say, “Labor is a trip to hell and back,” and though I might not have phrased it quite the way she did, I would agree with that statement as well. I can’t say there was much I enjoyed about the labor process. But here’s the thing: my entire labor – from 1cm to delivery – took just three hours. Three hours! How many women get to have that experience with an induction? Though I’d been hoping to go into labor on my own, God gave me the next best thing, and I have no disappointment over it whatsoever.

Yes, the labor was rough. I very quickly reached the point where no position or back rub or word of encouragement helped. I didn’t have time for an epidural. I remember telling Adam at one point, “I can’t do this. I can’t do this,” to which he replied, “You’re doing great.” During transition the pain felt crazy and out of control. But then, after ten minutes of pushing on my side, our son was born. And the birth – the birth! There is nothing I would change about that moment. The midwife placed our Micah Nathan on my chest and tears rolled down my face. I’ve never felt such an intense combination of relief and joy in my life. Sky’s birth was a bit traumatic and scary. I don’t really remember the first hour of her life. But Micah’s birth was just the opposite. I remember his cry, Adam’s face, even the happy chatter of the nurses as they weighed the baby and cleaned him up.

We are home now, and I’m grateful to be done with the pregnancy, the labor, and even our stay at the hospital (though I definitely miss those baby nurses at midnight!). I’m currently tired and overwhelmed. But underneath the exhaustion is a sense of awe at God’s hand of blessing on my family. At 4am this morning I was walking around our living room with a wide-awake Micah and my eyes settled on a picture of my parents. Adam and I both think this baby looks like my side of the family. I see my dad in his sweet little face. I don’t know why God took my dad to heaven when He did. Our grief is still sharp. But Micah Nathan is here now too, reminding us that when God allows pain, He offers comfort as well.

“I will comfort those who mourn, bringing words of praise to their lips” – Isaiah 57:18b-19a

For the past week my mind’s been on overdrive – first spinning with thoughts of Jill and her family and then with the earthquake in Haiti, on top of my preoccupation with my pregnancy and due date, which is now two weeks away.

The other night we were watching the news coverage in Haiti as a doctor interviewed a young woman sitting outside, holding a three month old. “What are you feeding your baby?” the doctor asked. “Sugar water,” she said flatly. The doctor then turned to the camera and said that a young baby who’s fed nothing but sugar water will eventually die of malnutrition. “But even if I had a can of formula,” the doctor continued, “I couldn’t give it to her because it would start a riot.” That mother isn’t the only one without food for her baby.

Of course, my eyes immediately filled with tears. I feel connected to that mom, who would probably sacrifice anything she had to give her baby what she needs. I’ve also been thinking about all the pregnant women in Haiti right now, some of them with the same due date as mine. What will happen when they go into labor? Will they have access to a midwife and a clean place to give birth? What if there are complications? And how many of these new babies will end up really sick? The questions are endless.

To be completely honest, I’m not sure specifically how to respond to the disaster in Haiti. It’s hard to get beyond the sadness of what’s happened. So today I’m praying for a simple thing: that God will give me the ability to have faith that He can bring good – miracles even – out of horrific circumstances.

On Monday afternoon, my cell phone rang. The caller ID said “Jilly” so I immediately answered it. But it wasn’t Jill. It was her husband James, and I could tell right away from the tone of his voice that he didn’t have good news. A minute later the words “Jill passed away last night” were pressing their way into my brain against my will.

Jill battled cancer for several years and had recently begun hospice care, but that doesn’t make saying goodbye to her any easier. She is leaving behind her husband and toddler son, her parents and sisters and their families, and countless friends. Even though we know the truth – that Jill is with Jesus in heaven, fully healed of her pain – it’s still sad to think we won’t get to make any more memories with her on earth.

All of us who knew Jill would probably agree that there is no one else like her. She loved God in a radical way that drew people to her. I met her in 1999 when I first went out to the Youth With a Mission (YWAM) base in Kona, Hawaii. She was my small group leader. I’d just graduated from a private Christian university and my life at that point was a confused mess of regret. I’d convinced myself during college that most Christians were hypocritical and judgmental, but I also knew that God was real. I hated that I felt so far from Him, but didn’t know how to find my way back. Then I got to know Jill, who loved God without a touch of cynicism. The way she talked about Him shocked me. Her faith was not about doing the right thing. She was motivated by an intimate, genuine love for Jesus, and that translated into a joyful life regardless of her circumstances. She helped me articulate the problems I had with God and work through them. She was in the water with me the day I was baptized in the Pacific Ocean, and I knew at that moment we’d be friends for life.

I know I can speak for many people when I say that our grief right now is overwhelming. At the same time, I don’t want all my attention to be on Jill’s death – not when she lived so fully for God each day. Thinking through my favorite Jill memories has been therapeutic for me this week, and I have to share some of them with you:

~ spilling my guts to her about all the stupid stuff I’d done, and the way she just sat there and listened for the longest time, and then prayed for me.

~ how excited she was for me when I joined the YWAM staff six months later.

~ watching her drive a stick-shift van on the left side of the road during rush hour in Auckland, New Zealand with no stress whatsoever.

~ making pancakes for breakfast on our “illegal” hot plate in Building 4.

~ our staff worship and prayer times together.

~ hanging out at the Kona Denny’s with Jess and Ad, hearing Jill explain that she wanted us to be her Assistant School Leaders (ASLs!) for the school she was about to lead.

~ sitting in a church in Thailand, listening to Jill tell the girls on my outreach team, “It’s good for you to go a long time without washing your hair. The grease is like conditioner.”

~ watching her completely flip out over James when they first got together. When he called to tell her he was coming to visit her in Kona, she actually leaped across the room and head-butted my leg.

~ her entire wedding week – getting to know her family (who treated me like another daughter from the day I met them), running around Missoula, and the way she had the reception set up outside even though the weatherman predicted thunderstorms. “I asked Jesus for clear skies,” she explained, and that’s exactly what she got. We all watched her dance to “butt-rock” that night beneath an orange sunset with the love of her life.

~ all the weekends Adam and I spent hanging out with her and James during our SBS in Montana, how we ate cereal from massive serving bowls, and the way she just smiled when I told her Adam and I would never be more than friends, and then smiled some more a few weeks later when I told her Adam and I were crazy in love with each other.

~ that she made my hair look incredible for my wedding, and liked her bridesmaid’s dress so much she actually wore it again.

~ how she and James couldn’t wait to move to Thailand to be missionaries.

~ walking around Miami with her when she had no hair from chemo, and the way she didn’t wear a wig. “I don’t really care if people stare at me,” she said.

~ the way we had one conversation about the things we didn’t like in the whole “Prayer of Jabez” phenomenon, and afterward sent a “Prayer of Jabez” coin back and forth to each other hidden inside birthday and Christmas gifts for years without ever talking about it.

~ when she and her friend Carla came to Ocala to see me at the end of my first pregnancy. I was overdue and miserable, but she made me laugh anyway, of course. We went out for Thai food and Jill had a full conversation in Thai with our server.

~ talking with her about our miracle babies.

~ sitting on the lawn outside her house this past summer, studying all the flowers in her garden that she was so proud of while William played nearby.

~ how she never waivered in her faith. During one of my last conversations with her, she said she’d never felt more strongly that God loved her.

I cried for a long time after I heard the news on Monday. Later that night after Sky was asleep, I was lying on the bed curled up next to Adam. My mega-sized belly was resting against his side and the baby was in high-energy mode, kicking and twisting and making us both laugh a little through our tears. “I can just picture him in there,” Adam said after a few minutes, “so comfortable all squished up in the dark, thinking he’s really living his life. But pretty soon he’ll be born. And that process will probably feel like death. But then he’ll open his eyes and he’ll know for the first time what it really means to be alive.”

It says in Revelation that when life on earth has ended, believers will be with Jesus in heaven, where there won’t be any pain or sadness or death, and where God will wipe away every tear in our eyes. My brain cannot fathom what that will be like. But I believe in that promise, that heaven is a real place, and that Jill is with her Savior right now. And I don’t think it’s possible to spend too much time dwelling on that fact today.