Liquid.

All is liquid- I sigh.

I reach, I grasp.  There is nothing to hold.  All is liquid.

I want to hold her- I surrender. 

I want to take hold of a solution- I surrender once more. [Read more...]

Liquid.

All is liquid- I sigh.

I reach, I grasp.  There is nothing to hold.  All is liquid. 

I want to hold her- I surrender. 

I want to take hold of a solution- I surrender once more.

I want to hold the parts that still hurt and throw them away, never to be seen again- the scary parts and the raw wanting.  Like a tumor, I want to see it, to extract it, to be set free from…earthly sorrow.

But all is liquid.  There is nothing to hold.  The tears come.  The flood waters rise.  I am lost in an ocean of liquid sorrow. I feel…small, harassed, unable.

I fall again for the millionth time into my bed overcome by the sloshing sadness. I utter something immature and weak and helpless. Something I judge. Something that certainly should not come from seven-year-old grief.  Have I not tamed you by now?     

I see the universe sprawled out in front of me, atmosphere like ocean waves.  I am tossed aimlessly it seems in the dark abyss.  A word rises from somewhere deep within- “buoyant.”  What is buoyant?

Spiraling, grasping, flailing- black waves coming and going.  I am frightened.

It comes again, “buoyant.” And then it all changes- the scene before me, within me.

I stop grasping for something to hold.  I stop flailing for a place to stand.  I stop harassing the child within and I begin…to float, to bounce.  All is liquid and I am, buoyant.

Rise, crest, crash-

under I go, disappearing for a moment.  And then…buoyant.

Liquid.

All is Liquid.

He reaches- He grasps-  

There is someone to hold- I surrender.

There is a solution- I surrender once more.

I am afloat in an ocean of liquid sorrow.  I am held by invisible arms in the flood waters that rise.

In letting go, I am found.  In giving up, I am held.  

All is liquid-

I float in February waters-

There is a promise, a solution to this grief problem.  It resonates from the holy book, from the holy indwelling, from the holy host. It echoes through history and from the balconies of heaven and from the inner most sanctuary:

“My power is made perfect in weakness.”

The words echo from when my sister spoke them two weeks ago and I just brushed them away- familiar manna…boring manna.  And so it drifted away- diamonds disguised as chaff in the wind.

Now these very words, this promise comes again and it hushes my self-judgment.  I rediscover weakness for what it really is- an invitation to the powerful presence of my Almighty Father.

A wave rises…I ache for my daughter. I go under. Then the thought comes- I am His daughter!  I emerge…I float.  A tiny me, crying, cradled by invisible arms in water strong.  One by one the words roll by, roll through, in each wave. They now come gently, rhythmically rocking me back and forth- words of promise that translate to a “hush, hush, hush” and I am calm. I float…

I am tumbled upon. I am thrashed about. I am taken under. I am buoyant.

Liquid.

All is liquid- I sigh.

Seven.

Time heals all wounds?

I am still very aware of my wound.  Seven years.  Lots of therapy.  Lots of Jesus.  There is still a wound.  I have learned how to care for it.  It is smaller than it once was.  It is not a scar.  It is a wound- it oozes. 

I miss Anna.  I ache for Anna.  Her sweet face burns my heart and mind and I ache for her.  I know where she is- there is hope!  I know who she is with- there is joy!  I am enraptured by the truths of her vitality, her completeness, her value and purpose.  There is joy.  There is hope.  There is a wound.

What do I say about grief after seven years?  What do I feel this February 2012 as I approach Anna’s seventh BIRTHday?  What title do I give these many feelings and thoughts bound together in a post?  Today the words that rise with the steam on this boiling pot of grief are, There is a Wound.

I chase my three tow-headed boys around the house who have just told me that the only Kelty family rule is to “Be Ticklish.” There is laughter.  There is fullness. There is a wound.

I watch my husband speak with gender gentleness to my sweet baby niece…pushing through pain for more healing.  There is new life.  There is new ground.  There is a wound.

Friends give the joyous news that a baby girl is growing within.  I rejoice.  I remember.  I surrender my longing for a daughter yet once again.  There is comfort.  There is hope.  There is a wound.

I beg the God of all comfort to hold Raegan as she rocks in the misery of 4 week old grief, wondering how she will survive the agony of intolerable ache.  I rock. I am impaled with empathy. I love.  There is a wound.

I am enveloped in the tender presence of God in the sorrow that remains.  He speaks into the pain. Words give birth to peace…to strength.  He wipes up the ooze.  There is a wound.

Is the goal to heal from the wound or is the goal to be ever aware of the wound- to come to the wounded healer- to minister from fresh doses of holy salve to the wound?  Will it ever be just a scar?  Do I want it, need it, to be a story of I once…or do I want it to be a story of… I am?  I love Jesus in the I am.  There is a Savior for the I am.   

Grace is absolutely sufficient.

There is a wound.

Seven.  

       

“Mama, I just know I’m gonna get what I really want for Christmas,” said John, smile to match his hope and longing.  I stared into the rear view mirror at him as he now turned to face the window using the blank canvas of the sky to imagine the secret scene, his smile growing.  “Please tell me” I said.  “Nope- I can’t.  Besides you can’t give it to me.” was his reply.   I was starting to feel nervous.   What was this mystery gift John longed for that I couldn’t provide?  “Oh,” I said.  “Is Santa going to bring it to you?”  “Nope- not Santa, not you, not daddy!”  Now we were parked in the driveway and I turned around in my seat to face him- John was making his way up to me.  “Well John, what in the world is it and who is going to give it to you?”  I was enthralled by his smile.  There was something about his delight that I couldn’t quite place- something unique that I’m not sure I had ever seen dazzle his face before.   “I can’t tell you what it is, but God is going to give it to me!”  At that, my heart swelled!  My sweet boy longed for a gift from God.  In a world saturated with plastic and shimmer and gadgets, a world drenched with enticement and dripping with price tags, my five-year-old wanted something not even target or amazon.com could provide.  In an instant I was overcome with a matched longing for my son to have whatever it was that he wanted.  I was determined to make it happen.  So I pleaded, “please tell mommy what you want Johnny.”  Looking into my eyes, the eyes we share, he stared at me with contemplation, like- should I spoil the surprise?  And then realizing that telling me would give me the same gift of anticipation, he said with a rare mix of certainty and tenderness, “Mama, God is going to give us Anna back- just for the day!”  At that, a sharp breath pierced my lungs, the impossible sentence finding its way in as well- stabbing my heart- stealing my next breath.  Ben bounded forward excitedly declaring- “Oh mommy, now we can hug her, I never got to hug her.”

There was nothing I could do to stop the wave that was coming, the one that was cascading upon me and would wash over my children as well.  I didn’t even try to reach for the fake smile I carry in my back pocket for moments such as these.   I watched helplessly as four little ocean blue eyes drained of their light, their joy, filling instead with the darkness of confusion and guilt.  I knew John feared he had done something terribly wrong.  I just grabbed them both, pulled them onto my lap and hoped that the tightness of my clutch temporarily spoke the tenacity of my love for them.

I was speechless- one sentence robbing me and yet giving me so much all at once.  It was as if John had traveled down to the deepest part of my heart scooping up the remains of my pain- packaging my longing for Anna in child like faith. Now it was time to break the silence with the bad news- Merry Christmas John, let me burst your bubble of hope, of pure golden faith with the permanent needle of death.  We walked inside and the first words I could muster as I pierced his inquisitive and fearful eyes with my own were “Johnny you know that this cannot happen, right?”  I wonder now if this was the worst thing I could have said and yet I didn’t feel I could allow one more second for a wish that would not be fulfilled.  He just looked at me, put his hand on my shoulder and said, “I know mama” patting me with his tiny hand.   He stared deeper at me than he ever had before, somehow cutting to the source of my pain, smoothing a fresh layer of tenderness on my gaping Anna wound.  How did this little boy have such a grown up soul, I wondered? Faith, tenderness, compassion- he possessed it all.

I sat in the middle of the kitchen floor, holding onto John, staring, waiting for something godly to emerge.   I felt sorry for myself and sorry for my children.   I begged God to give me holy words for them. I was feeling unimpressed by all the truths I usually rehearse in moments such as these- numb to well worn treasures.  I managed to muster “We do not grieve as those who have no hope” and explained that one day they will in fact get to be with their sister.  That answer seemed to satisfy.  But for this, tired of grieving mama, the whole conversation felt like a cold bucket of water on my warm Christmassy heart. I began to feel sad, deeply sad- or maybe worse than sad…deprived. 

The next day my mom urged me to get over to see my sweet 96 year old Pop, bedridden- his body slowly submerging under the rising flood of cancer. At the end of singing Amazing Grace to my dear sweet granddaddy, I held his face, professed my love and pressed three lingering kisses to his cheek.  My ears then took in his sputtering words “I love you dd…dear” and we both knew we had potentially just said good-bye.

That night, as the kids were occupied by Charlie Brown Christmas, I slipped away into my living room admiring the steely grey blue walls, fire place adorned with four stockings, Anna’s name embroidered on the first.  I then flipped off the light so as to physically embark into the dark room which my spirit had already entered in my soul.  It was time to grieve.  The heaving began, the doom rising, the memories coming back at a frightening speed.  The need to feel her, touch her, hold her and kiss her was, in a word, furious.  Chris, sensing me, came and sat in our darkness.  I know it was a choice for him- love me or resist the flood himself.  I am so grateful he always chooses me.  “I should have held her just one more hour” I lamented, collapsing into his arms. I expressed the agony of lost time as if speaking it out loud might somehow lead to problem solving…might lead to an answer.   Instead I opened a floodgate to more helpless grief and the torture of regret.  After a brief contemplative silence, Chris issued a one liner (as he always does) that spoke paragraphs more of love and wisdom.  “It wouldn’t have mattered sweets.”   He was right, it wouldn’t have mattered if eleven hours became twelve- because every hour after would have been the same.  

Chris left the room, left me to myself and I knew what was to happen next.   It is the calling on Jesus moment- the one where you can choose to continue spiraling down the never ending pit of grief and regret or, call on the rescuer.  I’m not sure why, but there is always a temptation to stay in the misery.  In a strange way, the pain belongs to me and being separate from it feels wrong too.  But I know this is not a way I can live.  Time as well as the alternate route has proven that to me.   And so in a moment of grievous vulnerability I muster the courage and simply say, “Jesus, Jesus, bear my burden.”  The low hum begins, its vibration somehow entering my dark place- peace infiltrating.  The hum grows to a song and that song to a symphony and I am awakened once again- awakened to the Everything and the Only that is Jesus.  He brings the light and all at once my dark room is infiltrated by His good presence.

Now in the light I can see, it really is Christmas.  The tree is here in my room that just moments before was black with pain.  Yes the tree is here- looking very much like a cross and the gift giver did in fact come.  And in one glorious moment it all becomes clear to me- John’s precious declaration that Anna would be coming which led me into the dark room, was really God’s way of inviting me to Christmas morning.   The gifts I was receiving from Him were in fact gifts that cannot be opened anywhere but in the grief room.  “Blessed are those who mourn for they shall be comforted.”  I felt suddenly grateful that John had asked me the question that led me to this room.  For in life and in death there is no greater experience than to behold the tenderness of God- the comfort of the one who loves deeper, higher, stronger and wider, than my worst and most painful hour.  And so it is true- to be comforted is to be blessed.  That awful and woeful sense that I was deprived, was supernaturally replaced but an overwhelming realization that I was in fact, abundantly provided for.    

Last night, Christmas Eve, I watched as John traced his finger into the frosted glass of the storm door.  As he stepped back to look at his masterpiece, one word lassoed my heart- Anna.  Under it he etched John, Ben and Elijah Kelty and stepped back with a delighted and satisfied smile.  It gave me an idea-  

This morning our children were given their sister for Christmas. It was only her name, written on a piece of paper- a voucher if you will.  What followed was an explanation that in missing Anna the best thing we can do is to get to know her home and the One she spends her life with.  I explained that her name on this paper, much like a gift card, holds a great deal of value, even though the gift is not yet revealed- that just like we take our gift card to the store to get what we really want, one day we will enter heaven and cash in her name for the real thing!

    

Anna has generated within the spirits of our boys a longing for which I can honestly say (on my enlightened days) makes me grateful.  They find themselves aching for more and I know that that more also has a name…

Jesus

wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger, Jesus. 

Emmanuel, God with us- in the dark, dark rooms of life that leave us begging, panting and pleading for rest, for help, for hope.  He is the Savior of our sorrow and the One who will one day wipe away each tear and take us to the land of no more death, dying, mourning, grieving or pain.

Oh come let us adore Him!  

This post has been brewing for a while.  So much has happened in the life of our family over the past few months.   But where to begin…how to explain…how about a story:

Eight months pregnant with Elijah and grieving the sudden death of my 23-year-old brother in law last March, desperation ushered this prayer from my lips, “Lord where are we?”  The question was more of a lost puppy request than a geographical inquiry.  I wanted to know where we were in this suddenly dark space that felt so scary and consuming.  “Where are we Lord?”  Weary in grief and fear, I prayed, hoping His light may shine into the night illuminating something for which to hope.   

I sat in silence, comfortably aware of His gentle presence, knowing my question would prompt a tender reply.  And then, as often happens to this visual learner, the eyes of my heart were opened:

I found myself sitting on a rustic wooden bench on the side of a mountain.  I appeared to be in one of those outdoor chapels tucked away at church camps and retreats.  I sat alone on the earthen pew hugging my big, pregnant belly, staring at a frozen scene of wintery wilderness.  I looked around wondering how I got here and what the significance of this space was, when Jesus appeared before me.  Grateful for His companionship and eager for His guidance, I heard myself ask again, “Where are we Jesus?”

He smiled, that warm, kind smile that always seems to shock and melt me.   He came and stood beside me.  He bent down and placed one arm around my shoulders and pointed into the distance with the other. I followed His direction, peeking through a line of naked, grey trees to behold a scene that took my breath away.  It was a summer landscape, complete with mountain, valley, farmland, a couple country houses and a few silos.  I stared at the lush scene, as if studying a painting on a gallery wall, wishing I could somehow escape into its warmth.  Answering my silent longing, Jesus whispered to me, “Everything is made beautiful in its time.”  And just as abruptly as the image appeared, it left.  My mind was once again dark, but hope was burning like a candle, giving me just enough visibility and courage to endure the days and months ahead.  I knew that even though we once again found ourselves sitting in the darkness of sudden death…God would make everything beautiful in its time.

Fast forward 6 months…

We bought a house in August motivated by the need for space.  We found a 4 bedroom, neglected foreclosure in need of some TLC. The space and cul-de-sac location nestled out in mennonite country felt like the perfect spot for three little boys to roam and grow.  Transitioning one child into kindergarten, one into preschool and the youngest into a good sleep pattern was exhausting.  I was trying my hardest to be a good and present mother and wife, an efficient and effective project manager, a faithful and compassionate friend, all while tending to a demanding house project.  I was overwhelmed.  I began to feel paralyzed by the weight of responsibility, empathy and helplessness.  I knew I could either begin crying or walk out the front door and start running…so run I did.

As I made it to the end of our street, I looked to my right at the gravel road which cut straight through the corn fields that back up to our tiny, 18 home neighborhood.  My curiosity overcame me and I headed for the corn.  Down the path, around the bend, past two old farmhouses and all of a sudden, I turned to my right to discover a pasture filled with horses.   Countless white blossoms were gently gliding through the air adding to the white blanket already on the ground.  It looked like a magical rain shower.  Was this really happening?  Was I dreaming?  I had never seen anything so ethereal…and all this at the end of my street? I was walking now, slowly, taking in my surroundings with wonder and awe.  The path continued and I realized I was climbing a mountain.  Suddenly I felt cozy, nature wrapping me up on all sides- even the sky was a green canopy.  My stress was far gone by now. I noticed ahead a break in the trees and I determined to stop for a contemplative breather.  I knew that this was one of those moments that was going to change me.  No hour long conversation with my sister or a pep talk was needed this time.  This silent encounter with the world was somehow transforming me and the way I thought about my life.  As I turned to look out over the mountain, I gasped.  I found myself staring once again, into the summer landscape which had revived us so many times over the past 6 months- the very same scene I had seen in my vision from Jesus months before.  The landscapes were exactly the same. Tears filled my eyes, I slumped to the ground and began crying and laughing all at the same time.  I fully absorbed the moment and then I uttered aloud, “Everything is made beautiful in its time.”

God knew what He planned for me, for us.  God knew that a new season would follow the dark winter that made us feel like we could not, would not, make it.  He knew every single way He planned on providing for us and blessing us.  He gave me a glimpse and now that glimpse is a reality.  

This scripture nestled in the book of Ecclesiastes is my new answer for everything.  God makes everything beautiful in its time.  The seasons always change.  The leaves always blossom again.  That said, there will always be winters for which I cannot control.  I can either fear its coming, or hope in the One who promises to be with me in the cold, leading me always to new places of warmth and beauty.

Six months ago my college best friend learned that her sweet baby Theo has leukemia.  She has been living on the side of the mountain, in the cold, dark forest of cancer ever since.  I can see Jesus with His arm wrapped around her shoulder pointing out into the distance, and He says, “Raegan, everything is made beautiful in its time.”  I see my mother and father-in-law still grieving, deeply, for their youngest son.  They too are on the side of the cold, dark, mountain.  And I can see Jesus clutching them both as He reaches out His nail scarred hands and whispers, “Everything is made beautiful in its time.”  I can see my dear friend who has just lived through the 4th anniversary of the loss of her twin baby boys, while on bed-rest with her fourth child.  He softly, gently, speaks to her, “Everything is made beautiful in its time.”  I can see my friend who has endured the pain of divorce and a marriage that was never the way God intended marriage to be for His daughters, and I can hear Him say to her, “Everything is made beautiful in its time.”

Last week, I decided to take John on a date to my mountain spot.  I told Him that when we got to the top of the mountain that mommy wanted to share a story with him.  We sat down in the small break of trees and looked out over the valley before us.  We saw our house down below and I proceeded to tell John the story of how God had shown me this very spot while praying one day, months before I ever climbed the mountain.  We talked about the hard things he has already dealt with in his little life and we talked about how God is never without a plan to restore us- that even when life feels hard, we can always count on summer to come again.  We then “marked the moment”- a trick my sister and I always used to make sure we would never forget our sacred moments together- and we headed back down the mountain. 

As I watched John walking down in front of me, his blond hair aglow in the autumn sun, I cautioned, “careful Johnny, I don’t want you to fall.”  Suddenly, my worry of him tripping on a rock and skinning a knee, was replaced by much greater fears.  I was instantly weak at thought, what pain is before him?  I was overcome with panic until I envisioned a blond haired man sitting on the side of a cold, dark mountain with Jesus by his side, pointing into the distance, whispering into his ear.

    

John Kelty will undoubtedly see hard days in is lifetime.  At some point he will find himself, just as his mama has, asking God in desperation, “Where am I?”  And there is no doubt in my mind that the same God who has held my hand and walked me from season to season, will do the same for John.

As my granddaddy Sloop neared his final moments on earth, he lay with with my mother’s parents on either side of him.  He hadn’t spoken or eaten in days.  Suddenly, he sat up in his bed and with eyes wide open and a face full of wonder, he declared loudly, “Beautiful!” Then he lay back down, and breathed his last.

 

“There is a time and a season for every activity under the heavens: A time to be born and a time to die. A time to weep and a time to laugh.  A time to mourn and a time to dance…God has made everything beautiful in its time and God has set eternity in the hearts of men.”  Ecclesiastes 3: 1,2,4,7

Ultimately this passage teaches us that spring will always come after winter- that in God’s timing, He makes everything beautiful again and that sometimes that beautiful is the fulfillment of the eternity that is embedded in our hearts.

My life has seen many seasons.  I have shivered in the cold of winter and danced in the breeze of spring.  I know from experience that each dark season will always be followed by new life, new joys and new experiences of God’s love.  However, there is a room in my heart which always feels like winter.  I don’t know that living without my Anna will ever feel okay.  And for this frozen place, I proclaim Granddaddy’s prophecy…Beautiful!   Just like Jesus pointed out the landscape where I now live, I know that the snapshot of eternity dwelling within me is a foreshadowing of what is to come.

As we navigate through the good and the bad of life, the light and dark, the dreary and the beautiful…ultimately we know that in Christ, beauty unlike anything we have ever laid eyes on before is waiting for us.  It is effortless for me to imagine Anna running toward me in a summer landscape for which I have been invited to enter…one day!

The list of those I presently agonize for is a long one.  Cancer, grief, pregnancy after loss, divorce, oppression- for each of these loved ones, I find myself crawling to the foot of the cross, beseeching God for for His powerful and perfect presence to swallow up the darkness by His Light.  And that this Light would make room for the hope and courage to face another day, knowing that everything is made beautiful in its time.