Perspective Shift

I was thinking of all the other things going on in our lives that aren't centered around Samuel. Libby had lost her first tooth and now has a second wiggly tooth. I just got a haircut last week. I will try and post pictures soon. Michael is walking- full on walking... no holding hands or furniture... it's a sight to behold.

It's funny how your perspective shifts with something like this recent event in our life. Prior (b.c.-before cancer) I was striving so hard to get Samuel potty-trained and was so excited that we had arrived. And then I was upset by the set-back of it. And now I'm thrilled that he's wetting his diapers. Because of what it means. It's funny how perspective does that.

I used to be upset or be worried about things that don't even phase me anymore. The things that truly matter get brought to center stage and everything else gets pushed into the wings.

Even when you get enough sleep you still don't feel well-rested. Most nights I feel like I'm doing spiritual battle when I sleep. Last night (in my dream) I was pleading the blood of Jesus over me and was quoting Scripture. In my dream I was doing face-to-face battle with Satan. The temptations felt so real. It's interesting what comes out of us when we're sleeping.

I look around me and see things that need to be done, fixed, finished, accomplished, called, sent, e-mailed, faxed, etc. And yeah, I need to do those things... but sometimes they just don't matter much. Not when you have a very sick child in the hospital. Not when you're begging and pleading with God to have mercy and heal your son. Not when your world feels like it's spinning out of control. Indeed, those dishes can wait. The laundry can be put away later.

But other things take immediate priority. Every time Libby wants to pray, I stop what we're doing to pray. (We prayed for her hiccups on 4 occasions today. Every chance to steal a snuggle, hug, kiss I take it. Every opportunity I have to tell my kids I love them and how proud of them I am, I say it.

I'm tired, exhausted, bone-weary, emotionally drained, physically emptied, spiritually worn but there's this sweet grace that sustains. In those moments where I don't feel like I can handle one more thing... something is lifted from me. A problem is solved in an unexpected way. A friend treats me to tea and sympathy. I receive an encouraging card from someone I haven't seen in years. Or God Himself just takes my hands and gives it a firm squeeze and reminds me that I'm not alone.

The days are long. They stretch out endlessly into the distance. But when I turn back to look at them I see them as wispy shadows. The days are blurring and running into one another. I don't know which way is up at times. I don't know what I'm doing half the time. I just sort of know the next step. the next thing in front of me. The next task. The next appointment. The next visit.

This ripping myself and throwing myself between the kids is rough. I feel like I'm at the hospital and get to see Samuel but don't see the other kids... or I'm at home and with the kids but don't see Samuel. I'm pulled in so many directions.

And all the responsibilities and pressures of real life are there. The bills are waiting to be paid. The paperwork waiting to be filled. The medical appointments needing to be made and then kept. The therapy that needs to be practiced. The groceries to be bought. The errands to be run. And trying to manage a home renovation in the midst. Painting and planning and new flooring. Black out drapes or black out blinds? A new ceiling fan. Re-staining some bunk beds. Purchasing twin mattresses. Redoing the living room. Trying to remove all mold and dust. Trying to get things as germ-free as possible.

And then little ones who need to be told they're loved. Who will be given milk when they ask. Who will be changed when they have "Stinky Bipers!" Who are hugged and cuddled and wrestled and affirmed. Who get new shoes when they've outgrown their old ones. Who need songs sung to them and books read to them. Who want to know you're still there and present in their life and love them more than words can say.

And a husband who needs affection and encouragement and strength and hope in the midst of living in a hospital... where you feel beat down and dreary as you watch Samuel in pain. You see the pounds melt off his body. You see the hair fall out. You look at him and see a cancer patient. But stop, that's Samuel. That's not just some other stranger... that's our baby.

Trying to find ways to relieve Mike's stress and give him breaks... and bring him coffee... and lunch or dinner. Or stand by his side when we try not to cry as we stare at our son. We hold our breath when his temperature is taken. Fever up or down? His oxygen levels looking low... he needs a blow-by to get his oxygen saturation up. Samuel's uncomfortable. Push the morphine button. He wants to watch a movie. He wants you to hold his hand or his arm. He wants you to never leave. His eyes plead with you when you go out the door, "please don't go" they say in flashing green.

And sometimes you feel like you're stumbling forward. Moving through the motions. Taking a deep breath and exhaling only to repeat the same deep breath and exhale. You worry about all the gaps that are happening in your life and asking God to take care of each precious need and child. To fill the lack. To be more than enough to all of us.

Maybe as we empty of ourselves we will be filled with more of Him. Maybe we're creating room for Him to work. For His glory and purposes to shine. We're stripped of all, and there is nothing of ourselves left and instead we are putting on Him. Maybe this is what He wants... to be revealed in weak, broken, humbled people. We have nothing proud to offer of our own accord. But we have Him. And He is enough. He is sufficient. So we hold onto Him which is really Him holding us and promising to not let us go. Him and his tender mercies and compassions that are new every morning. Him and His steadfast love that never ceases, never comes to an end.

So even when I'm messed up or tired or crying or wishing I could cry He's there. He sustains. His presence is a promise. Jesus is nearer than ever. And even though I am afraid. Afraid I won't be strong enough, brave enough, kind enough, good enough, I rest in the comfort that it's not me... it's not what I'm doing. He's done it. I rest and trust in Him. And I ask Him to be faithful and finish this good work He's begun in me...