Eva

As she lay propped up in her hospital bed, I could still see her.  The voice that so often said exactly what was on her mind without filter or reserve couldn't escape her lips, but it was still clear that she was certainly not an empty shell.  As the doctors talked about her and moved her, the familiar look of disgusted and obstinate indignation flashed across her face, creased by the passage of 83 years along with the many storms she had already faced in her life. 

She knew the pain of losing a husband - both to death and to divorce.  The agony of losing a child, both infant and adult, was no stranger to her.  She had experienced the pressure of financial struggle as she raised seven children largely on her own.  The fear that comes with having to start over from scratch on a path in life that wasn't necessarily chosen was familiar to her.  Hospital visits became commonplace as she faced physical struggle upon struggle, including back surgery, knee surgery, and multiple strokes. 

That last stroke was the reason she was all but immobilized in this infernal place.  She never was very fond of hospitals or doctors.  Her trials in life had made her strong and tenacious, but she was still only human.  She had always been a stubbornly independent woman who knew her own mind, but now she could no longer expressly communicate it.  The turmoil of such a paradox was evident in her eyes.

But as soon as her gaze drifted from her unwelcome care providers to one of her children or grandchildren, her expression transformed.  She'd smile and reach as best she could for her loved ones.  For just a few moments, she'd find some bit of relief.  She wasn't alone. 

Though she wouldn't really admit it, my grandmother hated being alone.  Everyone in the family knew that if she called once, two more calls would soon follow.  She would ask how to spell a word, whether or not we knew the last name of some acquaintance from long ago, or if we knew where another family member was at.  My mom often said she thought that Grandma just wanted a reason to call.  She loved her family.

She was a skilled woman in so many areas.  When she had more of her physical strength, her yard was always lined with well-tended, beautiful flowers.  Many years ago, she decorated cakes like a pro.  I've been told there was a time when she was also good at working on her own car.  Being a single mother for many years made her resourceful and competent in areas she may not have been otherwise.  Several of her children and grandchildren have intricate doilies, dishrags, hanging kitchen towels, and/or blankets in their homes that she had crocheted or knitted for them.  My own home is filled with those little reminders, including a beautiful Native American doll she gave me that wears a wedding dress that she made.  She was precise in her work, which resulted in high quality creations.  Her homemade dinner rolls were long anticipated and greatly coveted each Thanksgiving.  Several other family members have learned the recipe, but somehow it's just never quite the same as when Grandma made them.  She beamed with pride and was delighted when her kids and grand-kids appreciated and enjoyed her work. 

I saw the same look of pride when I would show her a crocheted blanket that I was working on or a wedding cake that I had baked and decorated.  She was thrilled that some of her children and grandchildren learned her recipe for dinner rolls.  Passing her skills along and seeing them continue for generations brought her great joy. 

Sitting in that hospital room, I thought of how grateful I was to have had my Grandma in my life; I know not everyone has that opportunity.  In my mind, memories pushed their way to the surface through the fog of the reality that was before me. 

When I was very young, I was in Estes Park with her, and she bought me a panda bear Beanie Baby that I adored.

In the years that followed, I remember playing with my cousins and celebrating many holidays at her house. I would jump on her trampoline with Cassidy and go on Spider-Man missions in her loft with Chris using the Battleship game boards as our computers. With Cody, Andy, Bryson, or my brother, I played with her Marvel figurines that had belonged to some of my uncles.  The boys always wanted the Hulk.  One particularly plague-like year, we chased and caught grasshoppers in her backyard by the fistful. 

I loved making 101 Dalmatians name cards using a program she had on her computer and playing her Tarzan computer game.

 

She helped my mom pull some of my baby teeth when I was being difficult. 

When I qualified for the State Spelling Bee, she drove my mom, a friend, and I to the event out of town.  I laugh now because I remember feeling so carsick due to her sudden stop-and-go style of driving, but I'm so glad she was a part of that. 

She was there to see me graduate from High School. 

The night that Jon and I got engaged, we showed up at her doorstep at a time which we didn't realize was long past her bedtime.  Her gruff voice demanded to know who was there.  Her tone softened when we revealed our identity, and she opened the door so we could tell her our exciting news.  To my husband's dismay, she was still in her bathrobe when she gave us both happy hugs.  That was the first time he met her. 

Seven months later, she was there when Jon and I became husband and wife.  She had worked hard in the weeks leading up to the wedding making doilies, some of which dressed up the reception tables and others that were shaped into flower girl baskets. 

She smiled at me, breaking the reel of images in my mind.  "Angel."  I could almost hear her say the name that she used for me.  I wished I could fill the hospital room with more things that would make her smile: Cali (her cat), Abel (the dog she had when I was young), hummingbirds, a bag of frozen M&M's, country music, food from Golden Corral or Pizza Hut, or her wall packed with pictures of all her many grandchildren.  Instead, I just held her hand. 

On September 13, the stroke ultimately took my Grandma.  She had her children with her, and she went peacefully.  Even though she lived a long life, it's still hard to say goodbye.  As Nickole, another one of my cousins, put it, "When you have convinced yourself that someone is going to live forever, it's a hard thing when they don't." 

Though the empty void produced by the loss of my grandma is painful, I know I don't have to despair.  I have confidence, comfort, and peace in knowing that this life is not all there is.  I know Jesus, the One who conquered death and the grave.  I know that those who have trusted in Him are with Him the moment that their soul leaves their body.  Not only that, but He is coming back one day with all those who have gone before to take the rest of us who believe in Him to be with Him forever.  Even in death, there is hope. 

I love you, Grandma.  

Joining in the Song

Moving is a lot like erasing an Etch a Sketch.  You can spend hours drawing a web of intricate details only to have it wiped away in seconds with one swipe.  On the one hand, losing all of that hard work can be a bit of a shock.  How many parents have had to console a distraught child who lost a precious masterpiece to the quick hand of a mischievous sibling?  On the other hand, the blank slate that is left behind whispers of endless possibilities.  Especially after the hectic weeks of moving preparation and the move itself, facing a nearly blank slate of a life can feel a bit surreal. 

The days since we finished the bulk of the unpacking (I can't stand living out of boxes, and clutter in my own home makes me crazy, so we made quick work of the task) have been fairly relaxed and quiet.  Worship team has taken off pretty smoothly so far.  We have a lunchtime meeting this Sunday so that Jon can introduce the team to Planning Center and share his vision for the ministry.  Youth group doesn't start up until September 10th, and so even though Jon has had some preparation work to do for that, we have had some room to breathe and take it all in.  A friend recently told me that her mom calls times like this "built-in breaks."  They aren't necessarily planned or expected on our part, but God gives them to us when He knows we need them. 

During my "built-in break," my readings in the Psalms have all seemed to say the same thing (usually an indication that I should probably pay attention).  For the past six days, I've read over and over again in Psalms 95-100 about joining all of creation in joyfully praising and worshiping my righteous, holy, faithful, loving, mighty, exalted, and just Creator.  I've always found it easier to quiet my mind when I am in a solitary place outdoors.  Something about watching the water from a small lake sparkle and dance in the sun and hearing leaves rustle gently in the breeze draws my heart closer to my Creator.  He truly has left evidence of Himself in His work, and I love the pictures that these Psalms paint of various parts of creation joyfully worshiping the One who made them.  I love even more that I am invited and called to join in their song, which cannot help but produce joy, peace, and healing as I allow my heart to bow and to exalt God to His proper place. 

God has been using a couple other vehicles to get my attention in this area as well.  The first is a Facebook support group that I recently joined for women who are waiting to become mothers.  The leader of the group is a Christian blogger and author whom I was first made aware of by a friend from Marysville.  The group as a whole has a much more positive atmosphere than some of the other support groups I've looked into.  It has several conversation threads under all sorts of topics.  There are places to share everything from our dreams of what type of baby announcement we would like to use to questions we have about infertility testing and procedures to date night ideas and beyond.  One thread that was encouraging and challenging to me this last week was the "Praise Report" thread, in which women simply shared praise reports of what God is doing in each of their lives, whether related to infertility or not.  It was such a cool way to stay positive, to see that God is still in control, and to connect with other ladies who are experiencing the same struggle in ways that are beyond the struggle itself. 

{p.s. If any of my reader friends out their who are also struggling with infertility or secondary infertility are interested in the group, let me know, and I'll get you connected!}

The other vehicle God has been using to draw my heart to worship, oddly enough, is a book written by two doctors titled Making Babies: A Proven 3-Month Program for Maximum Fertility. I've already researched a ton and learned way more about the human body, hormones, female cycles, and the process of conception than I ever really cared to know before, but so far this book presents it all in such a clear, systematic, and in-depth way that it has given me a new appreciation for the miracle of life and the Designer of it all.   

In all of this, I've been reminded once again that I have a choice.  I am free to soak in misery, fear, and worry.  I am also free to find joy in worshiping my Creator regardless of my circumstances.    After all, if worship has become about me and my feelings, then the object of my worship is no longer God, is it?  I can join in the racket of moaning and complaining or I can add another harmony to the glad song that echoes through the mountains, rivers, and trees and rises to exalt the One who started it all. 

Praise Him, for He is good.  He is the God who sees and the God who provides.  He is the holy Creator who is coming to judge the world in righteousness and faithfulness.  He reigns, and He is clothed in strength, beauty, splendor, and majesty.  He is so worthy.  

When the Moon Blocks the Sun

For the past several weeks (in the midst of moving), I've been mulling over Psalm 73.  In it, Asaph (the writer) wrestles with the goodness of God; specifically, he seeks to resolve the tension between what he knows to be true and his seemingly contradictory experiences.  The gist of the Psalm goes something like this: "God I know You are good to Your people, but I've gotten so tripped up by what I've seen.  So many people who do horrible, wicked things and have no regard for You or Your ways have trouble-free lives.  Yet, those who love You and seek to obey You can't catch a break from hardship.  What's up with that, God?  What's the point of doing right if it only leads to more heartache and struggle?"  Then, Asaph turns his eyes from other people to his God, and he sees that in the end, his lot is far better than that of the godless who will be destroyed violently, swiftly, and suddenly.  He admits that in the midst of his pain and jealousy, he was stupid and lacking in understanding.   Yet, God still guided and counseled him gently through all of that.  He concludes the Psalm by reiterating what he declared at the beginning, but this time with more personal conviction: "But as for me, the nearness of God is my good; I have made the Lord GOD my refuge, that I may tell of all Your works." 

Less than a week before we moved, I found out my thyroid levels were messed up again, and I had to have my Synthroid dosage increased again.  I went through another round of asking God the same questions Asaph asked and the same questions I know many others in the infertility community have asked:  I know I'm not anywhere near perfect, but why is this so hard for me when so many people who are not at all ready or fit to be parents can conceive a child instantly?  If teenage girls can get pregnant, why can't I see a positive pregnancy test?  If child abusers, drug addicts, and rapists can have children, why are my arms still empty?  If hundreds of thousands of unwanted babies are aborted each year in the U.S., why is the child I so desperately want still nothing more than a dream?  God, do You really have my good in mind if You are withholding what You say is a good gift and reward from me?  Like Asaph, my pain and bitterness clouded my understanding, and before I realized what was happening, I experienced another spiritual eclipse with the moon of my circumstances blocking out the sun of God's presence. 

The same God who guided and counseled Asaph in the midst of his pain-induced ignorance and senselessness guides and counsels me.  I've written so many times before that we have to align our perspective with God's perspective to find peace and understanding in the midst of difficult circumstances.  We have to fix our eyes on eternity instead of this temporary life.  I know this to be true, but I still have to choose it on a moment-by-moment basis.  I have to fix my eyes on Jesus and refuse to look away.  When the darkness falls around me, I have to remember that the Son has not changed or abandoned me.  He is still there, and it is only a short while before I will be able to see His glory clearly all around me again.  

The nearness of God IS my good.  That phrase leapt of the page the first time I read this Psalm, and it has lodged itself in my mind ever since.  I fall into the trap of thinking that "my good" equates to having a perfect marriage, a vibrant ministry, a great house, and children to call my own.  If those things don't fall into place, then how can I say that God is really good to me?  This type of thinking expects God to perform before we will accept Him as He is.  Yet, God accepts us and loves us without any regard for our performance.  Why do we assume that we can impose our own requirements on the God of the universe?

As my husband has taught several times to various groups of youth, God is the scale to measure goodness.  We can't weigh Him against other good things in order to draw comparisons.  He is the scale, the ruler,  the standard, the very definition and essence of goodness.  He just wants us to trust Him.  He is trustworthy because He is good and He does good.  The nearness of God is my good, and it is all I really need. He wants my heart, and He has already given me His.  There is no greater good than being near to God.  It's what we were made for.  All else in this life pales in comparison to knowing Him and walking with Him.