For the first time last night, I had a dream with my Dad in it, and I understood, in the dream, that he was no longer alive. But then the strangest thing happened. Somehow, in the hodgepodge blur I remember, he wasn’t alive, but I could still see him, as if he was, and we were dancing.

And strangely enough, we weren’t dancing, like I might remember as a little girl, with my feet on his, or like I might remember from my wedding day, when my fluffy dress made me feel like I was floating on a cloud, and I paused a few times in our dance to get my steps together again, with a little side to side arm action and a twist thrown in, with hopes that it didn’t look like I was a mess.

It wasn’t a classy snapshot memory at all. Instead, we were on a tennis court, but I think indoors, and I think at a party, and he was at least ten or fifteen feet away from me, and we were doing the electric slide. But that line down the middle of the tennis court was between us, and neither of us could cross it. But it was still somehow good, us both dancing.

I have absolutely no memory of my Dad doing the electric slide, ever. But I have to admit, in my dream last night, he was throwing some sweet shapes on the dance floor. And he looked younger and he had more hair, and, it’s honestly hard to believe, he did not have an ECU baseball cap on.

I suppose it’s safe to say this little snippet of my life, this snippet of a dream where I felt confused but I think happy at the same time, is a bit like grief itself.

Strange, and messy.

I’ve cried more tears than I thought I was capable of crying. I’ve laughed harder, fuller and deeper than I thought I would for a while. And somewhere in between trying to figure out the work of settling an estate and supporting my talented hubs (you need family pictures soon, right?) and loving and nurturing and raising three kiddiddles, I am walking the road of this really messy thing called grief.

‘Messy’ is as best a term as I can muster – for when you will erupt in tears at a simple question for no particular reason, when you will avoid things you know need to get done {ahem, thank you notes} because you just know they’re going to be less cathartic than you hope, and really just downright hard. For when you find yourself simultaneously wanting to cheer and to cry when you realize your two-year-old still sometimes pretends to call G-pa on his “cell-phone” {calculator} or he cheers when he sees G-pa’s picture on your Facebook profile.

Grief is just plain messy.

At this stage in it, I’m running more errands than I want to and writing a lot less than I want to. (And probably need to.) But I’m focusing on staying focused, {ironic, hey?} and trying to make sure the tasks on the estate-settling list get crossed off, and I still get wholesome meals on the table. But sometimes it’s Dominos.

The busy is probably good, even though it’s hard. And the memories I’m making with my kids, cherishing them and creating opportunities for love and laughs and learning, this is where the best stuff, the most-healing stuff is happening.

God whispers gently: there is so much good still to come. He is also whispering hope and life and faith, through the voices of Sunday sermons, blog posts, His amazing Word and strong and solid teachings, like this gem by A.W. Tozer.

The most beautiful reminder of all, in my Dad’s absence, is the constant reminder of the Lord’s presence. I’m aiming to fix the gaze of my soul on God. {Thanks, Tozer.}

Perhaps it’s a valley I’m walking through, that somehow still has some beautiful hills to climb — it’s messy to describe, but it is a place where I know there is a God who makes every path smooth by His grace.

Next Sunday I’ll be sharing about my Dad’s faith journey at the church he called home for a good while. Appropriately, it’s Father’s Day. My heart is certain there are some stories to tell, my hope is that the Lord will give me the grace to tell those stories — and communicate the greater truth behind them — well. {I’d appreciate your prayers, and if you’re local, you are welcome.}

Right now the truth I’m aiming to cling to that I offer to you as well is this: He loves us. Oh, how He loves us.

That night, in the hospital, when the end was beginning and everything was a messy blur, this was the Word, when I opened the Bible on my phone:

He was there for me, an abiding Presence, through the toughest week of my life.

Friends, He loves us. Amen.

xCC

I haven’t written lately. I suppose sometimes it’s good to start by stating the obvious.

I haven’t written lately because the thoughts seem to be swirling around in my mind, most times too quickly for me to catch them and pin them down.

I haven’t written lately because there are diapers to change and booboos to kiss and juice cups to fill, and there’s a part of me that wants to make sure I’m doing this living thing right, even after coming to grips with the dying.

I haven’t written lately because for a while I tried piling so many things on my plate we almost ran out of toilet paper.

And when that momentary clarity that death brings passes, sometimes things seem to look hazy for a while. You’re forging a new path and the way forward isn’t clear — you want to make sure some things change, you want to make sure some things stay the same — and you want to try to handle the things that are going to change whether you want them to or not, well.

I now have a gorgeous six-month-old baby girl. She was only four months old at the big goodbye. She is a daily reminder that life does go on, will go on.

And I have a four year old who is about to finish his second year of pre-school, today. And it feels like yesterday and a million years ago, the day he started the three-year-old class, fresh out the gates from South Africa, when we flew in over the weekend and he jumped in, a week late, on the Monday.

His little brother is now wearing those shorts.

The thought comes in spells, I’m sad to say fewer, but still, where I remember faces, like The Girl in the Pink Coat.

And I think about the privilege I have of raising kids and knowing we have food to eat every day and a safe place to live and a comfortable bed for every person. And reconciling these gifts with what I’ve seen — those faces, those feet — I find it hard to keep going in comfortable North Carolina sometimes. What do you say to the kid you sponsor through Compassion?

Your life is hard. My troubles pale in comparison. You are full of joy. I want to pour my life out for Jesus and the fear of comfortable almost keeps me up at night.

I cling to a few simple truths, in the midst of the haze, and perhaps they’ll be useful for you. First, a friend of mine reminded me the other day that you don’t always know what you’re doing, what it means to the people around you. Keep doing good because it’s good. Especially when your right hand doesn’t know what your left hand is doing — your Father does. I find that encouragement enough to keep loving, to keep giving, and to wholeheartedly keep seeking the kingdom first.

God is still on the throne. My parents have always felt like the two pillars that the platform of my life balanced on. Losing one has made me wobble. But we can always only ever find a firm foundation in Jesus. Keep seeking the kingdom first.

When you aren’t sure what to do, when bare feet in SA are on your heart, but dirty floors in NC are in your face, do your best to do the thing in front of you with love. And keep seeking the kingdom first, to help you know what that thing is.

If I can love the one in front of me, as Mother Theresa put it, maybe he or she will be the one to get on a plane and go back to some of the places where I’ve left pieces of my heart, and to love the people there. Or he or she will love someone who’ll love someone who’ll love someone who will. And Lord willing, we will love there again, too, and love here, in the meantime.

Catch my drift?

With Love,
xCC

This post is part three of a wee series. Part One is here and Part Two is here. If you’re keen.

Losing someone you love doesn’t cause you to ask a question no one has ever asked before, although it can sometimes feel like it. I think most questions about God can basically be summed up in just a few, and this is one of them:

If God is good, then why do bad things happen?

And here’s my best attempt at explaining what I believe about how this bad thing has been allowed to happen inside the will of a good God.

In this case, the bad thing was the loss of my Dad just now, at the age of 64, when I wish we’d had more time, when I felt so much good stuff was still to come. When I was counting on writing the book he inspired by simply speaking words of life about my gifts to me, and when I was planning on dedicating that book to him. And when these little grandkids were just getting to know him. And I kind of felt like I was, too.

{I still will dedicate that book to him, in case you’re wondering.}

{Dad & the Bear, before my sister’s wedding in 2009}

There’s a basic building block on which a lot of things hinge for me. And it’s the belief that free will is a dignity bestowed upon us by a God who loves us enough to let us choose whether or not to love Him back. If I held a gun to your head and said Tell me ya love me, sweetheart, you’d probably oblige me pretty quickly. But the intrinsic value of your answer — my guess is it’d be pretty meaningless. Right?

Love can’t be forced.

So, in the wisdom of God, He created a world where we all have the ability to make choices. Lots of different kinds of choices. Like the choice to exercise, to eat peanut butter and jelly or ham and cheese, to name one of our kids Hamish or Apple.

One of the choices my Dad made was with regard to his health. He was working toward getting healthier — trying to diet and exercise — but he didn’t really listen to the warning signs, the bells and whistles his body was sounding off to say “Things aren’t right! Things aren’t good!”

These were signs like shortness of breath and chest pains, the inability to walk uphill for an extended amount of time without losing his breath and needing to sit down for a while, issues with his blood pressure.

I guess he thought he could take matters into his own hands, and he tried hard: but counting calories and pedaling on his bike each day wasn’t enough.

There’s a very real possibility that my Dad’s decision not to go to a doctor when he was exhibiting signs of heart disease cost him his life.

Knowing this, who is there for me to shake my fist at, except my Dad, really? Yes I wish I’d said more, cajoled more, made a bigger deal about it when I was first told that he was having chest pains and I talked to him about going to the doctor and he said “He’d get around to it.”

I have regrets.

Ultimately, a 64 year old man who is exhibiting chest pains and showing other concerning signs needs to do the grown-up thing: visit a doctor. But my Dad didn’t.

He exercised free will. He made the choice to postpone, to procrastinate, to put off.

To that, I don’t feel right about saying Why, God, why?

The appropriate thing to me is more like Why, Dad, why?

For the sake of further explanation, let’s say the circumstances were different. Let’s say he was minding his own business, driving home one evening and an absentminded driver was texting instead of steering, shot through a red light, and that was the end of the story.

Well, I’d still point to choices. I’d still point to free will.

It would’ve been someone else’s free will, in that scenario — but still, I’d point to free will instead of our Maker.

Of course, your next question might be, there’s disease. There’s famine. There’s poverty. There are hungry kids dying… whose free will do we point to then?

And the thing is, if I believe the account of creation that starts with In the beginning, then I believe that God created a world that was really, very good. Paradise even.

Our own decisions, one after another, from the beginning, contributed to the fall — the change from Paradise to arguments about gun control, hunger, disease, a bomber at the Boston marathon.

It all started with one big word I can’t escape using: Sin.

The decision to deliberately choose something other than God’s goodness completely changed the game. Changed the world forever. Introduced not good into a world that had previously been always only ever wholly good.

And our individual, daily decisions affect each other more than we realize. We want to buy clothes at a good price, so manufacturers look for cheap labor to fit the bill. Sure, you and I don’t want children in Thailand to head to a sweat shop for the sake of our cheap t-shirts. But, we’re more connected than we think, and in a way, we’re all partly to blame.

Our individual decisions to use disposable diapers for decades could mean a world-wide problem for centuries. Our individual decisions to vote like this or like that have consequences that affect us all.

And for a very long time, the world has been full of people, making their own choices. Our choices are often not good, and the consequences, well, they naturally follow suit.

I hope you hear me. I think this is big.

So now, I sit on the other side of this loss, and this experience like nothing I’ve ever felt before. But I don’t see God as the problem — I am certain He is the place from whence come the solutions.

Am I disappointed a miracle didn’t happen the way I hoped?

For sure. I really loved my Dad. I don’t want to live the rest of my life without him.

And there is still an unresolved why? I think there always will be. Why did I bump into an old friend at the hospital whose Dad had a heart attack the same day? Why did she get a miracle… and why didn’t I?

But I have tasted the sweetness of redemption before. I know the Redeemer, and I picture Him at the loom, already weaving this dark, harsh thread into a bigger tapestry, and it’s something beautiful.

He didn’t cause this. In infinite wisdom, He did allow this. He can use this to create something beautiful.

This morning I danced in the living room with my boys. And when I say I danced I mean I all-out danced. Like no one was looking. Hair-flying, kid spinning, air guitar rocking, sore-cheek grinning.

I breathed deeply, excited about the possibilities of life that lay before my little family.

I will cry some more. But I will laugh more, too.

From loss I already see so much gain — there’s fresh purpose in my heart to guard the relationships with my Mom, my siblings, my husband, my precious kids, recognizing we will only walk the road together for so long.

I am hungry again to refuse a faith that goes through the motions, to plunge deep into the bottomless well of God, to drink deeply and to love the world around me fully again.

It’s as if this cloud descended, and I got wrapped up in the minutia of life, returning to North Carolina and trying to figure out how to do life again here.

But as the grief lifts, little by little, so the clouds lift with it. I’m looking up more than down.

And with wholehearted assurance my Dad is in a better place, I look forward to the day when I see him again, the day when there are no more whys for asking.

For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face; now I know in part, but then I will know fully just as I also have been fully known. {I Cor. 13:12}

If you’re reading this, and you’re also grieving, I hope you believe me when I say life is still beautiful. Hold on to the things that are truly valuable — and take the time to figure out just what those things are. Guard your heart, put your hope in the right place — let it anchor your soul through the storm.

xCC 

This is the second post of a wee series discussing the recent loss of my Dad. You can read the first post here.

I’ll be honest with you. The unexpected loss of my Dad felt like a suckerpunch to the gut. I was looking the other way. I didn’t know I was in the ring. I didn’t know I was in a fight.

Wham.

And grief is this spiraling, strange whirlwind of the mind. You begin to feel a little better, and then you feel bad for feeling better. You aren’t sure which emotions are valid, you aren’t sure where irrational departs from rational. You secretly want to punch people for telling you they know exactly how you feel, but you’re not a violent person.

And yet, death has this way of making your entire life seem clear as an empty wine glass — even just for a moment.

Do you know that moment, when you walk on the beach, and past a pier? You look out towards the ocean while you’re under the pier and all the pilings line up, and the moment seems clear. Everything makes sense.

This is why we left South Africa sooner than we thought we should have. 

This is why the gift of our third child being born right when she was makes so much sense.

And wow, when she arrived, my Dad was several states away — he returned to visit his birthplace for the first time in his life. A few months before he died.

What a gift that our finances were so tight, and we were offered this place to stay in Washington, and we didn’t decide to move to Greenville. Wow, wow, wow.

Life lines up, and there’s a lot of stuff you just ‘get.’ Instantly, you see the wisdom, the structure, the logic. It builds your faith and gives you hope.

But the grief journey continues. When you walk out from under the pier, the pilings don’t look perfectly organized anymore. The waves are crashing, surfers are scattered about, dropping in on each other’s waves. Seagulls are squawking. The glare from the sun is bright. You’re squinting, wondering, wishing, thinking.

If I’d really, really made a big deal out of the fact that he needed to go to the doctor, would it have made a difference?

Why couldn’t we have come back sooner? 

Why did I say “no” so many times when Dad asked me something? Let’s garden together… Let’s decorate the tree at my house… Should we do twice-baked potatoes?

You struggle to form complete sentences in your own thoughts. You absent-mindedly stare into the distance. You get into your Dad’s car, and the smell reminds you of him. You listen to the voicemails he left you last month.

You cry. At the drop of a hat.

That’s the journey. Those are the cards in my hand.

I’m going to do my best to explain how I’m making sense of all this in my mind, how I’m dealing with it. Because I think it matters.

Even if it doesn’t matter to you, per se, it is an exercise in processing through grief for me. When I have little else, most times, I still have words.

And I want you folks, new and old, who read here to know that I stand on the other side, more confident than ever that what I’ve been saying about this Jesus guy is true.

I’m certain God is good. I’m certain there is hope, there is good ahead of me.

And I’m certain, thanking Jesus as I type, I will see my Dad again.

More soon…

Have you ever had a pier moment? Are you trying to make some life-sized decisions and struggling to figure them out? Try thinking about what would be most important to you if you lost someone close to you today. Death has an amazing way of putting life into better perspective.

xCC

I imagine the time has to come, at least once, in the life of any person who professes that Jesus was Who He said He was and is Who He says He is. It’s the time when the Theology you’ve been studying and thinking and believing and writing about and talking about has to either be the Truth you cling to in the fire, in the storm, or else it becomes the curtain that gets pulled back to reveal a poor, tired soul whose only hope was placed firmly in something akin to smoke and mirrors.

My Dad meant a lot to me. And in our last few years together, I felt like I was getting to know a man I’d never really been acquainted with. Sure, I have great memories from my childhood, of a Dad who loved his Miller Light with a slice of lime, would rather have been at the beach than anywhere else, who sang along, just a little, to Beach Music on the radio and wore RayBan Wayfarers long before they a throwback making a comeback.

I also remember a Dad who could get pretty angry pretty quickly. Who I was a little scared of. Who sent my childhood best bud running home for supper when we heard his car coming up the driveway. I think I hear my Mom calling…

But the man I met when I came back to North Carolina was not exactly the same man. This was the Dad who held onto a pen from the days when I worked at a Pawn Shop so that he could stick it in my Christmas card one year, a card filled with life-giving words about my ability with words, his belief that I would write words that would matter. He became a cheerleader, an advocate, an encourager.

And one hot summer day when we were overwhelmingly busy with trying to start our photography business, trying so hard to get things off the ground, juggling life and kids and transition, I heard a big noise, and looked out the window to see that my Dad had towed his lawnmower over to our house — we didn’t have one yet — and there he was, in the heat of the day, riding his lawnmower back and forth to cut our grass for us.

The Renaissance Man was cutting my grass. He was a different Dad. I loved him more than ever before.

And that last day came, when he bounced the baby on his lap while I typed away at the keys of the computer for him. And I can’t explain it, but my heart was so happy that day. And I told him I loved him and he left and I remember thinking about walking outside just to tell him again how much I loved him, how thankful I was for him. I sure do wish I had.

Stuff was just happy. I was so thankful.

HH came home that evening, and I looked around our mess-of-a-house with a smile. And, beaming, I said something like this: “Even though our house is a mess, and Blakey had a poop accident that went everywhere, and I don’t like where we live, and everything feels crazy and today was really frustrating, I think I’m finally content. I think I’ve finally found contentment.”

And four hours later, while we sat and ate some ice cream together, children asleep down the hall, my phone rang with the news.

It was the beginning of the end.

So the question has to be asked. The Why question.

Why now?

Why my Dad?

Why when I think I’ve finally learned contentment, finally discovered so much peace and joy nestled inside a heart so grateful for the love and support of being near my Mom and Dad again?

If God is X then Why?

And this is where the testing happens, where you find out if that faith you’re claiming to hold onto gets tossed in the fire, and you find out whether or not it’s fireproof.

My endeavor for the week in the hospital was to stay fully present. To honor my Dad by not just physically, but also mentally, emotionally, staying present in everything that was happening. Not to let go of hope if there was hope to hold onto. Not to check out at the register when I was still supposed to be on Aisle 3.

My best efforts were symbolic gestures — the things that work in my mind, that make sense to me, that say “I’m still here” inside my head. I wore a purple dress on the day we said goodbye. I wore it again to the funeral. I brought yellow flowers to the hospital that day. I made sure I got the chance to stroke his head one more time. I spent ages trying to make choices about the funeral service.

I sensed an abiding Presence through it all. I might do my best to try to explain that another day.

Once the week was finished, the funeral and the celebration of life all gone, I began to face reality without my Dad. And the real testing began.

My longwinded explanation of how I’m handling the “Why” might take a bit, so bear with me… 

To be continued with love,

xCC

Has life ever forced you to find a Z at the end of a big Y? Do you think you managed to find one?

Seems I’ve gotten a little behind on sharing the monthly photos of the new addition around here. I keep on keeping on (with the photos) because I love knowing our precious family further away enjoys seeing the month-by-month progress of our sweet small people. Love you folks… thank you for your patience… I tell you, I understood and believed before, what Psalm 127:3 says about children:

“Children are a gift from the Lord;
they are a reward from Him.” {NLT}

But after walking through the hardest month of my life last month, I just had no idea how much of a gift they could be.

I took these pictures of this little girl in February, when life seemed a little simpler. The task fell to me again, though I’d always defer to the Hubs’ superior camera skills, because he was out of town for a few days. Perhaps since things went will with the two months photos, the Belle trusted me this time, and things continued to go well…

The thing I learned about children being a gift, in the time that followed this picture-taking session, had a lot to do with appreciating for new reasons that irresistible joy that comes so naturally to children.

On those long, sad days in the hospital, while I was just waiting and hoping I’d get to see my Dad again this side of heaven, this little girl was a very visible and constant reminder that life does keep going, life will keep going, even if there is loss.

She brought joy to other people in the hospital, perhaps in similar positions to ours, waiting and wondering.

She already started living up to the things I said before about her name. Meaning ”Beautiful Altar,” I was hoping she would be a place where heaven and earth collide.

And in that week of heavy grief, where I was weighed down with emotions I didn’t know my soul was capable of enduring, leaving the room where my Dad was dying, returning to the lobby, where she was learning and smiling and growing and beginning… it was hard, it was beautiful.

It was like seeing all of time in a single moment, like watching a drop of water fall to the ground in slow motion. This life and my Dad’s collided for such a brief period of time. He bounced her on his knee, made her giggle and smile. She returned the favor with peals of laughter and grins, her gift to him was joy. I thought about whether he’d be able to dance at her wedding.

And the gift that children are has everything to do with hope, hope for the future. When times are hard and people are discouraged, they often say “I don’t want to bring children into this world.” Children begin to be seen as burdens to bear, small people who will soon need college educations and car keys.

But an aging society is not a healthy one. Kids are the future innovators, the brave ones who’ll plow forward when we’re gone. They’re a gift to us, and we love them and teach them and grow them and then give them as gifts to the world, in hopes that by being here, they’ll make it a better place.

Heaven touched Earth as this precious little girl looked up at me with smiles, with trust, with the kind of faith that I want to have. Sure she cried some in that lobby, fighting falling asleep in a new environment, waiting for me to come back from a conversation with doctors when it was time for her to eat.

We all cry sometimes.

But that irresistible joy, her peaceful nature, her happy hope, were a gift to my soul to remind me there’s still so much good ahead. Somehow, just maybe, the best is yet to come.

I didn’t know when she arrived last November, full of need, to be fed and held and changed and clothed and loved, that I might turn out to be the needy one sooner than I expected. And she became a gift from God at a time when I needed Him to touch my life in the most tangible, physical, I can hold onto this until I can hold onto hope again way.

For all these months I might not have thought too much about it, might not have observed. But how fitting, all along, I have been receiving this unwrapped gift from heaven, and adding my own bow.

To God be the glory.

xCC

The time finally came, when that last breath was breathed, and the next moment I had feared the most was upon us.

We sat all four years of him down, on his Da-da’s lap, on the couch. Three of us together - sit down your cars sweetie and let’s talk for a little while.

I heard the words I never wanted to say come out of my husband’s mouth, tears on his cheeks, tears on mine.

The Bear listened quiet, intense. Turned away slightly, leaned his curved back deep into HH’s chest.

We saw a face on him we’d never seen before. He was deep in a far-away land, the synapses in his brain weaving together an understanding of what all this really meant.

They tried the best they could, but G-pa’s gone.

Based on what we’d read and heard, we did our best not to be confusing – to say it all straight. Using real words like “death” and “died” instead of “passed on” or “no longer with us.” Strange how simple words just made of letters can feel like sharp swords on a tongue. Especially if you have to say them to ears so small, ears so young.

He thought for a long time. We tried to do more to explain, we stayed quiet, three of us together.

He turned, resolute, but gentle, faith like a child said, “But, I’m going to save the day.”

If only. If only.

My heart swelled, proud, blessed, sad, sad.

Trying to explain my tears a little later on I offered, “G-pa was my Da-da… so I am very sad.”

He took it in, straight to heart. And hope counter-offered, “Uncle Russ can be your Da-da now.”

…

I wasn’t ready to let go of the tulips in my hand at the burial – green stems and leaves, buds still closed so tight I don’t know what color they were going to be. He turned and said, “You can put your flowers up there, Mama.”

“Will you do it for me, my boy?” I asked.

Gently, careful, there he laid them with Aunt Dodi’s, Uncle Russ’s.

I stared for a long time, stayed still and wiped tears.

…

Here we are with a new day, a new week, and there is hope. Always.

We talk of Easter, and he comes home from church with brightly coloured eggs in a carton, numbered to stay in order, each symbolizing a moment of the Easter story. I’m trying hard to re-engage. We rehearse what the things inside mean – the donkey, because Jesus rode one into Jerusalem, the cup, wine from the passover meal, a thorny branch, the crown of thorns.

Gloriously beautiful – number 12 is empty.

I’m surprised to see a toothpick-sword, and stumble to explain Jesus on the cross. How the blood and the water flowed from his side — a mighty declaration: we are forgiven, our debt is paid, we are free, we are clean.

It’s only later he stops me with the question: Did they poke G-pa’s side when he died?

Oh, no, I’m eager to explain. Looking for words, think quick, think quick. When G-pa died, it was very peaceful. I breathe slowly. In—out—in—-out—-. I close my eyes. It was just like falling asleep. A few more breaths, eyes still gently shut, I smile.

So dying is like going to sleep?

Kind of, yes. It was very peaceful.

…..

Not long after, some words found me. About a man and his wife, at the hospital and all was well. She’d given birth the day before to their first, precious baby girl, and she’d rested from her c-section and twenty-four hours passed, and the time came, joy of joys, the wheelchair came to take her to meet that face she’d probably dreamed of. She stood to take the seat, complained of being dizzy, passed out and was gone. A pulmonary embolism, and that was it. He was left to head home from the hospital, precious baby girl, Mama gone.

He says he used to be a cynic, but he’s not anymore. He finds himself giving motivational speeches to bank tellers.

And all of this swells my heart, near breaking to say: Hope, there you are. Hope, you keep on finding me. I could sit right here and count 10,000 gifts in those 64 years. Oh the stories I will tell — there was lots of time, and a lot of it was spent well. I have less regrets than many, maybe more hope than many more.

This is life and there is loss, but gosh, if you can frame it all with thankfulness, then you’ll see hope, then you’re see the whole picture.

xCC

……

Just a special note to mention one of These Awesome Quilts I Told Ya About Right Here is being given away RIGHT HERE! Stop over at Megan’s blog to enter the giveaway before 3/31, or visit her Etsy Shop and start dreaming up the perfect quilt for someone you love! The proceeds will help with the costs of their upcoming international adoption. Awesomesauce.

I have some really beautiful memories of time well spent with my Dad. For some reason, one of my favorites is from my dance recital days as a little girl. It was always a chore, getting on the itchy tights that would go under the costumes we wore at dance recitals. But once my feet were in the right place, my Dad could grab those tights by the waist, hoist me up into the air (just holding the tights) and with a couple of bounces, my tights were exactly where they were supposed to be. I can remember laughing, feeling joy, feeling small and safe with my Dad.

He often let me stay up past my bedtime — a treat I always relished — on the condition that I sit beside him and brush his hair. Sitting on a couple of pillows so that I was tall enough to reach, he may have gone bald sooner than he should have because I’d brush his hair, sometimes even add some hair clips, and absent-mindedly laugh at the jokes I didn’t get while Sam Malone wiped up the bar as Norm made a wise crack on Cheers. Every once in a while, just in case I needed reassurance, I can remember him patting me on the knee, and saying Daddy loves his Caroline. He’d get back to watching the show, and I’d continue putting the few strands of hair that still bedecked the top of his head into clips, or I’d just smooth them down for a while.

I absolutely felt loved. And even though getting in trouble made me terribly afraid of him, still I knew my Dad loved me. I knew it for sure.

{Dad & my nieceypoo, Emmi Claire… photomagic by my sister Dodi!}

Just a few weeks ago, we celebrated TigerTank’s second birthday. After a wonderful lunch, cake and candles and gifts, we went outside to blow bubbles. I came in and saw my Dad asleep in a chair. He was so full of peace I didn’t make a sound. I just smiled. Life was good.

Last week, my Dad’s body stopped working. My brother and sister, his girlfriend, and lots of friends were by his side. We watched as they poked and prodded. We waited as they ran tests and looked at screens. We cried and prayed. We wept and hoped for a miracle.

Throughout his week in the hospital, nearly every day, I took an opportunity to stroke his hair. It was often disheveled as he lay propped up on a pillow in the hospital bed, and I felt transported back to my childhood as I smoothed it across and settled it down.

We all talked to him. We played him music. I read Scriptures, said prayers, played videos of our three-month-old laughing, our four-year-old reciting the pledge of allegiance, right by his ear, in case he could hear them.

The doctors said everything about his mind that made him him was gone. They ran tests and said his brain activity looked like applesauce.

People came and told wonderful stories I’d never heard. I wanted to ask them to hold on while I got a pen so I could write them all down.

One of his first days in the hospital, I stood beside his bed and prayed for a miracle. I prayed that this would be the beginning of a Renaissance for my Dad. A second chance. That he would miraculously recover, and go on to do awesome things for the glory of God.

The days ticked by and he didn’t wake up.

The tests came back and there was no good news.

In the midst of the storm, there was a sense in me that he was gone. That he was already with God.

And I felt like I could hear the faintest whisper in my heart: that Renaissance already came.

I thought about the Dad from my childhood and the Dad I spent the last eighteen months with. I thought about the stories coming from all around about his thoughtfulness, his kindness, his quiet acts of service and generosity. I pondered the amazing realization that he almost never darkened the door of a church during my childhood, and yet, now, he was known as the “Holy Grillmaster,” so involved in enjoying and serving his church family.

That whisper was true. That Renaissance happened. My Dad was a changed man. The prayers I’d started praying over a decade ago, when I started taking my faith seriously, were answered. Not in a flash-bang-wham-pop moment, but in the way God very often moves. A small seed falls in good soil, with water, with sun, with time… it begins to bear fruit. Thirty…sixty…a hundredfold of what was sown.

Be still, take off your shoes, Caroline, observe before you miss it.

In the midst of the these heart-wrenching days that seemed to string together in a blur, hours in the lobby, hours in the room, I believe God met me with a sense of peace. Leaving aside theological conversations about His will in all this for another day, the basic long and short of it is we knew our Dad was gone and we had to let him go.

For six days there were needles and tests and anguish and waiting. My brother spent his nights in the hospital. I spent nights in a dark hotel room with a sleeping baby nearby, where I’d lean hard into Hero Hubs and cry until I ran out of tears.

We listened to him breathe. The nurses explained the injury to his brain resulted in his rapid breathing. His body looked hard at work with every breath, shoulders turning in, his whole middle moving up at down, often twice as many breaths as necessary, each and every minute.

Even in dying, we’d expect nothing less than hard work from our Dad.

For six days there were tears and prayers, visits with folks who ministered just by being present, stories, hope and heartache. Sometimes we laughed, more times we cried. Most times it hurt to think about the future, to remember the past.

I worked hard at just staying present.

Near the end, a chaplain came to pray with us. She prayed for him, for us, asked questions about his life, and concluded that he was a real “Renaissance Man.” My heart swelled with this precious word choice – she didn’t know what that meant to me.

Then we stood by his bedside, a woman he loved, three children who see him in the mirror and cling to his name, and a pastor who’d washed his feet and helped his heart find a home. I held yellow flowers and stole a chance to stroke smooth the hairs on his head one more time, slipped my hand into the hands that lifted my tights and me high into the air a couple of decades ago.

Slow and peaceful and gentle, like an afternoon nap after a two year old’s birthday party, the hard work of breathing settled down to look more like sweet sleep.

We listened to each breath, now pausing, now breathing. I held my breath, we all held hands and prayed.

Sixty-four years of hard work. Six days of hard work, breathing.

They slowed and slowed until there were no more breaths to be breathed, and on the seventh day, he rested.

Hi friends. I thought I should post something here — knowing many of you have been visiting this space for a while but we might not be friends “in real life.” My life is in the middle of a very unexpected storm right now. And if you’re the praying kind, I’d appreciate your prayers.

Wednesday night, I received a phone call that my Dad had a heart attack on the way home from a ball game. The friends with him in the car noticed him making strange sounds, pulled off and began to attempt CPR. An ambulance arrived very quickly, and within moments he was on the way to one of the best heart centers in the country, and he had a pulse by the time he got there.

When HH and I arrived at the hospital, they let me see him before they took him for some initial scans. It was frightening — he looked long gone. They were beginning an intervention method called hypothermic intervention, which is sometimes successful in preventing further brain injury that may result from a cardiac arrest. They spent the next half a day trying to cool his temperature down to 33 degrees Celsius, at which point they kept it there for 24 hours. Among many, how much time his brain went without oxygen was a major concern.

They were signs of grace and hope, and I clung to every one.

Things seem less hopeful now.

He is still in the hospital and still breathing on his own, but his breathing is more rapid than what is considered normal, which can indicate brain injury. While the initial cat scans immediately following the incident looked “okay,” another scan two days later seemed to indicate a significant amount of swelling on the brain.

It is possible that his primal brain is still functioning – the part that tells you to breathe, tells your blood to pump, makes some of your reflexes do their flexing – but at the same time the things that make my Dad my Dad might be gone.

We are praying for a miracle.

We don’t know what’s going to happen.

Further tests have been and are being performed today to attempt to determine what sort of brain activity is going on. We have spent a lot of time waiting. And waiting.

An outpouring of assistance has taken care of our boys and we are very grateful. They do not know what is going on yet, and if you are in their circles in real life, I’d appreciate you not mentioning anything.

The Belle is still nursing and is not very keen on bottles. She has been with me almost constantly, with Mark’s assistance, spending her days making people (including us) smile in the lobby on the fourth floor of the CICU. What at first seemed to be a considerable difficulty (she should not go into my Dad’s hospital room, so I go back and forth) has been a gift. Her joy and charisma serve as a reminder that God is good and life will go on. She is already a place where heaven touches earth.

We are in the midst of a storm — and as it does, the grief is coming in waves. We are preparing for the worst. We are hoping for the best. We are numb and tired because this process is heart-wrenching.

I have already seen God’s grace.

Wednesday my Dad took the Bear to preschool as usual. He returned to my house to get help ordering something online. He sat by the computer and bounced Arabella in his lap while I placed the order. She laughed and smiled and cooed with delight. The Tank batted his flirtatious lashes and generally just added to the joy of the moment. As he left to get on with his day, I remember an incredible (and slightly unusual) sense of joy and peace. As if my heart would nearly burst with thankfulness.

I look back on the reasons we left South Africa — the challenges, the hurts and difficulties — and they make so much sense now, because they led me back to my own hometown, where I had almost 18 months of wonderful I didn’t know I needed. Almost a year and a half of time with my Dad, seeing and holding his grandkids all the time. Enjoying Taco Tuesdays and waving as the Bear left with Gpa for preschool or a ballgame.

In those eighteen months are more gifts than I could count.

I still pray for the best. I still hope against all odds.

But I’m thankful to say I have gratefulness in my heart. I often told my Dad I loved him. Often. I did my best to show it, and he knew that.

Friends, do me one favor today. Maybe two. First, please pray for us in the middle of this storm. We don’t know how long the storm will last or what will be on the other side. It is a hard place. My brother and sister are here. There is the potential that very big decisions could fall in our hands. We are heartbroken. Second, call that person you know you should call as soon as you finish reading this sentence. Or those people. Say you’re sorry if you need to. Say I forgive you if you need to. Life can change with every breath we take.

God’s Word is full of good promises, but tomorrow is not one of them.

With Love, from here,

xCC

It was after 11:30 – probably closer to midnight when it came out of my mouth, and it felt like it was never in my mind, before it came out. I was scrubbing the carpet in earnest, in the boys’ bedroom, and suddenly, there it was. Maybe I should back up and tell you how I got there first.

It was an answer to prayer, around Christmastime, when I was hoping and believing it would somehow be possible for the Hubs to go snowboarding sometime this winter. It’s one of his most favourite things to do in the world, and he hadn’t had the opportunity since before we were married. I was trying to work something out when an invitation came his way, and, even though it meant he’d be away for nearly a week, and I’d be at home with three kididdles, I was still very excited, very thankful, very encouraged that God made a way.

{The Belle, darling that she is, slept through the entire fiasco which will forthwith be described…}

He left early early on a Tuesday morning. His first night away, we had a pretty typical dinner — spaghetti bolognaise (or in the US just “spaghetti”). My Mom and I juggled the three sweet peas pretty well, and managed to get them bathed and in bed pretty close to bedtime. After my Mom headed home, my friend Mona arrived, who, bless her soul, was willing to camp out at our house for the week — a big blessing because I didn’t want to be the only adult around in the evenings.

It quickly became apparent that it was a good thing Mona was present.

A very good thing.

{Before I continue: Laura Anne and other emetophobes, stop reading now!}

About the time I was planning to retire to bed, we heard a big cry come out of the boys’ bedroom. I knew it was the Bear and rushed in to find him, his pillow, his sheets, and a reasonable amount of the carpet by his bed covered in… how shall we say it?

His dinner.

The noodles were the oddest shade of almost-hot-pink, I noticed, but without a second thought I grabbed him up and hurried him into the bathroom for round two of the new mini-series Return of the Noodles. Moments later, I had the Bear soaking in a bubbly tub, his brother chillaxing on the couch with Yo Gabba Gabba (and precious Mona, watching along) and, armed with some carpet cleaner I’d just shaken together in a spray bottle (one part white vinegar, one part water, a few drops of tea tree oil, shake well…) I was ready to take those noodles head on.

I stripped the bed and began rinsing and scraping and piling things into the washing machine, and I began to start thinking about my thoughts as I vigorously scrubbed the carpet beside the Bear’s bed.

If this is the first night with the Hubs away… well, surely it can only get better from here…

Am I really scrubbing carpet at 11:30 at night right now? And is this the first time I’ve ever had to be the vomit cleaner? I guess the Hubs normally tackles this job…

It was after a pause, and a sigh and a deep breath that the words exited my mouth without entering my thoughts:

Teach Me, Jesus.

And strangely enough, while scrubbing that noodled carpet at an hour when all’s well when all sleep well (usually) He did.

I was met with a strange kind of peace — the unexpected kind that brings a smile to your face even though you don’t know why. It slows your anxious pulse, calms the whirlwind in your mind.

Then suddenly I was thankful. Thankful I’d decided to ask Mona to come and spend the week at our house. Thankful Tiger Tank was chilling on the couch with her instead of doing a dirty noodle dance or wailing because he couldn’t join his brother in the bath. Thankful there was the perfect amount of white vinegar left for this job, and how in the world did it happen that I finally found the tea tree oil at Walmart for the first time, just last week.

Coincidence? I think not.

I remembered Katie’s story. About the time a rat crawled into the back of her oven. She fought back the need to throw-up as she bleached and scrubbed and cleaned. She threw up once and got back to work.

My thoughts continued. Thank You, Lord — at least I’m not puking at all this.

Those three simple words put me back inside that 5 x7 of thankfulness.

And I’ve since discovered that they have a multitude of uses.

Now it seems that all the moments that find me like this — struggling to scoop up too much laundry at once, the four-year-old shouting for assistance with a bum wipe in the bathroom, the toddler, diaperless and missing, which is a risk because the baby is awake and dangerously vulnerable in her play place, and of course because he could pee somewhere — I can pause for a moment (or breathe on the way to check the baby before wiping the bum and finding the toddler) and just say it again:

Teach Me, Jesus.

Because I fully believe the Creator of the Universe is not sitting on a gigantic throne in the cosmos hurling challenges, distress and laundry our way for fun.

The glory of the moments where you feel like you’re suffering is that great stuff can, and does, come out of it:

Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us. {Rom. 5:3 -5}

From the bounty of His infinite goodness, God patiently walks us through the things we feel like we’re just striving to endure each day. He is stretching the muscles in our soul. Building a robust strength in our spirits.

Perhaps by the time I go to meet my maker, I will have supernatural six-pack abs.

If you need an extra little something to get you through one of those moments — you know, when your boss chews you out and lets you go, or the toddler stands up in excitement over having pooped in the potty only to discover the poop hasn’t dropped yet and OOOPS there it is (that happened to me last week), or you just don’t know how you are going to keep on putting one foot in front of the other — I wholeheartedly recommend giving these three words a try.

If you are willing to ask, He will.

xCC