Feeling Fine

My daily mantra, echoes the Little Engine's--  "I think he can. I think we can. I think I can" --as I care for my adult-child with extraordinary needs, home school my younger two boys, live wife to my husband the pastor.

But since July 21st, a couple of days after my eldest had spinal fusion surgery, the internal cheerleader was drowned out by the realist vacillating between hopeful and hopeless, more often landing closer to the -less side: "I don't think he can. I know I can't. There's no way I can. How in the world will we ever?"  And I would like to type something like, so I prayed and realized that Philippians 4:8 is true for me:  "Through Christ, I can do all things." Or I learned to trust in God in bigger ways than ever before and I have a peace beyond understanding.  But I am not there yet.  Don't get me wrong.  I know God is bigger than any difficulty we face.  I know there are things other parents are dealing with that are WAY more difficult than a child who was ambulatory with an unsteady gait now confined to a wheelchair or walker. But he is my child, and he was in extraordinary pain and now intermittent pain, and he can't tell me exactly how or when or where it hurts, and I just can't wrap my head around how I will care for D, home school his brothers, and do the things I enjoy and have been doing for my husband and at church.

There were days during our month-long hospital stay when I was just "done" and someone would let me know she was praying for me; then inexplicably I had strength or peace or patience or whatever was needed most at that moment. There were times when I was reading God's word aloud to D so that he could sleep and I could check off my daily Bible reading, that the words on the page were more than mere words; they were life-giving, soul-assuring, heart-affirming.  Sometimes a friend or relative came to visit and I felt loved, hopeful, and confident in my faith in the eternal Creator who is omniscient and never caught by surprise as I had been by this whole ordeal. But most of the time, I felt five-point-harness-strapped-in on a roller coaster with steep inclines, and I've never been a fan of the descent.

Watching Beverly Hills Baptist Church

One day in the hospital bed when he was able to hold his iPad with two hands for the first time since surgery,  D wanted me to find a church service.  I followed a link on Facebook to a friend's husband's Sunday morning worship service.  My friend happened to be singing the special, "Blessings" by Laura Story.  Before singing, she shared her own tragic experience and how her family was drawn closer to God as they wrote out all the blessings that had resulted from the terrible loss.  And I placed a mental bookmark to do the same later.  But when we came home, I was even more overwhelmed; there were no therapists to work with D daily,

D with one of his favorite PTs

no round-the-clock assistance with his self-care needs, and no food service brought to our bedsides. I was grateful that my parents and younger boys were able to come the evening of our return and for the wheelchair ramp set up before our return, but I could not see these blessings and others for the demands that were placed upon me and my time and the uncertainties of a possibly incomplete recovery for my biggest boy.

I picked up a book for $2.99 at Ollie's the other day.  If I had every "just a dollar" purchase I'd made there, I'd have enough to buy a new set of dishes or a new wardrobe or a year-long membership to the gym.  Sorry, Mom, I just can't help myself.  Retail therapy, especially when it is SUCH a bargain, works.  Carry on, Warrior by Glennon Doyle Melton--in it, the writer at Momastery, gives the advice, "When you start to feel, just do."

Leaving the hospital with all the sweet cards and gifts.

So that, my friends, is what I did Monday when my parents left. And boy have I done a lot.  Before they left,  I wasn't sure I could exist in this life anymore.  I am still overcome by anxiety at times, but when I start to feel, I do. . .laundry, heating up dinner to have it hot when the younger boys and Stan arrive, printing out things for home schooling, cleaning out cars and piles in rooms, taking the family on a hike at Hitchcock Creek, getting prepared for class, sending out overdue email responses and writing here. Writing has wiped the glass clean for a better view of God working. And I can count my blessings now.  The greatest blessing is knowing that Jesus has me covered; Ephesians 1:7-8 in the Common English Bible version:  "We have been ransomed through his Son’s blood, and we have forgiveness for our failures based on his overflowing grace, which he poured over us with wisdom and understanding."

When I returned home, we had a borrowed wheelchair ramp at the door and Circle III had added plants and mulch, even weeding my much-neglected flowerbed.

To borrow from REM: "It's the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine."