Healing

I think I'm broken.  No, actually, I know I'm broken.  But the crazy thing is, I can go days and days, even months, without revealing the cracks.  Yet, as with all things broken, sooner or later the cracks give way to fissures, the fissures to chips, and eventually the whole thing shatters.

Usually I know what I'm going to write about.  I'll get epiphanies in the middle of doing things.  An idea will come out of nowhere and very naturally form thoughts which give way to words and soon whole paragraphs are penciled in to the imaginary notebook I keep in my head.  Such is not the case today.  Today I write with no planned agenda and, instead, because I just need to.  Because somehow between the words in my mind and the typing of my fingers, it comes together and I see the big picture; I see hope and the healing begins.

So, I'm utterly broken today.  I put up a good front, even to myself, but what I did today gave me away.  I stood at the doorway of A's room and peeked in to see that she was just about to drift off to sleep.  I could have walked away knowing that she'd be off to dreamland and I would be off to "mommy recharge" time but instead, I walked in, bent down, and I kissed my daughter and whispered, "I love you."  Her eyelids fluttered open and with a smile, she said "I love you, mama," before closing her eyes for the night.

Now any parent knows, you just don't do that.  NEVER, EVER, EVER wake a sleeping child.  EVER.  It's the cardinal rule and you're not officially a parent until you've broken the rule and have seen the consequences and THEN have added that as number one into your parent handbook of rules.  This story could have ended differently.  She could have bolted awake, realized that she was about to fall asleep without (gasp) mama next to her, and that would have been the beginning of the longest night ever.

But, no, I kissed her and whispered, "I love you," and broke the sacred rule because of this-I am scared it might be the last time she hears me say it and I want her to be awake for it.

Okay, if you've been reading my blog, you know I talk about death a lot and probably think I'm a morbid person.  And if you know me well, and know that I'm a believer, you're probably wondering (in the very back of your head, admit it) if I have any faith at all.  You're not wrong to wonder that.  Sometimes I wrestle with it myself.  In the end, I know where A will go and who she'll be with, but I wither at the thought of my life without her presence.

When you have a fragile child, there are good days and bad days.  There are really encouraging days and incredibly discouraging days.  There are ups and downs, smiles and tears, victories and defeats.  We learn to take them in stride, to be "strong" and force our faces to betray our feelings.  We put up fronts, blockades, walls because we're afraid to "go there" with anyone and we don't want to subject anyone to our darkest moments.

But the brokenness still comes.

At times it's when we least expect it like when we hear a really beautiful song or when we have a moment of quiet while taking a shower.  And sometimes it builds and builds and we know we're going to erupt so we run to our hiding places and let all the anxieties/fears/darkness run its course through weeping and prayers...And sometimes we remain stuck in the pit of despair for moments or days or even a lifetime.

I'm learning, though, that brokenness is good.  It really is.  It's a reminder that you can't go at it alone.  We were NOT meant to walk this journey in solitary strides.  No, we're meant to walk with others; we're designed to spur each other on; and we thrive from finishing together.  But above all, we are meant to love.  Love accelerates healing.  In fact, love conquers all.  Even a broken heart.  

The very redeeming part about today's post is that, in my moments of feeling shattered, healing has found a way into the crevices of hurt.

Someone once told me that living with food allergies was a "lonely road that you walked alone."  Redundant, I know.  But I think it was to reiterate the absolute isolation that comes with a disease that no one knows what to do with.  I believed it for the longest time, but I'm thinking about changing my mind.

A few days ago, we visited A's allergist for G's allergy tests.  Out of habit, the Dr. took a look at A,  and commented on how beautiful her skin looked.  We talked about her progress and we got excited together about how she hadn't been hospitalized in the last FIVE months!  And then he asked about what A's wish was for "Make A Wish."  Oh yeah...HE was the reason we were granted a wish.  Dr. D took the time to play phone tag with the foundation in order to put in his recommendation.  We continued to talk about my vacation with A and he reminded me to take all her life saving medications/equipment with me.  He expressed his fear of her being so far away from her hospital but reassured me that I would know what to do to save her life in an emergency.  I had forgotten that there was someone else that feared for her life, worried for her safety, and dreaded the news of another reaction as much as we do.  We are not alone.

Days before that, I received a call from an old friend. Her baby was diagnosed with a severe nut allergy and with a trembling voice she called me to talk.  We covered this topic and that but, more importantly, we found companionship for this lonely journey.  Although I didn't tell her anything new, I knew that being available to talk and to share was the beginning of conquering the demon of hopelessness.  We can be agents of hope.

Last Tuesday, my friend came over with her kids and we fed the kids hotdogs because A and her son, both with food allergies, could share this meal along with the other kids without feeling left out.  We talked about parenting, apart from food allergies, and ended with her lovingly praying some much needed life-giving words over me.  Love conquers all.

Today a friend and I spontaneously decided to take our girls to the city for some mama/daughter time.  We had such a great time watching the girls play and enjoy childhood.  We went to the Children's Museum and watched them run from this exhibit to that exhibit lost in excitement.  We fed them lunch on the stairs and made a huge mess and washed their hands a billion times because we're germaphobes like that.  We went to Del Seoul and Molly's and the three of us enjoyed cupcakes while A had her special cookies.  It was memorable. But on the way there, I shared about how guilty I felt that I hadn't put too much effort into this year's birthday party due to our Hawaii plans.   I told her how I tried to make every party special because I wasn't sure how many birthdays I'd have left to celebrate.  And with mascara running down our faces from the sudden influx of tears, we shared a moment of humanness, vulnerability, and friendship.  Yes, we're made to walk together.  

Because, you see, life is short and unpredictable and we have a lot at stake-all of us.  We are vulnerable, we are weak, and no one is exempt from disappointment, failure, devastation, and life-altering moments.  The value of walking together comes full circle when we not only experience life's really good moments together but sit silently while someone unravels before our eyes and we cease our useless words and forbid a single judgmental thought.  Instead we sit and we wait and we cry and we shoulder the other's pain.  

This is solidarity.  This is love.  This is the gospel. 

And lastly, my very best example of a love that powers through despair and leaves behind hope.  "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose."  Romans 8:28

No we are not abandoned.  He is with us in all things, wiping away our tears, chasing away fear with his perfect love, and filling our temporary lives with an immeasurable hope of the things to come in eternity.  Above all, he is fashioning together all things (even tragedy) into something beautiful, something good.  If that doesn't bring healing, not much else will.

"Lord my God, I cried to you for help, and you healed me...weeping may endure through the night, but joy comes in the morning." Psalm 30:2,5