Mar 19, 2013 | In the Name of Love
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.
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.
xCC
With gratitude to the Dad who called out the words in me, before I knew I had them.
***
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Mar 11, 2013 | In the Name of Love
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
Feb 28, 2013 | In the Name of Love, The Good Word
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
Feb 20, 2013 | In the Name of Love, The Good Word
I wondered about it again on the way to preschool this morning. It seems inevitable, after the scramble to find a bookbag, zip the coats, slip on the shoes, buckle three small people into three car seats, there is a calm that follows and my mind starts flooding.
While we’re out, and in the car, and on the way, I always seem to think about how long it will be like this. Not at all in a how much longer do I have to suffer this but more of a how much longer until they’re grown and gone and I start missing this?
{As if life itself isn’t enough of a reminder…this little Tank is turning two on Sunday!}
And this morning I was already wondering as I backed down the driveway: what will they remember of these days? When they’re grown and gone off to college or country or career, or children of their own — what will stand out in their minds?
I have this funny memory from my childhood of our wood-paneled minivan, and my Mom and I on the way to the beach. I am sitting on the floor in front of the front seat, turned around to use the seat as a table, eating a sausage biscuit from Hardees. {No surprise my memories often involve food.} And it’s a happy memory — I am excited that I’m going to the beach, I’m excited that I get to sit on the floor, I’m excited because I like sausage biscuits. {America’s answer to the bacon roll with brown sauce, for you Scots I love.}
But what will the Collie kids remember from their childhood? Will they remember our house often being a bit of a mess? End-of-the-month pancakes? Getting their ears tugged for not listening?
I realize I’m afraid to discipline them when they need it because I don’t want that to be what they remember. If we only have eighteen years with each of them under our roof, I want eighteen years of happy. Eighteen years of silly. Eighteen years of bike rides and tickle fights and dancing in the living room.
But there has to be time out in the crib. Sometimes the wooden spoon has to speak to a naughty backside. And I suppose it’s more important for them to be balanced and disciplined individuals eighteen years from now — than for them to just be happy and feel like the Hubs and I are their very good friends.
I heard the story once of some great theologian’s mother, pulling her apron up over her head to pray, in a kitchen full of kids with a case of the naughties. Last night, even after they slept, I still wanted to pull my apron over my head.
I am committed now, more than ever before, because I’m more hungry for help than ever before: parenting needs to start with prayer.
I want them to remember happy, and joy, and pancakes, but even more I want them to remember Who the Lord is, why we love Him, how we live for Him. And I’m trusting Him for two things now: the direction to lead these kids, and love them well, and that they’ll remember more than just the moments where a time-out or a wooden spoon or a toy put up in the closet was the focus. I’m trusting they’ll remember how accepted, how treasured, how loved they are…always and no matter what.
Isn’t it beautiful — I think He wants us to remember the same thing.
xCC
Feb 12, 2013 | For the Weekend, In the Name of Love, Quiver Tree Photography
Hi guys & gals! The Hubs is away this week, so I am looking forward to getting some take-out with my Mama this Valentine’s Day, but my brain was a’storming with ideas for those of you who might need some last minute creativity for doing something special with your lerve this weekend. You don’t necessarily have to spend a wad of cash to have a great evening with your sweetheart or even just hanging with some friends – here are some of my favourite ideas for enjoying a moment together.
{This is a little something I doodled up with a picture I liked from our first Valentine’s photo session. Do you like it?}
I decided to make this list locally oriented but universally applicable — here’s hoping more of you dear readers and friends will come visit so we can meet in real life!! Some of these do have more of a married couple-leaning, but I kind of think married couples don’t always make it a priority to celebrate staying in love... so I think that’s a good thing!
{If you ladies want to forward this to your hero hubses…just try to do so nicely…}
1. Spend an Evening at Her Service :: If the sweetheart in your life spends a lot of time in the kitchen or the laundry room, you can bless her heart (and perhaps her hands and feet) without breaking the bank this Valentine’s. Set the table, light the candles, make (or order in) a dinner she’s sure to like, pour her a drink and let her relax. Make sure you finish strong by doing the dishes! You won’t spend much, but you’ll earn big points in the process.
2. Treat her to a spa day :: if you’re looking for a great gift idea, this is a great way to impress. She’ll be proud of you for darkening the door of a ladies’ salon or spa just to buy a gift certificate. A facial… a manicure… a massage… there are heaps of great choices to make her feel fabulous. Drop by Oasis Hair Salon & Spa in downtown Washington and she’ll be able to enjoy that getaway without leaving town!
3. Hit a local gem like The Bank for a slice of culinary delight — their set menu for Valentine’s Day includes Ahi Tuna, Prime Rib or Rich Chicken, Creme Brûlée and a wine perfectly paired with your choices! (Apologies to you out-of-towners… but this is one more good reason to come visit!)
4. The humble picnic basket is far-too-often neglected when it comes to a romantic outing. Grab extra blankets in case the weather’s still chilly, plan a walk at Goose Creek or perhaps a bike ride downtown, grab an easy-to-eat dinner and the perfect cheese and wine accompaniments and you can enjoy some time just the two of you, just about anywhere.
5. If your sweetheart enjoys a fine wine or two, why not create an at-home wine tasting experience? Pull out extra glasses, create a peaceful ambience with music and candles, and make a sweet memory. The folks at Wine & Words (downtown Washington) can coach you on great wine choices to pair with dinner or hors d’oeuvres — take notes of the descriptions of your selections and you’ll impress with your skills as a sommelier!
6. Add in just a little something out of the ordinary. Before dinner, stroll through the Estuarium or go for a dig at the Aurora Fossil Museum. (Be sure to check their opening times before you make plans!)
7. Sometimes the best way to spell love is T-I-M-E. Stretch out your time together just doing a little strolling or shopping. Stop by the Inner Banks Artisans Center downtown and check out the Quiver Tree Gallery! 🙂
8. Turn into an American Picker! Go thrifting for a special piece that can grace a perfect spot in your home. Remember to look for potential, even if you don’t have the inclination to handle a paint brush. If you’re in Washington, the gals at Cottage Junkies can refurbish or paint that special find for you! Every time you see it, it’ll be a sweet memory.
9. Go all-out for an all-inclusive experience. Quiver Tree Photography is offering a Sweetheart Package this February for just $299. Combining a sunset photo session in downtown Washington and a three course dinner for two with a bottle of wine at a great new local restaurant {Have you tried Zaitona yet?} is sure to create a Valentine’s to remember. We’re even taking care of the roses.
Do you have any special plans this week? While you’re enjoying them, say a prayer for la casa de Collie! It might get a little wild around here before HH gets back!
xCC
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