Our Week: Ducks, Morphine, and Photo Shoots

Rowan is again making the headlines in our home.
He has become the proud possessor of a duckling. He owns a black duck named Swift and Rose has a yellow quacker named Popcorn. Super cute and fun, Until Rowan didn't wash his hands well enough after cleaning the cage and came down with salmonella poisoning.
Our week, consisted of trying to determine why he was so sick and encompassed, one urgent care visit, one doctor visit, two ER visits, and finally hospitalization in a children's hospital. They checked for a huge array of diseases and infections which left us reeling from potential scenarios for our future and Rowan's future. Salmonella poisoning isn't usually hailed with glee, but in our case, it was.

Cutest culprits of infection ever

There were some beautiful gifts given in the process of all of this chaos and confusion.

Prayer. So many texts from so many dear friends telling us they were praying. Rowan recovered so much faster than anyone expected given the seriousness of his case, but I knew it was because he was covered in the prayers of God's people.

Bonds. As Rowan lay writhing in pain on a stretcher he kept calling for his brother. He burst into tears when Dave showed him a recent picture of them together on vacation. He kept repeating over and over, "God's got me. Dad and Mom have got me. Grant's got me." It blessed my heart to see how much he loves his brother.

Education. We had a nurse ask in the ER if Rowan was home schooled. We said yes and then Dave asked what gave it away. The nurse explained that most 11 year olds don't quote the entire Gettysburg Address when in duress. Right. Rowan also quoted the 24th Psalm and discoursed for a bit on his favorite civil war battle (Chickamauga). He was delirious with pain but what came out was what he had worked so hard to put in.

Our very sick little boy waiting for his CAT scan

Faith. Rowan wanted to listen to music in the ER while we waited for the results of a CAT scan. He chose to listen to Bethel's "It is well with my soul". A nurse commented that he doesn't hear that one much in the ER. We met some wonderful nurses and doctors who serve in a really hard setting with really sick people, yet they do so with such compassion and wisdom.

Pleasant surprises. On Friday we were told that our nurse, Jody, had won a nursing award. She was going to be featured in a magazine and have her picture in the lobby of the hospital up on the wall. She would be photographed with a patient and she chose Rowan. Rowan miraculously stopped writhing long enough to smile up at her while she took his temperature and stuff. Cracked.me.up. He's truly my son and photo shoots are not to be passed up NO Matter What.

Drugs. A shot of morphine gave Rowan much needed relief. He really liked the morphine and was later a bit irritated at the nurses who only offered ibuprofen and Tylenol. I woke up in the hospital Friday morning to Rowan's eyes boring into me as he stated, "I want more morphine." It was a good thing we had a lot of time together in the hospital because I was able to tell him every horror story of drug addiction I had ever heard. Pretty sure I got my point across as he refused Tylenol and ibuprofen after our hours long discussion.

Rowan in his hospital room contemplating escape

Home. We had some vague promises that we could go home from the hospital on Friday so when the doctor came in and said  Rowan's levels were too high for her to feel comfortable letting him go, we were both disappointed. But as soon as the doctor left the room, Rowan was more than disappointed. He was crushed. "I want my home. I want my dog. I want my brother. I want my bed. I want to go home." I tried to comfort him but he'd had it. He packed up his stuff and he told the nurse, "I am completely better. I want to go home." She listened to him. She talked to the doctor who agreed to do another blood draw. She found his levels so decreased that she was surprised and allowed him to go home. His face when he got here. His arms around his siblings. His hands on his dog. His smile and happiness and thankfulness filled my heart to overflowing.

So somehow, out of this crazy wild week, I emerged encouraged. Rowan slept 12 hours last night. He woke up weak and scrawny but so happy to be surrounded by the people who love him best. I hope all my kids always feel like that. That they know they have a place in something bigger than themselves and that our family also has a place in a bigger picture. I'm encouraged that even in the midst of all this mess God has got us, and my children know it. Praise the Lord.

Haiti

Last night I awoke to the sound of rustling.
My heart quickened and the thought that waved through my mind like a banner was, "There are angels in my room!"
Not perhaps a typical reaction, but then, it was my first night home from Haiti.

Dave and I left for Haiti on February 6th and were there for 9 days. We went with a team of 10 from our church to build a kindergarten classroom at a school that our church supports. However, when we got down there it turned out that there was a transportation strike over gas prices so it was impossible to run the risk of getting to the school. Instead, we started to build a house in the neighborhood of the seminary where we were staying. We were able to work in the community and later at the school and both experiences were amazing.

Dave is still there so I don't have any pictures to show until he gets back, as he has the camera. But I wanted to get some of my main impressions down.

Walking through the squalor of the neighborhood that first day was shocking. The houses are built stacked together (the "law" is 3 feet of space on every side). The paths between the houses are littered with garbage and waste. And this is where, walking through this labyrinth of bodies and homes and garbage, the image of our happy, well dressed, prosperous church chanting "God is good all the time, and all the time God is good" slapped up against this reality. I didn't want this slapping. Perhaps if I had gone to the school first, and seen all the happy, beautiful children in their school uniforms singing about Jesus, the contrast wouldn't have been so stark. But stark it was.

Slowly over the days, God allowed me to see a beautiful truth. That the working out of God's sovereignty, of His redemption, is in the very bowels of the earth that He created. That the layer we see here on the top, be it lovely or hellish, is only a very thin layer, and underneath that, He's moving. And often, the stirring in the depths will explode like a mini volcano of hope and light amidst the darkness. It was after seeing these mini explosions that I started to understand, He's here, He's working.

These explosions often came in the form of people. Mason and Lauren are missionaries in Haiti and long time friends. They serve the people of the community tirelessly. That doesn't mean they're not tired, but they are unfailingly motivated by the love of God for these people. They have helped rebuild dozens of houses for people living in scrap metal.

Johny, who laughs. Johny is the big Haitian man who started the school in Merger that our church supports. He drove to Merger daily even though it was often not safe to do so. He explained, "If the God in the Bible is real, He is able to get me safely to Merger." It was later reported to him by thugs that when they would lay in ambush to attack his car, his car would simply disappear. Yes, God is real. Johny saw a slum through the eyes of God and built a little school. The school now has almost 400 children and goes to grade 11. Next year the first child will graduate. These children are happy and bright and have a hope and faith in Jesus that is astounding.

WaWa is the president of the seminary. He had dinner with us and explained his heart for discipleship that surpasses just imparting Biblical knowledge to the students. He teaches the teachers how to invest in lives, like Jesus did, so that the students can see the practicality of loving Jesus. Yes.

We visited Chantelle who had a house built for her in 2011. She was laying on a thin blanket on the cement floor on the house. She had had diarrhea for 4 days (which was why she wasn't in a bed). When she saw several of the men who had built her house, she sat up and threw her arms open. They bent down to hug her. She had nothing but joy, nothing but gratitude for the roof over her head. We filed out of her home solemn, choked with the stench and the joy and the shock of having witnessed a volcano.

There were many other believers that we met that were faithfully, joyfully serving God among their people. They didn't look like volcanoes, but they were.

In truth, the very fact that our team was there was a volcano in itself. We hugged and kissed the children and we (the girls anyway) let them do our hair. We sang with them and laughed with them and told them "Jesus loves you" as we pressed our white finger onto their chocolate chest.
Jesus loves you. That is the truth that all the volcanoes proclaim.
God is working. Often it's in bowels, where it's not easy to see.
But I'm listening now, for the groaning and stirrings in the depths (or for the rustle of angel's wings).
I'm watching now, for the explosions of light that illuminate truth in this dark world.
Jesus loves you.

The people chanting "God is good all the time, and all the time God is good" were right, and it didn't matter what they looked like on the surface, because He's working in the depths just the same.

Following

I suppose it all started this summer when we said "yes" to God.
I suppose that's the way all true adventures start.
We said yes to a summer of "church in the woods" where we spent Sunday morning out in nature. We'd hike for a mile or so, plant ourselves by a stream or waterfall and read God's Word and pray together. It was different, but it was good.
We used the theme of "learn to follow God's trail" and expanded on that every week. We had planned to explore lots of different areas but we got hooked on the Columbia Gorge. It was breathtakingly beautiful. We took many amazing hikes there and saw many incredible waterfalls and had lots of time to talk about walking with the Lord.
On our last Sunday, as we walked away from Bridal Veil Falls, one of the boys asked me a question.
"Mom can we take this trail down to the water to play?"
I shrugged and said, "Sure, lets go."
Another little voice replied, "But Mom, you told us to always stay on the path."
Hmmm...I looked at the wide, well traveled path stretched out before us."Well, I told you to always stay on God's path. Sometimes, God's path may look a little different then we think it should. Just because the path isn't what you expected, don't assume it's not God's path."
We traipsed down the side trail and I had no idea that we were about to live the words I had just spoken.

On Dave's birthday in August we decided to go up to Mt. Hood. We thought, while we were up there we'd take a look at some property. Dave and I are house people. We love looking at houses, exploring houses, redecorating houses. We had looked for a year or so at houses on Mt. Hood but hadn't seen anything we liked. So we thought maybe we should look at property that we could someday build on. We contacted a realtor and gave him our requirements: at least 5 acres, stream, mountain view. I think he might have laughed.
Dave asked me what kind of a house I would like to build if we decided to go that route.
I thought for a bit and then said, "I'd like to build an English cottage. With rock around the bottom of it. Something in the way of a Thomas Kincade painting." I think he might have laughed.
So we went and it was a weekend full of magic. The realtor showed us the land and we weren't even vaguely interested. But he had something else to show us. A farm. A pear orchard to be exact. We pulled in the driveway and saw this.

Then we saw this.



Then this.

We also walked down to a creek. A lovely curvy murmuring thing of beauty.

I walked around the property in a daze. I was overwhelmed by a feeling of peace and silence like almost nothing I'd ever known. A feeling of being right where I was supposed to be.

We came home from that weekend and held a pow wow. We put numbers down on paper and Dave looked at me sadly and shook his head.

"There's absolutely no way we can afford it. I'm sorry."

"If we're supposed to have it, it'll happen. If not, then that's that."

Dave called the next day full of excitement. "We can refinance. We can get a lower interest rate and use the money we'll save to pay for the house as a second home. God just put this in my mind. We can do it!"

We didn't, but He did.

It was a long six weeks of working on it. But we moved in on Saturday. And the peace was stifling.

We met our neighbors. Christians.

We met the tenants who will be farming the pears for us. Christians.

We explored and marveled and praised.

Last week we were reading in Acts for school. We read the story of how God had to show Peter the vision of the clean/unclean animals three times before he understood that salvation was to be offered to the gentiles as well as the Jews. Cornelius the gentile, had a vision and right away obeyed.

Avonlea looked at me and said, "I love that. It seems in the Bible that the people who think they know God best are most surprised by what He does. It's the people that don't know Him that just do what He says."

I scribbled it down like this in my open prayer journal, "It's those of us who think we know what God is doing who are the most surprised by what He does."

We are still on His path it just looks completely different than we thought it was going to look.

We are following and we are right where we are supposed to be.

We are laughing at grace.







New

I paced the floor the morning I woke up in labor for the first time.I paced and I prayed for the life that was on the verge of coming.

Our family has been sick continually for almost 2 months now. We've had everything from staph to strep to stomach flu.
I am weary.
Weary of medicating, weary of changing sheets, weary of being patient with short tempers and fevers. Weary of the bother of it all. It seems the more weary I get the more selfish I allow myself to become. Tears of self pity are in abundance as I say the hollow words to my husband, "I'm tired." Sob.

Last week we held a five day club at our house. I really didn't want to, I felt the energy level of it was beyond me. But my children knew that there are changes going on with the government housing across the street from us and it's very likely that all the people that are there right now, won't be there next year.
"It might be their last chance to hear about Jesus mommy." Avonlea's words rankled.
She was right.

They came pouring into the yard on Monday afternoon to be welcomed by the friendly staff of Child Evangelism Fellowship.
And I felt again, acutely, the pangs of labor.
I began a circuit around the main floor, praying audibly, pacing relentlessly.
I paced and prayed for the lives that were coming.
For the precious spiritual birth of the children.
As I prayed for others, my weariness slipped quietly away, melting like snow in the sunlight.
Newness for me as well.

I remembered again, that "His yoke is easy and His burden is light," and that storing treasures in Heaven, is a work of intensity. Passion. But when I get caught up in the work, or the passion, or the intensity of the work, I miss the joy of being caught up in Him. Seeing the bigness of Jesus working in our neighborhood, reminded me of the littleness of me. The work is too heavy for me alone. Certainly I am too frail to bear up under the demands of many illnesses, or neighborhood evangelism, but He is not, and I was not made to be alone.

I watched the hope of Christ growing in the eyes of the children, and I was renewed.

"He who was seated on the throne said, "I am making everything new!" (Rev. 21:5)

The Orchard

Friday night falls softly and in the dusk I delight in my solitude. Dave is at work, the babes are in bed, my mom is at church. I wrap myself in my shawl, warm in the work of a friend's skillful hands, and head down to the orchard. I think I've dreamed this moment my whole life. There is something utterly magical about an orchard. The utopian scale of the individuality of the trees balanced with the consistent, predictable spacing. Our orchard has much personality with 16 different varieties of fruit. Trees bloom at random times, white, pink, salmon, cream. Grass and wild flowers surround the trees. The music of a fountain plinks close by.
As I wander, I remember.
The first time I saw this lot was when we looked at our house for the first time. Our house is on a slope and the road ends in a dead end. When we first saw it, it was a very dead end. A brutally murdered end. It was an empty lot overgrown with hideous weeds. Bumpy with potholes. Raccoons, wild cats, possums, made it their home. In the spring an occasional truck would 4-wheel though it, leaving our fence splattered and Dave boiling.
After we lived here for three years, my dad was diagnosed with lung cancer. We moved my mom and dad into the house next to the dead end lot. We wanted to be able to be near them, wanted to help. My dad died 5 days after they moved in. This left my mom alone with the dead end. That made me nervous. I talked to Dave about buying it (we had been told it was owned by the city). He agreed and went to work trying to prove to the city why it was necessary for them to sell us this lot.
He came home one day in a daze. The story, as he retold it, was ludicrous. He went to the city, was shuffled around to different people, and finally found someone who understood what he was talking about. The man looked up the lot and claimed that the city didn't own it, it was privately owned. Dave wanted the owner's information and the city man gave him an address of the people who owned the property.
It was our address.
That lot had, unknown to us, come with our house. We had owned it all along.
The pit at the end of the road has been transformed. It is full of life and beauty and nourishment.
It is redeemed.
All that time, it could have been more, we just didn't know it's possibilities.
Ownership made all the difference.
And now I walk in a petaled fairyland after a long trying week and I am praising the Lord because ownership has made all the difference to me as well.
I'm so glad I know who I belong to.

PS I know that "plinks" is not really a word, but don't you think it should be?

Miracles

We've lived in this house for eight years and I've never been in the attic. I suppose if I had to give a reason for this, I'd say because it's where dead things are buried. Things that we no longer use. The plastic coffin of baby Avonlea's stuffed lambies. Bins labeled "nostalgic" that no one will ever look in till I'm dead and their only comments will be, "why in the world was this nostalgic?" They won't know the story that consecrated it. But mostly, I think of the tombs of yearbooks, newspaper clippings, and journals of a girl that's long been laid to rest.

But Wednesday night it happened. Dave and all the kids were up there organizing Christmas stuff and I stifled my morbidness and climbed the ladder. I saw the relics of other houses; stools, pictures, and tables. I saw all the bins of clothes, some to my horror, mislabeled. And there, appropriately in the corner, were.....the remains. With much fear and trembling I took two boxes down with me. Avonlea and Grant were interested and I was curious myself, was I really as bad as I remembered?

I showed them my few childhood treasures, things that evoked all kinds of memories. Trophies, medals, banners, things that had stories dripping off them. I told what I could. Then it was bedtime and Dave put them down so I could finish the raiding. I read some journals, letters, poetry, and even college papers. I winced, I choked back tears for this wayward sinful child. I made the decision to cremate the remains.

The next day I was on the treadmill, walking briskly towards a new year's resolution. I was reading C.S. Lewis' Miracles. This book works out my brain while the treadmill works my body. Lewis was trying to differentiate between what our imagination conjures up and what our mind knows. For instance, if you were to say "attic" to me, I'd see my stack of journals and waylaid trophies. However, mentally, I'd know this wasn't the definition of "attic". An attic is a storage area under the eaves that is usually unfinished and primitive. We do this all the time. If we're not thinking critically we can mistake the image in our head for the actual definition.

People do this with miracles. They hear the word and get a mental image of Jesus raising Lazarus or feeding the 5,000 or something similar during his earthly ministry. Or perhaps Noah's ark or Jonah's aquatic adventures come into our minds. These were absolutely miracles....but those aren't the definition of miracle, just examples. Lewis defines a miracle as, "an interference with nature by a supernatural power."

It hit me last night as I walked by the boxes, stacked, ready to be taken back up to the crypt.

I am a miracle!

God interfered with the natural way my life was headed by supernatural power. I am miraculously saved by His grace! That corpse of my old life lay there because of His supernatural interference in my life. When I think critically, guided by the definition of miracles, I can see them all around me. The changed lives of my friends, my husband, my children. The altered outcomes of anxious situations. Things that in all rights should have ended tragically, but ended joyfully. Miracles!

I see many more trips to the attic in my future. There is much that needs to be sorted and weeded out and I am not afraid to do it. I am a new creation cleaning out the old cocoon and thanking God for resurrection!

"In the same way, count yourselves dead to sin but alive to God in Christ Jesus." Romans 6:11