Just a Story

This morning on our way home from her 12-year checkup, I told my daughter I wanted to write a blog post but had nothing to say. She looked at me sideways, the way only a middle school daughter can, and said, "You know what to write about." So I just have a story tonight, and maybe there's no moral at the end. But you've been warned. 💕

Today my little baby girl pre-teen daughter went to get her booster vaccines for 7th grade - three shots in a row. I've written in the past about how this child stares pain in the eye, and pain always looks away first. So I wasn't surprised that I flinched at the shots while she sat perfectly still. 

I was surprised a few minutes later when I turned around in the checkout line and saw her flushed red, staring blankly into space. The question: "Are you ok?" The answer: "No." My adrenaline spiked, ready for battle right there in the lobby. 

To give a little perspective on what her "no" meant, let me tell you a story. When Chloe was six, she fell off the monkey bars at our neighborhood park and said her elbow was hurting. I asked the pain scaling question, and she shrugged, "Two? It only hurts when I move it." I had her sit on the couch with an ice pack for an hour before I noticed her trembling. The question: "Are you ok?" The answer: "It just hurts a little." 

Turned out to be broken. A broken bone hurt "a little." 

So hearing her admit she wasn't ok today set the panic in motion. She said her eyes were getting blurry, the colors darkening, and her ears had a "weird sound" in them. To top it off, her legs and arms were bright red. 

I told the registration clerk we needed help, that my daughter was having a reaction to the vaccine. (A short lesson on assumptions: Everyone in the lobby probably assumed I meant the COVID vaccine, but that wasn't on the roster today.) 

Suddenly everyone behind the counter was running. Within seconds, Chloe was seated in a room with a nurse and physician, being assessed for an allergic reaction. The whole way there, all my prayers were the old standby: "Jesus, help us." 

Thankfully, she was fine. Her body had responded strongly, but she was ok after sitting with the doctor for a few minutes. We left and went to Panera to reward our bodies for surviving the trauma. 

And tonight I'll just say this: 

I'm grateful my girl is home tonight. I won't stop checking on her every five minutes for a while, and she won't stop telling me she's fine. But something like this puts into perspective how quickly life can change, how uncontrollable our lives really are. 

Out of our control, but in God's control - which, on balance, is fine since half the time I can barely manage to match my socks let alone keep the universe spinning. 

Talking about things this afternoon, Chloe told me she remembers that I got loud and demanding in the reception area (a first for me!). And she told me she was glad I did because it made people hurry to help her. 

She knows I was there for her in all the ways I could be, and that's enough for her. And I know my Father was there for us in all the rest, and that's enough for all of us.  

Thankful, 

Becki 

 

Missing Mountains

If you've ever seen Phineas and Ferb, you'll understand what I mean when I say I'm 100% their mom. 

She's the mom who's supportive and loving but also distracted and busy. The mom who doesn't notice when her kids build an amusement park or a ski lodge in the backyard. The mom who's felt the cold fear of saying, "Mm-hmm, that's fine," to her kids and then realizing she has NO idea what they'd asked to do. 

And truth be told, I'm not just distracted as a mom. By nature I'm a daydreamer, a thinker, my mind always only paying half attention to wherever I am in the moment. 

But sometimes even I'm amazed by what I miss. 

Last year, Darryl was driving me to a nearby town when I looked to the left and noticed a breathtaking sight. The landscape left me in awe - rolling farmland surrounded by trees, their leaves shimmering yellow in the autumn chill, hemmed in by the WV hills in all their blue-green glory. It was an incredible, unforgettable sight. 

Sitting in the passenger's seat, I thought to myself, "I've never seen anything that beautiful here before." 

And then it hit me: 

This landscape was the very one I'd passed every weekday on my commute home from work. Five times a week for two years, I'd driven past those same fields and trees and mountains. And until I got out of the driver's seat, I'd literally never noticed them. 

I'd literally missed a mountain, guys. 

And really, what else is there to say about that? Except maybe this: 

When everything seems dark and hard and stressful in life

and we can't find anything to celebrate, 

is it maybe because we're so busy trying to move life's mountains that we forget, 

sometimes, 

to just enjoy them? 

Looking around for more, 

Becki 

In the Dark

 "We must pass through the darkness to reach the light." - Albert Pike 

It was a dark and stormy day. 

Ok, so it wasn't stormy. But it was seriously dark last Sunday morning, overcast and cool as you might expect in Seattle but not so much in the Mountain State in the middle of July. 

And if I'm completely honest, the morning perfectly suited my mood. Strolling in with my hair freshly washed and my dress newly steamed, I wished I could just keep my (utterly unnecessary) sunglasses on all morning to hide the caverns under my eyes. 

An observant friend later asked in concern, "Are you tired today?" I smiled and said it was a rough night, but that was only half the truth. The full truth is I haven't slept through the night since sometime last year. I'm not an insomniac, and Darryl says falling asleep quickly is my superpower. But I sleep like a baby, interrupted every few hours by screaming (alarms). [Insert uninteresting medical explanation here.]

So back to Sunday morning - suffice it to say that even for me, the night before had been rough. I didn't sleep. Darryl didn't sleep. We (of course) woke up early and went to church anyway. 

And on the way in the door, the dark sky suited me just fine. 

In worship as we sang, I was suddenly overcome with heaviness. Discouragement settled in, and I sank to my chair and told God I felt like a captive in my own body. I felt exhausted, limited, and frustrated. I felt overwhelmed and discouraged. I felt, to be frank, completely useless. 

Trying to control my tears and not alarm my daughter (again) by crying, I attempted to quiet my heart and just wait. 

Suddenly in my mind, I saw an image of the skies outside, the overarching gloom and the utter lack of sunshine. In despair, I bowed my head (name that song!) and prayed the prayer that has carried me through this year: "Help me. Jesus, help me."  

At that moment an old favorite psalm, memorized many years ago, came to mind: 

"Where shall I go from your Spirit, or where shall I flee from your presence? . . . If I say, 'Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light about me be night,' even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is bright as the day, for darkness is as light with you." 

- Ps. 139: 7, 11-12 

And I sensed the Spirit moving over the face of the deep, speaking this truth: 

The Light of the World isn't afraid to walk into the darkness to find us. Even as we stumble around in shame and despair, he's right there with us. Darkness can never overcome his light.  

And I thought maybe if I was feeling this way myself - like I couldn't even write because I was so uninspired, discouraged, and just plain tired - that maybe some of you were, too. 

And I thought I might reach out with just this little flame to light the candle you've been clutching in the dark, and to remind you

 - remind us all - 

that darkness is as light to our Father.

Even the darkest Sunday is as bright as day for him. 

Taking off the sunglasses, 

Becki