the littles

"if i were him, i'd just want someone to hold me," steve said, one day, years ago, when ian was still really sick and steve was still alive.

i knew what he meant because in the desperation of ian's condition those first few weeks, months after the accident, there was nothing we could do for ian. except to show him we loved him.

but there was always a bed in the way. and i wasn't strong enough to lift his stiff torso toward me.

or there was always a wheelchair in the way, and he couldn't lean forward so i could get a good wrap in.

so at night, when steve and the care giver would help ian sit up on the exercise mat steve built, i would wait. and sit and wait. and cancel plans because i didn't want to miss that moment. that moment when steve would open the bedroom door and let me know that i could come in and hug him.

i could put my arms all the way around him. because he was sitting on the edge of his exercise mat, nothing behind him.

my torso was holding his up, but i was around him.

and he tried to lift his arm to be around me, too.

and i forget those times, when a hug was all it took to get me through another day. how ungrateful i've allowed myself to become, forgetting that one of the greatest gifts, holding and being held, is right next to me every day.

it's  there and it's so sweet. and he now always  wants to be with his wifey. and when someone starts to pray, he reaches for my hand. and when i sit next to him, his arm wraps my waist. and sometimes he squeezes the extra skin that wasn't there a few years ago and we laugh because he's not supposed to notice but we have changed in these nine years.

God gives us joys in the littles.

He gives us joy when we look for it in the most over-looked movements.

and even though i forget, what a great God there is surrounding me.

tonight, i'm thankful for arms that wrap me into him tight.

He followed us

she came to visit us, our life photographer, on a warm summer day to take photos to be on the inside flap of a book that was being scripted each evening after dinner.

that day was the first time he could do this,

stand next to me, with just my hand helping him, not with my arm around him, like we needed to in all of the photos from this day

 

where my arm was hidden around his back, helping him, balancing him, and we couldn't stand and simply hold hands.

this summer came to ian in strength, upgrading to a walker, and then a cane and committing to walking by year 30. he left the house without a wheelchair for the first time and he walked out the front doors of his mom's house for the first time.

2013 was a big year.

yet, on a day that becomes reflective for so many of us, that's not what i most see.

what i most see is a hard-fought year, with fears and exposure and costs and crying and days sitting in front of a blank computer screen wondering why we signed a contract- that were all swallowed up by what was following us. by what was behind us and before us. 

it was a year swallowed up in God.

it was a year that He swallowed us up, taking our inadequacies that were asked to put our story into 75,000 words, our legs that were asked to learn to walk again, our hearts that at times wanted out.

He followed us with mercy, and made our hopeless mornings and our sweet, quiet date nights and our laughter at his inappropriate jokes into beautiful life canvases.

He followed us with His goodness, keeping us, with his white-knuckle grip.

He blessed us, with two new nieces and nephews, bring number seven and eight into our hearts that four years ago didn't know that type of love.

He kept us, in each other, faithful and honorable to our covenant.

And all that we were given in Him will continue to be, so that this coming year that looms with exposure as our feebly written pages will be carried home in shopping bags and delivered with the mailman won't be faced apart from mercy. Or Himself. Or joy, in the most unexpected places.

He will follow us, and someday, someday hopefully soon, we will dwell in His house, forever.

With love,

I&L

treadmills and holidays

last week, ian got on a treadmill at therapy with assistance from us. on his best round, he got about 10 steps in on his own as he held on onto the handles.

it's small to us that have full use of our legs, but to ian, it was a huge step.

in a few hours we leave for the mountains and the city, to celebrate jesus with our wonderful families.

please enjoy times of rest and hope.

love
i&l

a spark

we were talking about the acronym the pastor gave us, reminding us about the ways of love, how they look and feel and act.

we were sitting in a small room, circled together, thinking on how we distribute love and who we know that does it so well.

"ian, how are we to love our spouses?", our group leader asked.

"thinking of them before yourself."

we kept reflecting on love and what it looks like and then what i always fear happened, as i saw the effect of a catheter that decided to stop working. i saw on the floor what is always on my mind in public; i saw my own example of what joni eareckson tada has spoken of many times before, the fears that remain into adulthood when disability lives in your body.

i left the room quickly, discreetly, to find what i needed to hide it, remove it, fix it.

when i came back into the room, she stood up and moved closely to us, gently reminding us that we were family. gently reminding us that we need not be embarrassed, that they loved and would help us.

and there it happened, the love that we were speaking of, the acting out of Jesus death and what it did for us. they helped us to the car. they cleaned up after us when we left. they joyfully loved.

in the safety of our car,

"ian, i'm so sorry. i'm so sorry that those embarrassing things happen."

then tears because it was a hard week and because lies were making a home in my heart.

"ian, i don't understand this. i hate this."

"joy is closer than you think."

"how can you handle this? i'm so sick of this brain injury."

"God gives me joy in the stupid things, like caths breaking."

i asked him how, because i didn't get how he could be laughing, while he sat in wet sweat pants, and while i cried.

"because this is all so fleeting."

then quietly, in our little white car, his truth knocked out the lies in my head. his Psalm 73 truth cut through the lies that i was believing.

and there, in the midst of the week that was holding anything other than hope, i experienced the little miracles that i had read about earlier that morning. the little miracles of hope.

in the midst of a week of crying and longing and heaviness, the miracle of Jesus, living out in my husband, living out in our small group, who entered into our lives and put on Jesus love instead of selfishness or judgement.

and deep inside, a little spark grew, just a fraction, but enough to remind us.

"God is in this."

hope

"ian, you bring a lot of hope to people."

"do i bring hope to you?"

pause, because i wanted to hear more.

"why do you ask?"

"because that's the most important one."