when words are few

words to share have not been many on here this year, yet God is keeping us, as we finish our book and search for a house to buy and wait for the breaking of spring.

ian continues to see God's help in therapy, progressing to walking with just the help of parallel bars and not his therapist. he's not giving up.

we're thankful that joy in our marriage is not granted because of our merit but because God loves us and treats us as His children.

thank you for sharing in His work with us.
L

the measure

i've been waiting for her book, since she mentioned the thesis in a philadelphia restaurant last spring.

she wanted to share the biblical perspective on women's work, that it's not defined by location or geography. it's not defined by diapers or conference calls.

thank you, friend, for writing this.

"as Christians, we are to be grounded in this identity (...a follower of Christ...) even as we add other roles and ways to express that identity in relationship to others. we might have an interesting job for a season. we might be married for a season. we might have children at home for a season.  

but those things can be taken away from us or never given to us at all. they are gifts for this life only.

Jesus has promised that if we choose to sit at his feet, we have made the best choice of all. we will inherit the better portion, that which will never be taken away; a relationship with God, his word and the promise of eternal rewards and life with him in heaven. in one simple sentence, Jesus shifts our earthbound perspective and takes us high above our daily lives to see the importance of being His disciple."

-larissa

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

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."

when the holidays hurt

"i just wish i could skip the holidays," she told me, as she dreaded the days that meant more memories flooding to mind. memories of the little red-head life that left too soon. 

i get it. ian gets it. 

because the holidays don't always look like we want them to. or like we think they should.

because some of us are in a house alone thanksgiving morning. some of us don't have a home. some of us have closed wombs and kids with wandering souls and gaping heart wounds and some of us, some millions of us, weren't even given the chance to breathe this year.

some of our holidays don't fit into pinterest-shaped boxes.

some of us, when we get back to work, will be asked how our holiday was and we'll fake a smile and say "great." but it didn't really feel great.

sometimes, holidays hurt. because the pressure of expectations builds and the reality of our lives doesn't change on  a thursday in november or on december 25.

yet, there's that blood. that blood that was wrought to fill us every day. the mercy blood that doesn't skip holidays but is there, available, when we dig in and let it cover us. 

For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is his steadfast love toward those who fear him; as far as the east is from the west, so far does he remove our transgressions from us. As a father shows compassion to his children, so the Lord shows compassion to those who fear him. For he knows our frame;he remembers that we are dust.
psalm 103:11-14

that blood is there, and when we allow ourselves to enter in to it and know that all of this, before and behind, is grace, we can put one foot in front of the other.

we can fight to have hope. and fight to give thanks. and fight to love. because Jesus did it for us.
  

new

we tucked ourselves underneath the feathers of our big fluffy spread, our goose bumps giving in to their warmth. i sat with our bible opened on my knees, a hot cup of tea within my reach for us to share.

"what do you want to do for our quiet time," he had asked, a question that spurs smiles because it means he's feeling well.

we've been reading proverbs, and so made our way there again.

All the ways of a man are pure in his own eyes, but the Lord weighs the spirit.

we were sharing our hearts, how differently we see ourselves than how God sees us.

Everyone who is arrogant in heart is an abomination to the Lord; be assured, he will not go unpunished. 

our patterns, so similar, mine not as refined as his. the habit of anger and pride, that lead to destruction but are so hard to overcome.

"ian, i know i've been given a new heart. but sometimes my old self, that still wants to sin, feels so nearby."  

"it is. that's why we need Jesus."

in seven words he takes me to the heart of it, to the heart of my human-ness. in those words he takes me to the heart of our marriage - a relationship that helps me to love and fear God more.

these moments, they are beautiful.

love
L  

love is

 it's easy to recite the verse, the one that we hear at weddings and memorize in sing-song tones as children.

Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful;  it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.

it's easy to hear it, and know it, but to really sink into our bones is different. patience is still sinking in to mine, and nothing has pressed patience into me more than our marriage. because life with a brain injury is slow. and it's  unknown. and it's not clearcut.

which creates a greater void that needs to be filled with patience. which is exactly where i need to be stripped. which is why God gave me to ian.

i needed him to help me learn patience.

like when he doesn't answer me as quickly as i want him to. 

or when i just really want him to be able to walk on his own. (because even in the midst of the excitement of his progress, my heart still sins).

or when we don't yet have what we think we need.

i. i. i. that's what i make it about. the root of my inpatience is my selfishness.

and if someone had been watching, filming, observing my heart and outward acts for the last two days toward my husband, they would not see love that was kind, or un-resentful or patient.

i don't see that in myself.

but i do see my god, hanging on a tree for me, that my impatience might not separate me from him. i see his blood traveling down his body and onto his toes and drip on the ground so that i not be lost in my sin. 

i see his head slumped down by death so that i my face may be lifted up to gaze in His face on the ressurrection day.

this was done for me. and for our marriage.

when we cause other people to be grateful

"i start to get upset about the small things in life and then i think of you guys and i'm filled with gratefulness for all that i have."

i know what they're trying to say. but what they're trying to say is not what i hear.

"sometimes i think my life is hard but then i think about you and realize that you have it much worse than me. then that makes me grateful for all of the prosperity i have in my own life because at least my life isn't as bad as yours."

that's what i hear.

i try not to hear that, try not to have thoughts that twist someone's intended encouragement.

but it's hard to respond to my husband's suffering when we're told we're a source of someone's gratefulness. because then I walk around thinking that people are looking at us and thanking God, or their version of a god, that they're not as messed up as we are. that inherently makes us a victim.

we want to be driven to thankfulness. but we don't want people to be thankful because they don't have trials "as bad as ours," because some day they might and then that crutch that was built will be gone. that comparison, that "at least its not this," sets our heart on a best case scenario instead of on God, with whom there are no best case scenarios - only sovereignty.

i want to be thankful that we have a god so big even the winds and the waves obey Him. when people see us, i want them to be thankful because they see a god that redeems and upholds and a god that sits on His throne. to derive gratefulness from comparison, to maintain the "there are starving kids in Africa" mentality makes the children a victim or object of pity and sets us up for failure when the starvation comes to our families because of adultery, or car accidents, or heartbreak.

to build our thankfulness on comparison and anything other than God himself will only deprive us of the joy that is to be found in deeply-rooted thanksgiving.

i'm praying that i get to that root myself, because the comparisons i make are a costly habit.

thank you, always
L

to myself, a reminder

this is for myself, a reminder for when the next day comes that was like the last. a reminder on the next day that i don't know how to enjoy with a brain injury and the day that the things he used to do are all that i see. this is a reminder for the next time my mind has my bags packed and i wonder how i will keep loving.

there is someone who has already swallowed up my marriage and someone who has already swallowed up my loss. it has been finished and so i can wait with my husband, tearfully, and know that my way has already been made for me. i can wake in the morning with mercies that don't seem new and know that this has already been done for me.

it was done before i was born. done before i knew him. before mrs. murphy.

i can keep making my way in hope because He has made me His own.

i can know that this has nothing to do with me. but instead, Him.

it's not pity

i struggle sometimes with the focus of our blog, our book, our encouragement from others. sometimes the encouragement, unintentionally, makes ian into an object of pity. 

sometimes ian's value is sacrificed with a well-intended encouragement to me.

sometimes all i hear is that i've made a sacrifice. that i've made a hard choice. that i'm the focus.

sometimes we forget that the one who is disabled has made a sacrifice.

as we sat this weekend at a film festival, i looked at ian sitting next to me. i listened to the screen, to the documentary voices telling me about the gift of stepping into the darkness of loss and disability and grief.

i looked at ian who i came into this darkness with and who is a pure gift to me.

i didn't know how to love until ian. i didn't know how to love until God led us into darkness, together. 

ian has fought for seven years. ian has entered into marriage knowing that he would have infinite losses. he knew that he would be marrying someone who wouldn't always feel in love with him and who wouldn't always be kind. he knew that he would live an entire life of giving up his preferences and thinking of someone else first and making hard decisions for the sake of Christ, all with a disability. he could have given up or chosen despair or been afraid that God couldn't keep our love.

i asked ian last night why he married me.

laughing, "because I love you."

ian is not to be pitied. i am not to be pitied. God is to be rejoiced. 

the foundation of all that we are is love. love saved us. love moves us. love molds us. 

this, for us, was not learned in health.

he knew

Steve wrote this on our blog in 2007, just two years before he passed away. i'm glad he knew where he was headed.

"I long for heaven. There the good that I'll experience is not temporary or fleeting or fading or tainted by trials. Here on earth, any good is temporary. Car wrecks taint life. Things are taken away from us. We don't always experience things we would prefer. My emotional investment and the focus of my faith can't be the things of this life, but my hope has to be in that imperishable inheritance that's kept in heaven for me. So many dreams and things and relationships throw me off and distract my longing for heaven. I need to hold out for what's best; I need to hold out for heaven."

fraudulent

"you shouldn't have said that today, maybe that sounded harsh, you're assuming a heart motive, that's not believing the best of that person, you're angry again, you're inpatient again," the voices in my heart and in my head drone on all day.

eventually my body sits to write - to be the means of a story God has written that has nothing to do with myself.

a calendar with dates for talking to people in public, at retreats, conferences - who am i to have this place?

my sins rattle throughout my brain all day and tell me that this is fraud.

that this experience, this public story we're telling, is not worthy of being told by me. that my sin somehow cancels out anything God would do through us.

that this husband, so sweet and foundational should have more than this sinning wife.

"the Lord your God is in your midst; a might one who will save; he will rejoice over you with gladness; he will quiet you by his love; he will exalt over you with loud singing." - zephaniah 3:17

my God still rejoices over me. he will quiet me.

so humbly and dependently we make our way.

"Who, oh Lord, could save themselves,
Their own soul could heal?
Our shame was deeper than the sea
Your grace is deeper still"

he perseveres

Studying Philippians 4:1.

I asked my husband why we need perseverance:

"Cause we need to make it to heaven. It's a fight to stand firm in the gospel. In suffering (like mine) it means fighting against self pity and the temptation that He doesn't care. But He is loving to me because He gave up his own life. I can persevere - giving up my life should be easy then."

hope of heaven

"But our citizenship is in heaven, and from it we await a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ,  who will transform our lowly body to be like his glorious body, by the power that enables him even to subject all things to himself." - Philippians 3:20-21

We're gonna fit in in heaven. We don't fit in here because our citizenship is in heaven. (...will transform our lowly body) means everything. He can take our bodies and make them glorious like His. It's wonderful because he owns us and will make us perfect.

This makes me realize that nothing here (like my disability) truly matters. What matters is heaven.

You're only gonna have this body for a short time.

-Ian

love gives life

our cousin, evan may, recently self-published an e-book that studies 1 corinthians. evan is married to rebekah and they are expecting their first little one this year. if you read this good little book, you may find two familiar names in chapter 4. enjoy!

click to find on Amazon.

called, for the glory of God

"Paul, called by the will of God, to be an apostle of Christ Jesus" 1 Cor. 1:1

reading tonight, and listening to a teaching, and thinking of how Paul was called to be an apostle, and how as Christians we are called to a purpose for the glory of God - this strikes us.

this week  on vacation, we don't have a caregiver with us and we don't have murphy brothers with us who know just how to care for ian. and while it can be tiring, taking care of ian is what fills me, and teaches me, and humbles me and moves me toward heaven. when i have days with just ian, i am completed much differently than days at my office.

tonight as we read with the rain falling on the leaves outside, and as we draw nearer to our book really happening, and as we look at requests for speaking, our purposes become a little bit clearer.

this marriage, this hard and magnificent marriage, is to what we are called.

ian murphy, called to be a disabled husband, for the glory of God.

larissa murphy, called to be a wife, for the glory of God.

"but now thus says the Lord,

he who created you, O Jacob,

he who formed you, O Israel,

Fear not, for I have redeemed you;

I have called you by name, you are mine."

here it is, again

"craniotomy. he had part of his brain removed."

she was on the other end of the phone, asking pre-op questions for something so minor compared to where he's been. she didn't know the memories that one word was stirring.

i hate talking about medical stuff. especially when it's ian's brain. 

tomorrow, a day that celebrates two years of being wed, we head to pittsburgh until wednesday - first an injection and then surgery on wednesday. lots of time in the waiting room. hopefully not too much time to think. hopefully praying.

please pray that this would be a simple surgery for ian and that there would be no cancer. and that he would heal quickly - vacation is just a few days awayl. most of all, please pray for peace. hospitals bring so many things to mind.

thank you

i&l

an ordinary day. An extraordinary god.

over the past 12 hours, our story has been watched more than 86,000 times. this is astounding. and to ian in particular, it is worth it: "i would do this (disability) all over again if i knew it would affect this many people. god is glorious."

and so here we are, knowing that literally thousands of people just today have hopefully somehow seen god through our marriage. that in itself is mind-blowing. because it is so not of us. we are so very ordinary. tonight is so very ordinary. ian is napping. the rain is pouring outside and the washer downstairs is spinning. the poor clothes in the washer probably won't get switched until I get home from work tomorrow. and by that time, they'll need to be re-washed. i can't see the floor of our bedroom, our laundry completely taking over. i'm putting off making dinner, even though all it requires is putting leftovers on a plate and into the microwave.

and yet, in the midst of this ordinary, the weight of what has happened today through this video and what will continue to happen pummels me. it pummels me because what god is accomplishing through our afflictions is happening at the same time that we are sinning. What a great divide that crosses. What wretched sinners Ian and I are, and yet somehow, He uses us to magnify himself. Our sin does not prevent god's glory on display.

on days like this, we get just a glimpse of this promised eternal weight of glory, as undeserved as it is, and it is enough to bring us to our knees. how great this weight will be in heaven!

one thing that we love and hold so close on days like this is that our dad, steve, now feels and knows that weight of glory. he prepared us so well and we can't wait to see him again. one of the biggest impressions on my heart the few days after he died was that he was seeing fully. and that he would encourage us to press on, because it is beyond worth it.

thank you, all. in the words of my dear husband, god is awesome.

i&l

"And He is full of grace. Ah! had He not been, I should never have been saved. He drew me when I struggled to escape from His grace; and when at last I came all trembling like a condemned culprit to His mercy-seat, He said, Thy sins, which are many, are all forgiven thee: be of good cheer.'

And He is full of truth. True have His promises been; not one has failed. I bear witness that never servant had such a master as I have; never brother such a kinsman as He has been to me; never spouse such a husband as Christ has been to my soul; never sinner a better Saviour; never mourner a better comforter than Christ hath been to my spirit. I want none beside Him. In life He is my life, and in death He shall be the death of death; in poverty Christ is my riches; in sickness He makes my bed; in darkness He is my star, and in brightness He is my sun; He is the manna of the camp in the wilderness, and He shall be the new corn of the host when they come to Canaan.

Jesus is to me all grace and no wrath, all truth and no falsehood: and of truth and grace He is full, infinitely full. My soul, this night, bless with all thy might the only Begotten.'"

-charles spurgeon