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Morning coffee wasn't a part of my routine when this story took place in the spring and summer of 1996. In fact my parents purchased the coffee pot we owned for their occasional visits.
While this series of events may seem a bit fantastical, a unique calm fills the deepest place in my soul when I think back on it all. I don't understand it. But I learned - one more time - that we're never alone.
While this series of events may seem a bit fantastical, a unique calm fills the deepest place in my soul when I think back on it all. I don't understand it. But I learned - one more time - that we're never alone.
(This is an edited version of a story I wrote for a class two years ago.)
I lay in bed, surrounded by night; my husband, Jason, silent at my side. For two years, we’d managed as a brain tumor slowly took his life. But recent challenges emptied my reserves. Safe in the dark silence, I didn’t want the sun to rise.
Lord, I don’t know how to watch him suffer through another day.
Jason, a talented artist, had won my heart as we worked in an air brush t-shirt shop. He painted shirts while I ran the cash register during summer breaks from college When he completed his degree in graphic design, in June of ’91, we married and moved to Nashville where I finished my music degree.
The artist had married the musician and the future seemed bright.
Within a year, however, double vision threatened his eyesight, reminding us that the brain stem tumor he fought at the age of 18 might grow again. Initial MRI scans were inconclusive, leaving us hopeful that radiation damage was to blame. But three years, and two babies later, another scan showed growth.
And we needed a miracle.
As days piled into months and months into years, we prayed; we cried; we listened to worship music and spoke God’s promises out loud. The assurance of His love brought me peace over and over as we scheduled doctor appointments and paid bills while Jason completed ten months of chemotherapy (the only treatment available for the inoperable tumor that had received maximum radiation). In the midst of it all, we tried to be a normal family as our boys, Nathan and Sammy, grew.
But by May of 1996, Jason’s list of neurological deficits had grown rather long: Double vision. Hearing loss. Faulty balance. Shaky hands. Slurred speech.
I lay in bed, surrounded by night; my husband, Jason, silent at my side. For two years, we’d managed as a brain tumor slowly took his life. But recent challenges emptied my reserves. Safe in the dark silence, I didn’t want the sun to rise.
Lord, I don’t know how to watch him suffer through another day.
Jason, a talented artist, had won my heart as we worked in an air brush t-shirt shop. He painted shirts while I ran the cash register during summer breaks from college When he completed his degree in graphic design, in June of ’91, we married and moved to Nashville where I finished my music degree.
The artist had married the musician and the future seemed bright.
Within a year, however, double vision threatened his eyesight, reminding us that the brain stem tumor he fought at the age of 18 might grow again. Initial MRI scans were inconclusive, leaving us hopeful that radiation damage was to blame. But three years, and two babies later, another scan showed growth.
And we needed a miracle.
As days piled into months and months into years, we prayed; we cried; we listened to worship music and spoke God’s promises out loud. The assurance of His love brought me peace over and over as we scheduled doctor appointments and paid bills while Jason completed ten months of chemotherapy (the only treatment available for the inoperable tumor that had received maximum radiation). In the midst of it all, we tried to be a normal family as our boys, Nathan and Sammy, grew.
But by May of 1996, Jason’s list of neurological deficits had grown rather long: Double vision. Hearing loss. Faulty balance. Shaky hands. Slurred speech.
Like a frog in slow bowling water, I'd learned to function in the heat. But as spring turned to summer, fatigue set in.
We received a weekend stay at a bed and breakfast in North Carolina on Jason's birthday in early April. By the time we traveled north, a month later, however, the air conditioning in our car had gone out—and Jason’s right eye muscles had weakened. Since his eyelid no longer closed completely when he blinked, the force of the wind caused a corneal abrasion that never healed. A patch protected the eye by the next afternoon.
It hurts to watch him hurt, God. I’m running out of steam.
Within days, Sammy woke from a nap, crying. A visit to the ER confirmed that he, too, had suffered a corneal abrasion, having scratched his eye with his fuzzy blanket. (Seriously!) My two and a half year old proudly wore an eye patch—just like his daddy—while my heart wilted.
Before Sammy’s patch came off, we learned that a cyst on the back of Nathan's neck had to be surgically removed. I pulled him in a red wagon through long hospital halls while Jason leaned heavily on my other arm just two weeks later.
The growth was benign and Nathan asked to ride his bike only hours after we got home. So we agreed to attend a friend’s wedding rehearsal dinner that weekend. Dressed in our best we headed out—hoping for a special evening together.
Our tire went flat on the side of an interstate highway during rush hour instead.
I held an umbrella and sang in the rain, while my ailing husband pulled out the spare. The spare went flat before the next exit, so we pulled into a gas station and called AAA.
Suffice it to say, we never made it to the dinner. A tow truck driver drove us home where we crashed on the sofa in disbelief.
We sure are trying, Lord. But I’m overwhelmed. Can’t something go right?
When Jason left with his dad the following morning to get new tires, his mother looked out the window and called to me, “Susan, I think there’s a problem.”
An enormous puddle of oil filled the driveway. As we processed the scene, we realized the tow truck driver had punctured the oil filter the night before. With no cell phones, we waited and prayed.
Our home phone rang and Jason sputtered, “Guess what?”
“I know,” I cringed, “the oil’s in the driveway. Is the car OK?”
“Yes, it’s OK,” he replied, his speech slowed, “the engine locked up in the parking lot. But they say if we leave it for the weekend, it should be OK in a few days.”
While we'd survived another crisis, bone deep weariness took hold in the form of dark desperation—and I felt certain I couldn't go on if God didn’t do something.
I didn't sing or turn on worship music in bed that night; didn't open my Bible or even pray. I just laid in the empty darkness, weighed down by hopelessness and fear.
How will I go on if he dies? What will life be like if we don't get our miracle? How can I lose my best friend?
And that’s when it happened.
That’s when the light appeared—a brilliant, white light from across the hall where my boys slept. It came through our doorway and shone from floor to ceiling—a half circle of light, shining from the other room. It didn’t stay long, perhaps only seconds. Then it faded as gently into the night as it had come.
My mind went into high gear. Had something exploded? No, there had been no noise. Was it the head lights of a passing car? No, I’d heard no sound, and car lights didn’t shine with that brilliant white. Initial fear faded into wonder when I realized nothing could explain the presence in my room that night except the hand of God. I had often prayed that angels would watch over my boys and concluded that our divine protector had appeared that night to assure our family we were not alone.
I fell asleep in peace.
When morning dawned and we still lay side by side, I asked Jason if he’d seen anything unusual the night before. He slowly answered, “Yes, but I didn’t trust my eyes since my vision is bad.” He went on to describe the light just as I had seen it—brilliant, floor to ceiling. When we realized our details matched, we basked in quiet awe.
The light broke through our darkness. We could face another day.
(To be continued...)
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