If it weren't for Facebook I would never have known to celebrate National Dog Day this week. And since I'm dog sitting my favorite sister dog, the vital information made me appreciate waking to puppy kisses before coffee.
Most days.
My brother dropped the puppy off at my home Tuesday night since my parents flew to Philadelphia to plan my grandmother's funeral. She passed away Sunday evening at the age of 94, having lived life well.
Thankfully, only hours after my PET scan Monday, I was able to let my family know that I do not have cancer. While I'm still scheduled to see a hematologist / oncologist specialist next week to discuss other potential diagnosis', setting aside cancer fears while grieving Grandma felt like a gift.
A bittersweet gift.
As I've shared the news, I've been quick to point out Grandma lived a full life, as if to soften the blow. In comparison, the father of my children died at the age of thirty. So when someone reaches ninety-four years, they've bypassed so many that I tend to lean into pragmatism. It was her time.
She's no longer suffering. She's in a better place now.
While I was lying in a PET scan machine on Monday, however, my mom had to explain to my grandfather, who's mind is gripped mind Alzheimer's, that his wife of 67 years was gone. Not sure if he understood, Mom and her sisters wheeled him to a car and drove him to the funeral home. There they watched as he approached her laid out form, leaned over and kissed her cheek, and then stood, holding her hand. The same man spent more time looking at a book about cars than interacting with the generations of family that gathered for a reunion last July. Almost non-verbal, he observed with a placid countenance.
But somewhere deep in the fog of dementia he still knew his wife. And that's a beautiful, bittersweet thing.
Not a day that goes by where the world is untouched by the bitter. Violence abounds. Random shootings invade normal life on a regular basis now, leaving no one immune to heart ache. The bitter is real, intensifying, and hard to comprehend. But the sweet exists. You won't find it on Fox News or CNN very often. But it flows, a continual stream from heaven, offering peace that passes understanding and love without fear. Graham Cooke states,
"Life is too big for any of us. Every day something's happening because life is just too big. But when you live in Christ, you come at life from a completely different realm. When life gets too big, you know that God is bigger so you feel safe."
(Growing Up in God, CD #1)
Do you know that God is bigger? Does your relationship with Christ make you feel safe?
If not, dig deeper. Read The Word like it matters. Take time to learn stillness; to dwell in His presence.
We are forced to taste the bitter. Embracing the sweet, however, is an continual act of the will. A daily choice to believe.
I rolled over in bed yesterday, picked up my phone, and saw I missed two early morning calls from my doctor. So before I even hit the coffee button, I learned I needed to schedule a PET scan. The lesions on my spleen have not gone away and still befuddle doctors. Living on the safe side requires more tests and an appointment with an oncologist in just over a week. From what I gather, they want to rule out a very rare form of lymphoma that originates in the spleen. "They could just be an anomaly in your body," my internal medicine doctor emphatically offered.
So I'm not crumpled up in worry. But I did have to work my way out of feeling like a low lying rain cloud hung over my head. So I did a few things. First, I spoke with my sister and parents and asked for prayer. Then I asked for more prayer from my Bible study friends and church prayer team. The prayer thing settled, I searched for the song we sang not once - but twice - on Sunday. As the song came an end, closing out the service, our pastor, Craig, walked up on stage and said, "That was so good, let's do it again!"
And we did. We sang the entire six minute song over again.
It was epic!
Since a pile of dishes lined my counters, I found the song on You Tube and played it at least six times while I scrubbed dishes with greasy hair, odd looking PJ's, and bad breath.
You had to be there.
By mid afternoon, I felt lighter, even somewhat free. It's still going to be an odd two weeks, however, and possibly more, depending on test results. But as I listened to Graham Cooke's teaching again today, I was struck by this question: "Lord, what do you want to be for me right now that you couldn't be for me any other time?" (Growing up in God, Disk 1).
The answer I hear? "Your joy. Your constant companion. Your Dad who longs to hold you and comfort you. The One who carries you above fear, doubt, and worry."
Bottom line, there is a way to traverse the unknowns wrapped in a presence not our own.
So will you pray for me too, that I will walk through the next two weeks utterly dependent on The One who made the stars and fashioned me in my mother's womb?
"I heard and my heart pounded, my lips quivered at the sound; decay crept into my bones, and my legs trembled...
Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produces no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my Savior. The Sovereign Lord is my strength; he makes my feet like the feet of a deer; he enables me to go on the heights" (Habakkuk 3: 16 - 19).
After coffee and an hour of writing, I washed a load of laundry yesterday. Later, as I pulled the clean clothes out to toss them in the dryer, a grey mass caught my eye. I ignored it at first but couldn't process what I'd seen. When I peered into the bottom of my washer again, I knew why... and desperately needed emotional support. A drowned mouse lay on its side, complete with its squirmy tail extended for easy identification.
No kidding. In a clean load of laundry. Photographic evidence is available upon request.
Don was busy so I called Sam. He didn't answer so I called my Mom. She was watching my nephew jump from an airplane at Fort Benning but suggested I get thick gloves for the extraction so I wouldn't have to actually feel the slimy (but clean) creature.
Before tackling the dead-mouse-in-washer, I began a stealth investigation. And in time, discovered a plausible explanation:
Since a loosely wrapped piece of birthday cake had been sitting on the counter, I suspect the mouse ate his fill, fell asleep, and was tucked in two dish towels (laying next to the cake) that I tossed in the load at the last minute. I can't know for sure, but if that's the case, I have to admit, I'm very thankful I found a drowned mouse in my clean load of laundry rather than an alive mouse on my kitchen counter.
Yes, I'm still a little creeped out.But seeing things in a new way helped.The altered viewpoint calmed my heightened emotional status and allowed me to extract the creature... All. By. Myself.
Get it? Our outlook, assessment, and viewpoint matter.
So tilt your head for a minute. Gaze from an upside down position. Because while I can't fully explain why suffering occurs in this world, I've been struck lately by the gift that is ours through the comfort of the Holy Spirit...those quiet whispers in our souls that remind us He's near.
According to scripture, the Holy Spirit descended only after Jesus died, resurrected, and ascended into heaven. Think about it.Before the cross and ascension, the Holy Spirit didn't invade lives the way He does today.Even Jesus said,
"It is for your good that I am going away. Unless I go away, the Counselor will not come to you; but if I go, I will send him to you... I have much more to say to you, more than you can bear. But when he, the Spirit of truth, comes, he will guide you into all truth. He will not speak on his own; he will speak only what he hears, and will tell you what is to come." (John 16: 7 & 12 - 13).
Even as I've grieved the last two weeks (and throughout the last twenty years!), I've experienced the comfort of the Holy Spirit, the assurance that He is with me, and constant reminders that His love is stronger than death. While I would prefer the suffering fade, I've been struck anew by the thought that those gentle, quiet reassurances are available only because of the cross. A great price was paid so that God's presence could be real in our suffering. And here I pause.
Because I take His presence for granted.
And even after writing these words, I'm certain I'll take it for granted again.
But I hope not. I hope I'll stand in awe that the great story teller made a way for hope to reign in darkness, for love to flow in the face of rejection, and for comfort to fill us in times of great sorrow. Perspective. It's everything. A way has been made to deal with Mice and Men. Holy Spirit, You Are Welcome Here.
