When It All Gets a Little too Much

I just survived a harrowing week. Tired beyond understanding, I napped more than normal and pushed through lessons with heavy eyes. Worry threatened my peace until Don had a realization last night, "I've been making you decaf coffee all week."

"Decaf coffee?" I stammered. "Are you serious? All. Week. Long?"

A wave of hope rushed through me. My life as I knew it wasn't over. It had just withered away, in part, due to a lack of caffeine.

However, before we blame Don, I have to explain. We hosted a small gathering of neighbors last weekend on our covered porch. Knowing the evening air might provide a chill, I purchased a bag of decaf coffee. No one drank the brew, so I stashed it high on a shelf for the next go round, with every intention of making sure my spouse knew not to use it for my morning pick me up.

But I forgot to tell him.

So even though I'd like to blame him for my misery, I can't. Instead, I relished my morning intake only hours ago, even though I was forced to consume a cardboard tasting, fake, stir-in, Folgers brew.  

Within thirty minutes, though, I relished that semi-shaky, caffeine induced,  hyped-up morning feeling. And hours later, I still feel strangely alive.

Ironically, while in my frail state of being, Eggs, our eight-month-old kitten, learned how to make me jump out of my skin. While minding my own business, getting dressed, folding clothes, etc., she would sneak under the opposite side of the bed, crawl over to where I stood, and ambush my toes from behind our bed skirt.

Even though I grew familiar with the routine, I shrieked every time. It's Halloween and I'm just not used to furry paws ambushing my toes from under my bed.

This is an innocent looking Eggs hanging out while I type.

Thankfully, when life thoroughly overwhelmed me yesterday and I couldn't fight through the fatigue, a thought hit me as I drove home. 

God was never in a hurry to fix things. He always took His time; was always in control; and even allowed His children to suffer for a greater purpose.

Abraham didn't father the promised child until he was was past his prime.

The Israelite's served the Egyptians for four-hundred-years before their release.

When they disobeyed, they wandered in the desert another forty years before surging into the Promised Land.

Four-hundred-years of prophetic silence occurred before Jesus was born.

And by golly, Jesus spent three days in the grave. Why not just an hour or two? Or a day?

I don't like waiting. I don't like suffering. But it grows us. It changes us. It was designed to move us beyond ourselves, by forcing us to lean into the One who gave His life to make ours worth living. 

So when I got home yesterday, I took a nap. A two hour nap. Tired to the bone, I put my worries on hold and remembered it's all in His hands anyway.

He's at work. Even if we don't hear about it on the news. Even when the people we love struggle. Even when floods wreak havoc and the innocent suffer. 

He's at work and we can rest, truly rest, assured He's got it under control.

So breathe. Take a nap. Play with your crazy kitten. Or savor a cup of caffeinated coffee. 

The big picture outlook is really more than okay.  



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photo credit: Sun through Fall Leaves via photopin (license)

2

A Tale of Two Mighty Men

 
Before I even savored a sip of coffee last Saturday, I traversed sand dunes, watched the sun rise, and whispered silent prayers as a mass of humanity pressed forward into the channel at the start of the Beach to Battleship Iron Distance Triathlon.



It was epic. Even without coffee.

We arrived in Wrightsville Beach, NC Thursday night. While Sam turned 22 years of age on Friday, we ignored his birthday. He needed to check in, deliver his transition bags, and cook his brown rice syrup, flax seed, honey, protein powder, and peach potion that fueled him during the race. When the condo's blender didn't work, the schedule was thrown, forcing Courtney to spend extra time on the road in bad traffic, waiting at draw bridges in order to buy their very own birthday blender.

While Sam finished his concoction, Courtney cooked chicken to go with the brown rice I prepared.

The next hiccup came when Sam tried to top off his bike tires. As he wrote, "Turns out my tube is older than I realized, and my valve broke off as I tried to pump my front tire up, releasing all of the air. This was at 6:10 pm, and bikes have to be checked in by 7. For a moment, I thought my race was over before it even began, but fortunately they have a repair tent and I was able to get a new tube fairly painlessly."

Yikes!!

Once everything was in place the married duo went to bed while I waited for Nathan's midnight arrival, meaning the early get up jolted us both. When we woke, I found Courtney helping Sam adhere required number tattoos all over his physique. Her constant support spoke volumes.

Tattoos in place, we drove just over a mile - and walked a long way - before traversing the sand to the starting line.

When the horn sounded, hundreds of bodies entered the water.

The troupe movement looked more like a shark feed than a race. But while I soaked it in, a woman next to me shared that her friend with Lupus was out there fighting her disease as well. The divine encounter let me know my son wasn't the only one proving something to himself despite a serious diagnosis.

While the walker proved a necessity for me on concrete, it didn't work on the sand. So Nathan carried it to and from the starting line. This particular walker converts into a wheelchair so when we hit pavement, Nathan pushed me when possible. By the time we reached our car and avoided road closures after the start, we realized if we didn't hurry, we might miss Sam at the bike transition. So Nathan ran while pushing me - and I only almost fell out a few times when the wheels hit a rut.

Sam arrived only minutes after we found his bike at the transition point. He was smiling big, having enjoyed a buoyant swim in the required wet suit. 

 

Thankful that he looked good, we found a local coffee shop and indulged before heading back to our condo to rest. Nathan went straight to bed while Courtney and I lingered on the beach. Soothing waves provided a perfect background for prayer.

 
 

Tailwinds pushed Sam's bike finish up, so again, we almost missed the transition. But we didn't. I don't have photo proof, but we were there when he took off on the marathon run. While he ran, we hung out near the battleship finish line.  

 

The next two plus hours were the longest of the day - much more so for Sam than for us. As the sun set and we calculated his finish time, we headed to the long chute where runners celebrated their final steps. When he finally approached, a surge of emotion surprised even Sam.

 His finishing time? 
12: 41: 24.

He placed 10th in the swim; 185th out of 352 men; and 241st out of almost 500 men and women finishers. According to the web site, about 650 people signed up for the race.  Whether they dropped out or didn't show, we don't know. But Sam performed beyond his expectations.

As I updated friends on Sam's progress throughout the day, I saw a FB post about a boy I met through the internet last summer. He did my "crack an egg on your head for mito" challenge and totally blessed my soul. Take a minute and meet Mighty Matthew:



While Sam fought mito by doing an Iron Man, Mighty Matthew underwent emergency surgery that ended only after surgeons removed his entire colon. Paper thin, Matthew's colon had basically disintegrated due to a lack of cellular strength.

The irony was not lost on me. While I stressed over my Sam stressing his body, a fifth grade boy and his family faced life altering changes. Matthew is still recovering, fighting infection in his body. So will you pray for him this week?  

I'm in awe of what my son accomplished, enduring blisters that doubled the size of his pinkie toes and overwhelming fatigue. But he did it. And by finishing, he demonstrated an inner strength few embrace. 

But so has Mighty Matthew. 

Small in stature, he has a grin that lights up my FB page. I don't know all the symptoms he faces daily, but I know his short life hasn't been easy. Still he presses on and worried about not finishing his homework while in the hospital.

So instead of finishing my blog post yesterday, I wrote him a song and made a rough recording. While it's really for all the Mighty Matthew's fighting out there, it will always make me think of him.

2

Super Sam and the Iron Man

Before you judge my title, rest assured I didn't come up with the phrase during a caffeine induced, coffee stimulated, state of mom euphoria. Sam's good friend, Thomas, referred to my athletic son as Super Sam when we discussed the upcoming event a few weeks ago at church. 

Since it didn't evolve from a corny mom moment, I feel free to use it. 

Because right now, my son and his wife are driving around Wilmington, NC, making final preparations for Sam's Iron Man race tomorrow. Thankfully, a sage green sofa holds my frame in a house only a block from the sand. So while I've battled stress on many fronts as the day has drawn near, our toes enjoyed the waves this morning.  A fringe benefit, indeed.

 

"Why am I stressed?" you ask, "What's the big deal?"

Sam was diagnosed with mitochondrial disease before me. A muscle biopsy marked his fifteenth birthday and he woke in the hospital on Christmas Eve morning just over a year later due to a spinal tap bleed. I watched him swim a state meet his senior year after sitting through rounds of doctors appointments that included a lot of antibiotics and breathing treatments. 

It wasn't easy. And it still isn't.

But my youngest child's intrigue in sports began before he started elementary school and never let up. I could explain more, but honestly I've already struggled to put feelings into words. Because this last foray includes a 2.4 mile swim followed by a 112 mile bike ride topped off by a 26.2 mile marathon run.

I remember the day a mitochondrial disease specialist looked at us and said something like, "With this kind of disease, you don't run a marathon. Your body doesn't have the extra energy kick to handle long distance sports."

And yet just over a year ago, my son decided he wanted to face his disease head on by tackling an Iron Man. 

I tried telling him he was crazy. But it didn't work. He knows my past. 

I married a man with a brain tumor. Got pregnant after he started having double vision. And then decided to smuggle Bible's into China four months later - to grow our faith.

While Sammy's determination may be somewhat explained by surging testosterone, just last week he reminded me that he wants to live in a hut someday and spread the Gospel in the middle of nowhere. Testing his limits now prepares him to fulfill his dreams later. 

It's a lot easier to be the child full of wanderlust than the mom looking on from the sidelines. So will you pray with me tomorrow? Will you pray for Sam? For strength, energy, endurance, and God's presence in the midst of the journey.

It means a lot to him and to Courtney. And so it means a lot to me. 

5

Eggs the Calico Tabby Cat

I bought my first Starbuck's iced coffee for an extra kick as I drove to the hospital Wednesday. I loved the coffee but not the reason for my trip. My daughter-in-law's mother had just been placed in ICU after a minor surgery turned major a few days earlier.

By the time I drove home after hanging out with Sam and Courtney in the ICU waiting room all afternoon, Gloria's kidney's had started working again. But only after several long hours left doctors and family guessing. 

Over lunch the next day, I rehearsed the ordeal with a friend whose husband died just under a year ago. She listened patiently but eventually blurted, "Tell me more about your stray cat. I want to talk about something fun. In fact, why haven't you blogged about... Eggs?"

Then she giggled and mocked the name, forcing me to defend my honor. Because our formerly homeless cat is slowly becoming a part of the family. Even if her name is Eggs.

As a stray, Eggs cried so loud outside Nathan's apartment door three weeks ago, I thought someone was impersonating a cat. But Nathan explained she'd been hanging around the first floor landing, crying at night for at least a week.

A frayed, pink collar indicated she belonged to someone at some point. But her loud cries made it obvious those days were past.

Enthralled by the hungry and skittish creature, I remembered the chicken salad I left in the car and hurried to pick out meaty morsels. But even as I set the bowl on the floor, I questioned my resolve. To be frank, I don't really like cats. I'm a dog person.

I have a deep down love for this dog. And this dog only. My mother's King Charles Cavalier stole my heart a long time ago and makes me wish for a Lilly of my own.

But Cavalier King Charles pups are too expensive for my budget, and ironically, after the stray kitty munched the bowl of chicken, she wandered the room in such a way that I finally stated, "She's kind of like a dog." 

She twirled around our legs, jumped from the sofa to the floor and then back again, meowed in a pathetic way that twirled my heart, and gazed with intelligence through her very large eyes.

She hung out while Nathan, Sam, Courtney, and I watched The Boxtrolls. As odd little animated boxed men collected shiny things in the dark and fought off the red hatted, highly lactose intolerant bad guy, the stray kitty charmed me. And I couldn't leave her homeless.

Food lured her into my car and right before I drove away, I looked out my cracked window and told the gang, "I think I'll call her Eggs." Watch below.




I left her in my basement overnight and couldn't find her the next day... and blamed Don, thinking he left the garage door open too long, allowing her to run away. 

I. Was. Very. Wrong.

Eggs came out from hiding five days later, only hours before we left on vacation. Food, water, and kitty litter got her through the week in our absence. And two days after we got home, she came out from hiding again. 

Don and I enjoyed a morning date to the vet just last week. He claims that he didn't realize how embarrassing the name was until they called her name and he had to stand up in front of a room full of pet owners. But after introducing his former cat as "Killer" to numerous students throughout the last nine years, I feel no pity. 

Her name captures the essence of the evening I fell prey to a stray - an eight month old, female, calico, tabby stray.
 

We had a week to bond before Lilly came for a visit. When the puppy appeared, Eggs hid in the basement for several more days. But just this morning  she spent a few hours in the same room as the dog. They aren't quite friends yet, but I hold out hope.

For after learning Eggs is a tabby cat, I googled the term and read, "Some say that tabby cat personalities are distinct from other cats in the sense that they are more like the personalities of dogs."

I knew it.

I like dogs. Don likes cats. And Eggs brings a touch of both. 

Let's just say, we're definitely getting somewhere!

8

What Will You Say When the Barrel Points Your Way?

I barely had enough time to down a cup of coffee this morning before Don and I loaded our new cat into a crate. Our morning vet appointment date distracted from the headlines and I'm happy to report our cat is indeed a healthy eight-month-old, female, calico, tabby. 

After debating whether to let her sleep upstairs for the first time last night, we laid in bed and read the headlines. Details about the Oregon shooting emerged and Don asked, "So what would you say if someone asked you if you were a Christian and you knew saying yes meant a bullet to the head?"

"I don't know," I started, "I'd like to think that if I was faced with choosing Jesus or Allah, the choice would be easy to make. I would choose Jesus. But if staying silent meant a bullet to my knee verses a blow to my head, I might lean towards staying alive a little longer... is that bad?"

Honestly, I wasn't sure. None of us really are. Until faced with the unthinkable, we won't truly know. So I take solace knowing Jesus said, "Be on your guard against men; they will hand you over to the local councils and flog you in their synagogues. On my account you will be brought before governors and kings as witnesses to them and to the Gentiles. But when they arrest you, do not worry about what to say or how to say it. At that time you will be given what to say, for it will not be you speaking, but the Spirit of your Father speaking through you" (Matthew 10: 17 - 20 NIV).

If we submit to His authority in our lives, the Holy Spirit will speak for us.


Isn't that cool?

Consider this story about Corrie Ten Boom from The Hiding Place:

"Corrie joined her mother as they brought a basket of fresh bread up to a family who had just lost their baby. As her mother headed over to the young mother, Corrie stood frozen on the threshold when she saw that the homemade crib off to the right contained the dead baby. Her sister went over carefully and then touched the baby's cheek; it took a while, but Corrie at last put one finger on the small curled hand that was so cold.

Still shivering from that cold feel, she followed her sister up to their room and crept into bed beside her. She couldn't even begin to fall asleep until her father came up to arrange the blankets in his special way and then lay his hand for a moment on each head. As soon as he stepped through the door, however, she burst into tears and cried out 'I need you! You can't die! You can't'. Nollie then explained to their father about visiting Mrs Hoog and touching the dead child. She also reported that Corrie hadn't eaten anything since that experience.

Her father sat down on the edge of the narrow bed and gently began to ask Corrie a question: 'When you and I go to Amsterdam--when do I give you your ticket?' She sniffed a few times before responding with 'Why, just before we get on the train'. Her father then went on, 'Exactly. And our wise Father in Heaven knows when we're going to need things, too. Don't run out ahead of Him, Corrie. When the time comes that some of us will have to die, you will look into your heart and find the strength you need--just in time'."

The Hiding Place 

by Corrie Ten Boom with John and Elizabeth Sherrill 

(Spire Books, Fleming H Revell CO, NJ), 1971

The little girl who couldn't eat after seeing the dead child later protected Jews from Nazi soldiers and survived a concentration camp. Her faith roots ran deep, so very deep that she risked her life for others in need.

Though faith groups have been persecuted throughout history, Christians in America have been protected for many years. But while we've been taking selfies and scurrying from place to place, a growing resentment toward those who proclaim Jesus as Lord has tethered itself in demented minds. 

I'm afraid there's more violence to come. 

But with that violence is opportunity. Opportunity to make a stand. To believe in the face of injustice. "To hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful" (Hebrews 10: 23 NIV).

Get this... "Now we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands" (2 Corinthians 5: 1 NIV).

Do you live with that sense of eternity in mind?  Do you get that we live in a mere tent here compared to the home to come? If I hadn't lost my first spouse to a brain tumor years ago, it might not make sense to me. 

But it does.

So while we grieve the loss of life today, may we also choose to celebrate the life to come. Anchored in that hope, we can rest assured the Holy Spirit will speak through us when the gun barrel is pointed our way.

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