A Miracle Named Catherine

I have an almost eight-year-old granddaughter, named Catherine. Without indulging in even an ounce of coffee, she dances, twirls, and sings when we're together. Dance parties remain the activity of choice and due to recent summer fun, Don and I have participated in more than one.

During a recent family gathering, she surprised me by blurting, "Gigi told me you wrote an article about me a long time ago."

And Gigi, her other grandmother, is right.

Several years ago, I wrote a monthly testimony column for a small paper. By the time Catherine turned two, it was obvious her story needed to be told. For only a few months after she was conceived, Catherine's parents learned their unborn child had a diaphragmatic hernia.

In case you don't know, our diaphragms are a sheet of muscle that separate our intestinal tract from our respiratory system. When a baby forms with a hole in that muscle, their intestines and stomach often fill the upper chest, leaving little space for the lungs to grow in the last month in utero.

So no one knew what would happen to Catherine when she entered this world and was forced to breathe on her own, which made for many long months.

She came in mid-August and took her first breath, and then another, and another. Whisked away to the PICU, she was soon covered in tubes and apparatus that kept those breaths coming.

In time, doctors explained she was born with a lung that functioned at 75% and another at 25%. Her internal organs were mixed up like a jig saw puzzle, which would require surgeries in due time. But as the days went by and the breaths kept coming, she defied the odds and survived.


Catherine lived in the PICU for four months. When doctors discharged her, she went home with a trachea and a feeding tube. She didn't learn to eat until just before her third birthday, and endured a second hernia repair not long after.

After eleven surgeries (or more), scars cover her frame. Her internal organs have been set back in place (almost), and she looks like a thriving eight-year-old.

A miracle in motion.

It wasn't easy. The miracle that is Catherine involved dedicated parents, a great team of doctors, a lot of fancy medicine, and advanced medical equipment that saved her life more than once.

I know Catherine wouldn't be alive without the benefit of modern medicine. Still, when I touch her, it feels like I'm touching a miracle.

I tell her that every chance I get these days because just over six months ago, her life turned upside when her parents divorced. As her young heart processes the unwanted change and the stark reality that life is not fair, I like holding her close and reminding her of the miracle she is.

When I saw her earlier this week, my cough disrupted conversation and my right leg had grown weak from activity that culminated in our dance party. A third antibiotic roamed my system and doctors had cancelled my upcoming surgery.

Not in the best shape, I paused a little longer when I had the chance to remind Catherine that she's a miracle. The world slowed. My symptoms faded in importance. And I peered deep into shining eyes that reflect a warrior's heart.  

There, I saw a resilient life that is overcoming the odds yet again. And I felt stronger. Able. Ready to keep fighting my own fight of faith.

Her miracle gives me the courage to keep praying and waiting for my own. Which is what miracles are meant to do.

Mine may involve more scars and medicine, one breath at a time. But my God is the miracle maker. He works them out in His way and in His time. Some happen immediately while others unfold gently, like the seasons.

So while I wait, I'll hug Catherine a little tighter and longer and remind us both that God holds us even closer.

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4

Don't Shrink Back

Shortly after I sipped morning coffee, I did what I should've done all last week. I leaned over a pot of semi-boiling salt water with a towel draped over my head and breathed balmy air. As the washing machine churned in the background, I tried to mentally transport to the beach.

It almost worked.

Bottom line, I'm still sick. Sick enough that barring a miracle, my left foot reconstruction, scheduled in just over ten days, will most likely be cancelled.

Which leads to mixed emotions.

Weary of being sick and slow, I would prefer a break from laying around. On the other hand, getting it over with would just be nice.

So would you pray for me? For a miracle? For God's best plan?

I check in with my doctor again on Monday.

That said, I just saw that another terrorist attack has occurred. Innocent lives have been taken and a yearly celebration turned into a night of carnage.

In the last two weeks I've heard a growing number of talking heads voice that most of us truly want the same thing: family, health, vacations, and all that makes up what we consider "normal" life.

And then there are those that don't.

Some point fingers at particular religious groups while others focus on skin color.

But among every people group and religion, there are those who live for peace and those who stir up strife. Those who make a difference with acts of kindness, and those who shoot guns and detonate bombs.

It's really quite simple.

Okay, maybe it's not really that simple.

But when I sit in bed day after day, napping, coughing, coughing more and napping again, my sense of self worth shrivels to where it's hard to wrap my brain around life's basics, let alone those who wish to do others harm.

But a war is raging. A war on innocent lives in random locations. And it's not going away soon.

"So do not throw away your confidence; it will be richly rewarded. You need to persevere so that when you have done the will of God, you will receive what he has promised. For in just a little while,

'He who is coming will come and will not delay. But my righteous one will live by faith. And if he shrinks back I will not be pleased with him.'

But we are not of those who shrink back and are destroyed, but of those who believe and are saved" (Hebrews 10: 35 - 39 NIV).

I don't care if you're sick in bed like me or on the front lines, making decision that effect our national security.

Don't shrink back.

Find some way - even if some very small way - to pass on a smile, to encourage a friend, to promote healing.

Be intentional.

Get uncomfortable.

Push beyond your norm.

It matters. Right now. As the world grieves, again, our small encouragements heal.

At least that's what I tell myself when limits overtake and fatigue requires rest.

My prayers. My phone calls. My reaching out. It still matters.

Like this little boy.

I just saw this for the first time but it's exactly what I needed today.

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2

After the Fourth

Settled in a Starbucks across town, I’m waiting for my third doc appointment this week. My cough and cold never abated, even after antibiotics. So I see the doc again in a few hours.

Downing coffee dressed as a caramel macchiato helps pass the time. And gift cards allow for the midafternoon indulgence. So now I sip, type, wait, and remember.

Because I don’t do well when slowed to a crawl.

While others may think of me and recall recent feats (like our trip to New York City or successful book signings), when I feel isolated, I also feel strangely separated from all I've accomplished.

In a way, it’s my own fault. I have a need for movement, an inner urging to keep going. Perhaps even a slight fear of not being able to one day, which transforms a short time-out into a week of agony.

To my credit, I’ve been sitting a lot more than normal in recent months and am facing another round of surgery in the coming weeks. So I’ve been fighting feelings of isolation for a while now.

They come and go in waves. But as the fourth approached after a sick week and I realized Don had to work, they intensified again...

Until I read Ute’s email.

My friend, Ute, chose to spend the summer with her family in Zimbabwe. Isolated from American norms, they've ministered to individuals and succeeded in installing a new playground for a small community.

While she's confident God sent them overseas for the summer, it’s not been an easy stay. The poverty, superstition, and corruption create a difficult living environment, physically, mentally, and spiritually.

She described her emotion well in an email I read Sunday morning. So I empathized with her readiness to be home.

Missing the Fourth of July added to her angst, since having lived all over the world, Ute’s proud to call America her home. Celebrating our freedoms makes sense to her because she doesn’t take them for granted.

Struck by her plight—her loneliness, isolation, and fatigue—I fought back against my own. I sent a text to my busy family, suggesting we try to gather on the Fourth.

With a family reunion only days away, we almost let the Fourth slip by. But 19 texts later a plan formed that included dinner at my house and fireworks after—a day early, on the Third, only a few hours later.

So I got busy.

Advil helped as I straightened an upstairs bedroom so my folks could spend the night. And soon Don and I strolled through a grocery store, fixed a pot of chili, and cut up strawberries for homemade strawberry shortcake.

Everyone arrived, ate, and hung out until dusk, when we drove to a park where fireworks barely made it over the tree line. It wasn’t the best view. But a gentle breeze and sparse crowd made for a delightful outdoor visit.

We had plenty of food to eat.

Nice cars to drive.

Air conditioning when we slept.

Tap water to drink.

Doctors to fix my feet.

Inhalers to help me breathe.

Family to love and annoy.

And time to just sit and be.

I slept for almost three hours after my parents left. Ate a little. And then slept more.

The house was quiet and that creepy sense of isolation crept toward my soul again. But the memories of togetherness surfaced and offered ammunition against the silent void.

On the other side of the world, a strike began in Zimbabwe today. Teachers, doctors, and nurses haven’t been paid in over a month. Minibus drivers are “protesting roadblocks by police demanding bribes.” (http://www.bbc.com/news/world-africa-36717354)

Drought accompanied by a cash shortage has left the government on the verge of a shutdown, and my friend is there in the midst.

Perspective.

It sure makes it easier for me to keep going on the day after the Fourth.

And after listening to my lungs, my doc was fairly certain she heard evidence of pneumonia this afternoon. An x-ray didn't confirm her suspicions, but new antibiotics should take care of whatever's going on.

So no wonder I've been struggling. Even Eggs needed more than a day to work up the courage to leave our bedroom after Lily came to visit and firecrackers filled the weekend nights.

She's turning back into the kitty we know and love, and slowly, very slowly, I'm feeling a little more like myself too.





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