The Problem of Good

Mine are almost gone...

"Head is normal, legs are normal...everything else is normal."  The perinatal specialist was completing a growth scan on Arthur. 
"Crazy." I murmured.  Knowing so much was not normal in Arthur's little body made it seem odd to be commenting on his totally normal head circumference and femur length.  "When you think about it, it's amazing that so much is developing just right."
"Women who have totally healthy babies have no idea how amazing." the doctor added.

And there, in a nutshell, is a deep philosophical conversation.

Much ink and many tears have been spilled over the problem of evil and suffering.  I've done some of the spilling.  How, why, could something have gone wrong between 7 and 12 weeks gestation such that Arthur's diaphragm didn't attach?  That a few parts of his heart, at that point smaller than a dime, didn't form just right?

How, why, do school shootings happen?  Cancer?  Genocide?  Natural disasters?  Suffering rocks our world, makes us question what we thought to be true about God, the universe, human beings.

But did you ever spend so much emotional energy wondering how your unborn child's perfect femur came to be?  How, why, could a few cells become a human being with perfectly functioning organs and limbs?  And yet it happens all the time!

Why do we have best friends?  Why is food so delicious?  Why are there colors?  Flowers?  Music?  Surely beauty and pleasure are just as remarkable as evil and suffering.  Why don't we allow the good things in life to raise questions about God, the universe, and human beings?

Pain makes us angry at God, wonder if He exists or cares.  We are tempted to believe that our world is just a collection of random occurrences and that humans are beyond help.  But does pleasure shape our assumptions just as much?  I think we have so many pleasurable experiences that we don't philosophize over them.  Just like someone who's only had healthy babies wouldn't stop to marvel at their child's leg.  We just take the long, rarely-broken string of good for granted.  Only when it's interrupted by pain do we start thinking.

So, here's my Thanksgiving challenge to myself:  This week, every time something makes my life a little happier, easier, prettier, I want to stop and think. I want my mind to be occupied with the problem of good as much as it has been with the problem of evil.  As I ponder all the good in life, I see that the only appropriate response is to give thanks.  Not in a cheesy, preschool "Thank you God for M&Ms" kind of way.  But then again, yes, in a cheesy, preschool kind of way.  I just know why I'm giving thanks while the preschooler might not.

I mean, did God have to put M&Ms in my life?  Or do they exist because He is a good God who delights in giving good things?  A God who made a good universe, who stamped His good image on human beings.  Oh, sure, He is a God whose plan I don't understand, and His universe and people have been marred by sin.  But there's so much good left that I experience so often, and yet I never let the wonder of that good carry my mind away.

For the beauty of the earth,
For the beauty of the skies,
For the Love which from our birth
Over and around us lies:

For the beauty of each hour
Of the day and of the night,
Hill and vale, and tree and flower,
Sun and moon and stars of light:

For the joy of ear and eye,
For the heart and brain's delight,
For the mystic harmony
Sinking sense to sound and sight:

For the joy of human love,
Brother, sister, parent, child,
Friends on earth, and friends above;
For all gentle thoughts and mild:

For each perfect Gift of Thine
To our race so freely given,
Graces human and Divine,
Flowers of earth, and buds of Heaven:

Christ, our God, to Thee we raise
This our Sacrifice of Praise.

~Folliott S. Pierpoint

Walk by Faith

The Old Blind Guitarist, Pablo Picasso

There are many Christian phrases that mean so much more to me today than they did before Arthur became a part of my life.  Today in church we sang a song with one of them.

"We'll walk by faith and not by sight."

As you might suppose, the words were set to strong, triumphant music.  Everyone had happy faces as they sang.  But listen to those words.  Do you know what we call someone who doesn't walk by sight in the literal sense of the words?  Blind.  Disabled.  Handicapped. Imagine if we were all singing to the same bold music "Hallelujah!  We can't see where we are going!"  Not quite so uplifting.

Not walking by sight is at best a difficult obstacle and at worst a life-altering disability.  No one hopes to be blind.  You don't walk around with your eyes closed or with a blindfold on, purposefully making yourself unable to see, unless you are a kid playing a game.  And even then, admit it: you were peeking out of the bottom of the blindfold.  The only people who don't walk by sight are people who have no other choice.

Could it be possible that we don't really walk by faith until we can't see?   Until God brings darkness in our lives or obscures the road ahead?  Until we have no other choice but to walk by faith because our sight has been taken away?

I'm reminded of the story of Gideon, one of the heroes mentioned in Hebrews 11, the passage that was the basis for the song we sang in church.  He was supposed to go fight the Midianites, so he collected an army of 32,000.  God told him to let all the scared people go home, so 22,000 of them left.  Then God sent 9,700 of the remaining 10,000 home.  That left Gideon with 300 men.  God put Gideon and those men (and all of Israel, who were counting Gideon's army to rescue them from the Midianites) in a position where they HAD to walk by faith.  They had no choice but to trust that God would deliver them.

I hate the situations when I can't see.  I mean, would you be happy if God decimated your savings account the way He decimated Gideon's army?  And yet it seems clear that He purposefully brings darkness and blindness into our lives so that we can't see, so that we will have no way forward but to walk by faith. We just can't be counted on to put a blindfold on and not peek when we have eyes that work and plenty of light to see by.

So, as odd as it sounds, I am learning to embrace my blindness.  Because I know that He finally has me on a road where I am walking by faith.  And, just as a blind person who has learned to navigate using other senses has no need to fear the darkness, I am finding that God is freeing me from some of my anxiety and fear of other darknesses that may come into my life.  In a strange way, I treasure the night I am in because it has taught me (a little!) to walk by faith and not by sight.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I fear no evil, for You are with me;

Psalm 23:4a

Props

Remember when Xanga was a thing and you could count the eprops you got for a blog entry?  My, how the world has changed in 10 years...

I'd like to give out some props. 

To preface, my husband and I are both educators and have read all those articles, blogs, cards, and inspirational wall posters proclaiming the selflessness, devotion, hard work, and love of teachers.  I always kept notes from students in my bottom desk drawer, and on a really bad day, would pull them out and read them.  I won't try to replicate here the tributes paid to teachers by better writers than myself.  Besides, that would definitely count as self-aggrandizement. 

I don't know why I have read so many thank-the-teacher articles.  Perhaps it's because I look them up when I need a pat on the back.  Perhaps it's because I have so many teacher friends who email them to me or share them on Facebook.  Perhaps such articles are written because society can't bring itself to remunerate teachers adequately, so to ease their guilty consciences, people write public thank you notes. 

After our experience in the hospital with Arthur, I'd like to write a thank-the-medical-professional blog post.  I've met many doctors, nurses, and techs at many hospitals...enough to know that the care we received last month was incredible and that our caregivers went above and beyond their duties in many ways.

I was so afraid that the staff would mindlessly follow procedure, even if it didn't fit our situation.  This was the farthest thing from reality.  Without even being asked, the medical team took so many steps to ensure our physical and emotional comfort, even if it meant doing things differently than they are normally done.

The nurse who was with me from 7 am when labor was about to begin until 7 pm when our room was crowded with family members saying goodbye to Arthur deserves so many props.  She spent more of those 12 hours in my room than out.  She asked me to tell her about my first labor and spent a lot of time answering my questions and teaching me things about labor and delivery (and if you know me, you know that learning puts me at ease).  She was cheerful and chatty when I needed her to be, and calm and serious when I needed her to be.  She helped us make some decisions, and her advice was perfect.  I'll never forget the look in her eyes when she told me it was time to push...she was ready to coach me like any other woman she had cared for, but her eyes told me she knew all the thoughts and feelings those words would bring.  As I was holding Arthur, she put her hand on me and said "I know why God made you his mommy."  When she introduced the nurse for the next shift and left, I realized; these were quite possibly the most emotional 12 hours of my life, and she had shared them with me and now had to go home to cook dinner for her family.  Even as a teacher who never got to leave work at work, I can't begin to imagine.  So, to all you nurses who give of yourselves to walk alongside people in pain, thank you.  Like teachers, no one will remember or praise you for just doing your job.  It is when you spend and are spent on behalf of complete strangers, always with a smile on your face, that you touch lives.

The doctor who delivered Arthur has an incredibly dry sense of humor (something I appreciate).  His wry comments throughout the day kept me smiling.  If you know my sister, ask her sometime about their conversation just before Arthur's birth...the two of them got along real well!  In the minutes after delivery, he was somehow able to take perfect care of me without ever talking to me or saying or doing anything that distracted any of us from the time we had with our son.  Then he came up to us and hugged me, admired Arthur, shook my husband's hand, and spoke a few kind words.  He had tears in his eyes.  So, to all you doctors out there who can stay unemotional long enough to care for your patients but aren't so clinical that you can't be moved to tears, thank you.  Thank you for caring enough to not let your emotions rule, but for caring so much that you have those emotions.

I could go on.  There was the neonatologist who had been the one to tell us back in July that Arthur wouldn't survive surgery who came to see us late Monday morning after working all night the night before.  The nurse who helped us make Arthur's handprints and footprints after he had passed away.  The tech who made sure that my water cup was always full and thanked me for donating milk.  The charge nurse who stopped by to remind me to take my medicine before I went home.  The tech who rolled my wheelchair outside and didn't stare or say anything as I sat there, tears rolling down my cheeks, waiting for my husband to pull up in the car.  Props to all of you, for doing your job in such a professional and yet such a personal way. 

If every healthcare provider were like the ones who cared for us, maybe hospitals wouldn't be such a bad place after all.  Thank you to all you medical professionals out there who serve people with all your heart, even when it must cost your heart so much. 

1 month

I wish I could write poetry.  I wish I could make beautiful artistic things.  Or maybe play an instrument skillfully.  Maybe then I could have a less prosaic way of spilling my thoughts.

All I have are words.  So here they are.

One month ago I saw you for the first time and the last time. 
One month ago I wished time would slow down so that the moments I had with you would last longer. 
One month ago I watched everyone I love hurt all at once while standing in a semicircle around my bed.
One month ago I had my only chance to be your mother.

It's been a long month.  Those moments that flew while you were here have dragged since you left.  There was a week of saying goodbye, a week of healing physically, and now two and a half weeks of bumpy starts and stops, joy and grief, normal life and not normal life.  Of alternately longing for companionship and wishing desperately to be alone.  Of feeling strong and feeling weak.  Of accepting what is and wishing things were different.

It's unusually cold today.  I want so badly to be curled up on the couch with you, snuggling under a blanket, nursing, sleeping.  Instead I'm braving the weather to put flowers on your grave.

I want to be teaching your big sister how to hold you and care for you.  Instead I'm wondering how to explain your life and death to her because she seems so confused.

I want my house to be a wreck because my arms are full of you, not because my eyes are full of tears.

I want to be bad at carrying on a conversation because I'm sleep-deprived, not because my mind strays to October 13.

I want to be able to comfort others instead of reminding them of their grief and mine. 

One month ago I was afraid of today. Today I'm not afraid, because for the last month God has been the strength, refuge, joy, shield, and help He said He would be.  I don't know why I doubted Him, but now I have enough empirical evidence that doubt is no longer an option.  Like Thomas, who got to touch Jesus' scars. 

But I didn't know how strong He was until I became weak.  I didn't need a refuge until my life no longer provided one.  I didn't need joy until I had little of my own.  I didn't need a shield until there were things I needed to be shielded from.  I didn't need help until I couldn't do it myself.  And that's where I am, one month later.  And that's right where God wants me. 

And you, Arthur are right where God wants you.  Someday I'll get to be there too.

From the Mouths of Babes

Some of the joy and the pain of the last few weeks has come from listening to my daughter talk about Arthur and other experiences she has had because of his birth and death.  Her toddler language and view of the world make everything so simple and concrete, which makes her statements at once beautiful and hard.

One of the cutest things she says right now is "Mommy hode you!" to ask to be picked up.  Oh, pronouns...  The other night when she was rehearsing what happened when Arthur was born, she said "Daddy hode you Arshur.  Mommy hode you Arshur.  Trying, Trying."  (Trying = Crying)  Then I started "trying" again...it was just so sweet coming out of her mouth.

When she talks about Arthur, at the end of the conversation I remind her that Arthur is in heaven with Jesus.  Her train of thought after that is as follows:  "Jeshus liyz!" (Jesus is alive!...we have learned this in her storybook Bible).  "Mud! Wash. See!"  (The story about Jesus that she remembers is of the blind man in John 9...my favorite!)  Lest I get too caught up in sentiment, we move from Arthur to washing mud off of eyes in about 5 seconds.  Hopefully some day I can explain to her why that story gives me so much hope.  You can read why here.

In the last week, we've visited with several friends who have babies.  I can tell by some things she says that she is confused about these babies vs. baby Arthur.  I don't know how to figure out what she is thinking or how to explain to her why these babies are alive and growing and baby Arthur is just a picture and a memory to her.  Heck, I don't know how to explain that to myself some days.

Post-Halloween, one of the great joys in her life has been repeatedly sorting, counting, and fingering the chocolate in her honeypot (she and her dad were Piglet and Pooh).  She gets to eat "one chock-it" after lunch most days, and one day, as she gleefully ate her piece, we started playing the toddler game of listing everyone who likes chocolate. 
"Lay-shea chock-it...mmm!" 
"Does Mommy like chocolate?"
"Yes!" 
"Does Grandma like chocolate?"
"Yes!  Daddy?"
"Daddy likes chocolate."
"Papa?"
Grandpa likes chocolate."
"Hannah?"
"Hannah likes chocolate."
"Arshur?"
It took me off guard so much I didn't know what to say.  I was touched that she would include Arthur as we listed our family.  When I told my husband, he laughed and reminded me how much Arthur would kick when I ate chocolate.  So, the answer is yes.  Arthur liked chocolate.

And now a purely sweet and funny one.  Our friends and church family have been so kind and have provided so much delicious food for us.  Like, I think I've cooked dinner twice in the last month.  One day last week, a day when we were eating off of a variety of yummy leftovers, the doorbell rang at about 5:30 in the evening.  It was an electrician here to check something for us.  Upon hearing the doorbell, my daughter ran toward the front door and crowed "Dinner!"  Pavlov, I guess :)

Learning to Trust...Not As Easy As You Think!

The Gathering of the Manna in the Desert-Giuseppe Angeli

This year, I am doing a Bible study with some ladies from my church on fear and worry.  How appropriate, right?  This month's lesson was an in-depth look at when God provided manna for the Israelites.

In case you have forgotten or aren't familiar with the details, the story takes place not quite 2 months after God miraculously rescued the Israelites from 400 years of slavery to the Egyptians.  He had sent 10 supernatural plagues to convince the Pharaoh to let His people go, and then when Pharaoh changed his mind and sent his army after the hundreds of thousands of Israelites, God opened up the Red Sea, allowed His people to walk through on dry ground, and then closed the waters, drowning the Egyptian soldiers who were pursuing them.

But now the same hundreds of thousands of Israelites were in the desert with no food.  And they began to worry.

Now, let me interject here.  I think we are far too hard on the poor Israelites.  Would you, if you were in the middle of the wilderness with waning food supplies and hundreds of thousands of mouths to feed, joyfully and fearlessly march onward with no thought of where tomorrow's meals would come from?  I think not.  Or if you would, you are a different kind of human being than I am.

God heard His people's cries, and being who He is, provided for them.  He sent manna, this odd white stuff (the Hebrew word manna means "what is it?") every morning for the Israelites to gather, prepare, and eat.  He gave them some specific commands, though.  They were only to gather enough for that day.  If they disobeyed and collected more than they could eat that day, the leftovers became moldy and worm-infested overnight.  They were to collect manna for tomorrow tomorrow.  For years and years God provided food for His people in this way, one day at a time.

One of the questions in the Bible study asked "How would the daily provision of manna have affected the fear that the Israelites felt?"  As I pondered the text in order to answer the question, I was struck with a greater understanding of how trials work.

Our usual Christian answer to the question would be that the daily provision of manna taught the Israelites to trust God.  And that's true.  But answer the "How" part of the question.  How did it teach them to trust God?  After seeing the manna one morning, were all their fears assuaged?  I think not (and indeed, the record of Scripture agrees with me...). 

The daily provision of manna would have made the Israelites come face-to-face with their fear daily.  Every day they would have had to fight the tendency to wonder where tomorrow's food would come from.  The desire to have a little stockpile to fall back on.  The worry that tomorrow might be different and they might have to watch their children starve in the wilderness. 

Then it occurred to me.  Unfortunately, that's the only way to be taught to trust God.  Learning always involves some practice, some repetition.  To use educational vernacular, we learn by doing.  You can't learn to trust God until you are in a place where you have to trust God.  And the places where you have to trust God are usually uncomfortable places.  Like being stuck in a wilderness with no food for tomorrow.  Like waiting for your son to die, and then walking through life after that.

Furthermore, one day of practice doesn't usually build a robust trust in God.  To use another analogy, one day of lifting weights doesn't give you strong muscles.  You get strong muscles from lifting heavy weights day after day.  That's why God provided manna daily for His people.  Every night they had to go to bed battling fear that they wouldn't have food to eat tomorrow.  That battle is what builds trust.

I think that there is a slight misunderstanding common in the church that having to fight fear is wrong or a sign of spiritual weakness.  We think that we should just joyfully and trustingly accept every circumstance in our lives and never worry.  But that would be like saying that it's wrong to have to go to the gym and work out in order to be strong, or that we should be good at a skill after practicing it once or twice.  When we are commanded over and over in Scripture not to fear, implicit in that command is the understanding that we ARE afraid.  The command is to battle that fear. 

So, it's not that trials and tests instantly give a Christian happy, restful trust in God.  Trials and tests make a Christian face their fears, doubts, and worries over and over again.  But it's the process of facing those fears and consciously fighting to trust day after day, even when it seems like the weight we are being asked to lift is remarkably heavy, that teaches us to trust.

Fix it!

It's odd, the things that make me cry these days.  Last week it was vacuuming.  This week it was Winnie the Pooh.

One of our library books this week tells the story of when Piglet wanted to give Eeyore a balloon for his birthday.  Sadly, while he is running toward Eeyore's house, he falls and the balloon pops.  "Oh dear!" says Piglet.  "It's broken!"  At which point, my daughter says "Six it!  Six it!" with great conviction. (She can't say the letter f...)  I've spent all week trying to convince her that when a balloon breaks, there's nothing anyone can do to fix it. And trying not to cry over an easy reader version of Winnie the Pooh.

My sweet daughter is convinced that I can fix everything.  Even broken balloons.  And I'm accustomed to meeting those expectations.  I am a big-sister, type-A fixer of anything I can get my hands or mind on.  But right now I'm so painfully aware of my inability to fix things.  In May, I couldn't fix it when we found out that our son had severe congenital deformities.  I couldn't fix it when my husband cried.  I couldn't fix it when we had to tell our parents.  In July I couldn't fix it when the doctors told us there was nothing they could do for Arthur. And not quite 4 weeks ago, I couldn't fix it when Arthur was born and died all in the same hour.

I wanted to so badly.  I wanted to fix it for my husband, for our daughter.  For our parents and brothers and sisters.  For me.  For Arthur.

Now that Arthur has come and gone, I can't fix it either.  That broken red balloon in Winnie the Pooh reminds me of this truth.  Some things can't be put back together again.  Some things will never be the same again.  That's why I'm grieving. 

I thought the easy reader version of Winnie the Pooh was a tear-jerker.  Then yesterday we couldn't find the library book at nap time, so I read excerpts of the real story of Eeyore's birthday to my daughter out of the family copy of Milne and Shepard's masterpiece.  Then I walked out of the room and cried.  I haven't been able to get the following conversation out of my mind since.  I love A.A. Milne.  I love his knack for capturing deep human emotions in childlike words and situations.  There's something comforting in the way this passage embraces the simplicity and reality of grief as Piglet and Eeyore mourn what might have been and what should have been.

      "Yes, Eeyore, and I brought you a balloon."
      "Balloon?" said Eeyore. "You did say balloon? One of those big coloured things you blow up? Gaiety, song-and-dance, here we are and there we are?"
      "Yes, but I'm afraid -- I'm very sorry, Eeyore -- but when I was running along to bring it you, I fell down."
      "Dear, dear, how unlucky! You ran too fast, I expect. You didn't hurt yourself, Little Piglet?"
      "No, but I -- I -- oh, Eeyore, I burst the balloon!"
      There was a very long silence.
      "My balloon?" said Eeyore at last.
      Piglet nodded.
      "My birthday balloon?"
      "Yes, Eeyore," said Piglet sniffing a little. "Here it is. With -- with many happy returns of the day." And he gave Eeyore the small piece of damp rag.
      "Is this it?" said Eeyore, a little surprised.
      Piglet nodded.
      "My present?"
      Piglet nodded again.
      "The balloon?"
      "Yes."
      "Thank you, Piglet," said Eeyore. "You don't mind my asking," he went on, "but what colour was this balloon when it -- when it was a balloon?"
      "Red."
      "I just wondered. ... Red," he murmured to himself. "My favourite colour. ... How big was it?"
      "About as big as me."
      "I just wondered. ... About as big as Piglet," he said to himself sadly. "My favourite size. Well, well."
      Piglet felt very miserable, and didn't know what to say. He was...opening his mouth to begin something, and then deciding that it wasn't any good saying that...

Answers to Prayer part 1

So, remember how several weeks ago I wrote a post telling you how you could pray for us?  I want to share with you some ways in which God has answered those prayers.

1. Our marriage.  God has blessed and deepened our relationship in the last several weeks.  We've cried together, prayed together, written together, been tough together, been weak together, and just been together.  Trials are no fun, but walking through them with your best friend, lover, and protector is the way to go!

2. Our daughter.  Amazingly, she remembers.  One day last week she pulled Arthur's baby blanket out of the box in our room and brought it to me, saying "Arshur bankie."  We got to talk about how she counted his fingers and toes, how Mommy and Daddy held him, how everyone cried (this seems to have made a big impression on her) and how now he is in heaven with Jesus.  Then, like a busy toddler, she moved on.  She does act out the most when I am the most emotionally checked out, so we are still working through that...both of us.  She still brings smile after smile to our faces, day after day.

3. Our extended family.  He allowed everyone who planned to be there to get to the hospital before Arthur arrived so that they could meet him, and in the last few weeks has given us many sweet times to be together.  They have taken such good care of us! 

4. Decision-making.  We've made it through most of the hard decisions.  They weren't fun to make or talk about, and there were times when it took us far longer than it should have, but God was incredibly gracious in giving us an ability to make decisions and rest in them.  Especially in the days after Arthur's birth and death...we both had clarity and strength that we didn't expect. 

5. Delivery.  I could wax eloquent here about the many ways God answered prayers.  I know some of you were praying for the medical team who would care for us.  They were beyond incredible, and I don't say that flippantly.  They took care of us in ways I hadn't even thought to pray for.  I know some of you were praying for my labor, especially as I had to be induced.  I'm not a fan of Pitocin contractions, but God allowed everything to go smoothly and (fairly) easily.  His timing, the advice and care of doctor and nurse and husband and sister, and His strength brought Arthur into the world safely.  I know you were praying for me, that I would be physically and emotionally there when Arthur arrived.  Let me tell you, God answered that prayer in exceeding abundant ways.  I don't remember being tired or loopy or in pain or anything...I just remember holding my son and watching his daddy love him.  Thanks to the amazing medical team, I was able to quickly recover so that our family could join us and we could introduce them all to our son.  We didn't have to stay an extra night in the hospital, which was probably good psychologically.  Recovery once we got home went fairly smoothly as well.

6. Life.  Well, we are just inching back into life, so maybe I should wait to update you on this one.  It was good to stop for a week or two to grieve, recover physically, and be together.  Thank you for facilitating that through the meals and gift cards you have provided, not expecting us to return calls and emails and messages quickly, and welcoming us back as we merge back into work, church, to-do lists, and the rest of life.  Thank you for inviting us to join you in so many wonderfully normal activities as we readjust to "normal".  Please continue to pray, especially for me, that I would have wisdom to know how to walk this road of simultaneous grief and joy, knowing when to step away from life and when to step into it fully.

7. God's glory.  We get glimpses, through things you've told us, of how God's character and deeds are being praised through Arthur's life.  Thank you for sharing with us!  We can't wait to get to heaven to see our son again and to look back and see all that God was doing through this thread in our life tapestry.

8. A miracle.  Thank you for praying with faith and tears for something that didn't seem likely.  It takes a willingness to be vulnerable before the Lord and others to pray like you prayed for us.  Thank you for continuing to trust in God's goodness and faithfulness even though He chose to say no to this request.

If you want to hear more, just ask!  We have loved hearing how you have specifically prayed and love even more being able to tell you how God answered your prayers.  We are beyond honored and blessed by the time and love you have put into making requests known to God on our behalf.