Remind me again, please

He is faithful.

He is good.

He knows pain.

This is temporary.

He promises a hope that won’t disappoint. 

He keeps his promises.

He will redeem.

These statements have been running through my mind a lot lately. This month has proven to be an emotional roller-coaster for me. I found myself scribbling these truths up on the giant decorative mirror in our dining room because I needed to be reminded… often. Truth needed to be spoken to my soul, over and over and over and over.

Today, my baby sister and her hubby celebrate 3 years of marriage. Flashing back 3 years ago, I had barely made it to the wedding flying in at midnight on Friday night with little Ely in tow. It was supposed to be the whole family on the trip, Titus given the honor of ring bearer and I, the matron of honor. But circumstances didn’t line up as such and we left Danny and Titus back home occupying a room on the neuroscience unit at our children’s hospital. Titus had been hospitalized, yet again, for uncontrollable seizures. He spent long days there as they quickly weaned him off one medication to put him on yet another in an attempt to gain control over these seizures. It was heartbreaking to leave them behind. Ely and his cousin, Colby, did a wonderful job standing in as the ring bearers in Sarah and Michael’s beautiful wedding and we flew home at 6 am Sunday morning to be reunited with the other half of our little family. I remember arriving home, knowing Titus had just gotten discharged. Danny had made an extra stop before heading home to buy kites. (This was one of those moments I constantly thank God for gifting to us and prompting Danny’s heart in this way.) We joined them out on the big grassy park right by our house and watched daddy fly a magnificent shark kite. Neither of them had ever seen a kite before. I will never forget the excitement, awe and pure delight exploding out of each of our boys and it was contagious. I felt it too.

We had just plowed through one more obstacle to help our little boy and we celebrated that, but deep down in our guts we were unsettled, feeling as though something was coming – that we weren’t in the clear. We’d learned by then to enjoy the moments, but not to let our guard down. That year, 2014, Titus was the same age Ely is now. We had no idea what was actually lying in wait in both our boys’ bodies.

My heart aches for what could’ve been had Titus received an early enough diagnosis to get in to the enzyme replacement trial that opened just shortly after that kite flying day. But we didn’t, he didn’t. We had no idea what we were facing. And I constantly have to come back to…

“This is temporary.”

“God will redeem!”

“He promises a hope that won’t disappoint.”

“This isn’t over,” I say to myself as I ponder that beautiful memory 3 years ago. Titus’s story has not ended and someday we’ll be together with Christ in glorious bodies – perfect without disease! That day will come. And in the meantime, redemption is here too.

God gives us joy in the midst of heart pain.

He gives us peace in the middle of turbulent waters.

He gives us strength under weighty grief.

He restores my soul when the circumstances of this world and my own destructive patterns shatter it.

He gives direction and a sense of purpose in a dark pit that feels impossible to move from.

These are all signs of his love, his involvement, his redemption. This is God. Here and now.

So, until the day all is fully redeemed and restored whole…

He is faithful.

He is good.

He knows pain.

This is temporary.

He promises a hope that will not disappoint.

He keeps his promises.

He will redeem.

May truth hold our minds, hearts and souls captive in the midst of our heartbreaks, disappointments and sorrows.

Thanks for listening,

Bekah

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Schlumpy, much?

I have been consumed lately with what my heart looks like. I am overly perceptive of how I react to things, mentally putting the information away into my file cabinet of “interesting” to go back through later. My reactions are wide and varied. My son fell off the bed a few weeks ago and hit his head straight on the tile floor. There was nothing I could’ve done in this particular incident to stop the fall except to prevent him from getting on the bed in the first place. (Which is now a rule… that gets broken repeatedly.) As I rushed to his side, surveyed the possible damage and held him close rocking him, I was alarmed at the reaction I was forced to shove down through deep breathing to maintain sanity. The anxiety, the sweating, the heart pounding, the hands shaking, the tears close to pouring over the rims of my eyelids… all of it came on in a matter of seconds without a choice. My brain was hijacked by the memories of previous traumatic experiences with my boys and their disease and the adrenaline fed the fear and high emotional reactions. It took a long time to calm back down and get back to a place where I didn’t feel so out of control.

Other times, it’s just little things that happen that make me reflect on what is truly going on deeper down inside me. I’ll be trying to have a conversation with someone and I simply just can’t. I can’t think of the right words, I can’t think of  a complete thought, I can’t process what they are saying. It’s awkward! And then there are the moments where I find myself defensive for absolutely no good reason. Still other moments, I actually feel a bit normal and able to function without having to think too hard about it, which believe it or not, throws me for a loop too.

On a daily basis, I seek to really live (meaning, I’m present) despite all the reminders around me of our pain and grief and missing. My emotions go from joy and creative passion to absolute dread and exhaustion. And in between is this numb sort of place where I do most of my living. I numbly work, I numbly exercise, I numbly take care of my family, I numbly interact… but wait, am I really living then? I call it “schlumpy”. Is that even a word? I guess it is now!

As I sit in my schlumpy-ness, I wonder at the state of my heart. Is it too hard? Is it becoming stone with thorns surrounding it? Is there beauty in there somewhere still waiting to be discovered or have I used all that up and am doomed to be ugly and broken for the rest of my life? What shape does my heart even hold? Like a broken nose that never grows back quite straight, I imagine my heart has been broken enough that it cannot look normal. Is it twisted and ugly or has it taken on a new refined, yet wild natural beauty? Maybe yes to both is the right answer. How can it not show the scars and the damage it has endured in this broken world? Yet there is a living being in that heart. It’s the Holy Spirit; God himself taking up residence in me. How He can find my heart to be a perfect home, I have no idea. But what I believe to be true is through the vines of the thorns that have grown around as a result of disappointment, hurt, selfishness, anger, loss, and pain, is a light. A pure, full spectrum color, dynamic light that beams around and through and inside out. It puts a spotlight on the brokenness, but not in the way I would expect it to. Prisms of color I have never seen before as a result of the light hitting cracks and awkward angles, bursts out. As those colors beam brightly, I see that growing amidst the thorns are actually beautiful roses. Without the light, I wouldn’t be able to see them, the darkness camouflaging them, trying to snip them off the vines with the scissors of nonexistence. But nonetheless, there they are. Growing. Beautiful. And I’m left to wonder what in the world to do with them. Am I uncomfortable with them being there? Those roses are a signal of life still at work. That death has not won and there is still life to be lived; missions to accomplish. Do I snip them off and say, forget it? Tending to these roses takes work… too much work. I would have to feed them, water them, provide them with sunshine and plenty of room to grow. It would require pruning and caring for new growth. And that is hard. Really hard. And right now, I’m schlumpy.

But I’m reminded, with a gentle prodding, that there will be a time to care for those roses, but there is also a time to sit back and allow the joy found in these beautiful buds to just be, simply because. Not because I did something to earn it, deserve it, or make it be, but simply because joy gets to exist in the presence of my God… the one who lives right inside of me. It’s one of his many characteristics, one of the deepest and most profound for me. Joy and schlumpy can actually exist together for a time, but then joy gets to win. Is it happiness? No. So what is joy in the mess of this heart of mine? What is it in the mess of this broken world and the complicated back and forth that is living in between broken reality and hope of redemption?

Joy is not a what. It is a “who”.

Who is my joy?

My joy is Jesus.

Jesus who loves beyond brokenness and faults, gives peace throughout this journey and redeems the in between and now, but also the future forever. Joy does not mean I carry a happy flag around. It means I look to Him for strength, for hope, for sustenance. It means his love reflects in and through me. And when life gets schlumpy and weary and I-just-can’t-do-this-anymore, I know my joy is not lost, because He is not lost. Jesus has never left my side and will always be there as my hope and joy no matter how dark this reality can get. Am I blind? Am I romanticizing this too much? How can Jesus really be enough when I feel the dark depths of depression and the wild ride of anxiety creep up on me?

I guess you’d have to know and believe the end of the story. The one where Jesus has conquered the very darkness that has settled in a dark cloud over our household… death.

Death… so separating, so lonely, leaving me to grieve the finality it is for all of us here on earth. Yet, only in this world is it final. Jesus has the final say. When he went to work and went to the cross and died for us, the very resurrection of his life showed the victory he holds over death and ALL things evil. His death and resurrection reflects across the brokenness of my heart with one big loud “I LOVE YOU” and “You are worth this sacrifice” and more, “You are worth this VICTORY”. Death, hate, pain, grief… all of it is redeemed – made right- through this great love story. All he asks is that we believe him! That we believe he really does love us. That he really has won. That this brokenness is redeemed and someday, we will never experience this pain again. For now God gifts us with hope and joy, also known as Jesus, in our shaded, fractured, damaged, despairing, gaping wounded hearts. Mission accepted… even in my schlumpy state, for my heart longs for all that you are, Jesus.

These are my hope and joy gifts…

 

 

Thanks for listening,

Bekah

Roommates

The first year of loss consumes me. Every experience held has a deep painful reminder that one certain joy-filled boy is physically absent. I am overly aware of the grief residing in me and the effect it has on nearly every interaction, every experience, every day I live through since we got the diagnosis, watched loss happen in front of our very helpless eyes, and ultimately said a painfully separating good-bye-for-now to Titus. Each important date, each “anniversary” feels like it is lurking around the corner ready to strike my heart in a deep, painful way. Yet another reminder of what we have lost. Life, for me, has become trying to understand how all these broken pieces now fit together.

It’s messy and painful and sometimes hard to find the way. Something will come  along and shatter part of me all over again and I realize the puzzle will never go back together whole. Rather, it will have juts and cuts, and holes and slashes. And the only whole I can cling to is the Holy Spirit in me. He is what fills – no, shines! – through the damage. God begins to weave back together a beautiful mosaic, but it is not without pain. It is also not without joy! The two reside together in their home in my heart and soul, learning to become roommates. They couldn’t be more opposite, more conflicting! The struggle is in finding a way to live balanced – not where I ignore them, but where I allow myself to feel both and see, with Jesus eyes, the redemption at hand here in us, in the world around us, and in the wholeness that has already happened in my son.

There used to be a time in my life where things just sort of always worked out. Everything from jobs, big moves, and friendships came together exactly as we needed. I remember back to when I was standing on my back deck in my home where  I grew up. I was 15. I was declaring my love for God. I told him my life was his. All His. I went on to tell him I wanted to shine bright for him. I still remember this moment so distinctly because He spoke in me. I remember the feeling… it was like a quiet booming that was ricocheting around inside me resonating not just in my ears but into my heart and deeper still, into my soul.

“See that star?” He said. I looked up. I saw it… the brightest star in the sky to my visible eye. “You will shine brighter than that star for me, daughter.” In that moment, in my 15 year old mind, I felt chosen for great things. Pain did not cross my mind, not once. And, looking back, I wonder if it ever crossed my mind what a huge commitment that was when it came to trust Him, even though __________ (fill in the blank).

Even though I would struggle with depression to the point of wanting to die in college.

Even though once I entered the real world and the real job force, the days got hard and I didn’t like doing the hard stuff.

Even though we would pick up and move from security and established comfort zones multiple times.

Even though family relations were sometimes difficult to manage.

Even though we would have babies who taught us what sleep deprivation was.

Even though our boys would be diagnosed with a rare and fatal disease.

Even though we would hand our oldest son back to Jesus at the age of 6.

Even though there would be no reprieve from the rare disease world as our youngest would battle the very same Batten battle his brother was just freed from.

Even though we now have to live in a world seen now through a film of grief, welcoming it as a new friend.

Even though… I will trust in you God and you have all of me.

You see, as I fast forward through my life, I see God using me, using us. The world sees His goodness in this dark time. This world is broken, but there is still hope for redemption. Not just future redemption but redemption right here, right now.

So, while I live in this new world of grief-lined perspective, joining hands with my grief is hope. As the sorrowful streams of grief rise up, around me hope says, “Here I am. Ride that wave, feel it… I won’t let go.”

When grief reminds me of what I’ve lost, hope reminds me of what I still have to gain.

When grief shreds my heart to a million pieces, hope takes those pieces and welds them together in a new and beautiful fashion.

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Fun with water out on the back patio
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Taken right by where Danny and I got engaged over 12 years ago! (The exact spot was under water!)
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Ely having so much fun at grandpa and grandma’s house!
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On our visit to the beautiful Red Bridge Farm in Washington!
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Ely celebrating his “graduation” from the clinical trial for the enzyme replacement therapy program at Nationwide Children’s Hospital in Columbus, Ohio. (He continues treatment at home now.)

Grief and hope, pain and joy. I grab on to both sides. Grief and Pain are the reality of this world… Hope and Joy are the reality of God.

Thanks for listening,

Bekah

I am a mom

What does mothers day hold for me exactly, as I live out bits of other moms’ greatest nightmares and fears? Honestly, mothers day for me has become a paradox. Confusing, too. The truth is that a part of me wants to pretend this day doesn’t happen and ignore everything in me that squeezes tight. The other part of me wants to climb to the tallest point and declare loudly my role as a mom. I am a mom!

I am a grieving mom.

I am a broken mom.

I am often a sleep deprived mom.

I am a grouchy mom.

I am a mom who battles against weight gain.

I am a mom who struggles to find balance.

I am a mom who snaps and yes, sometimes even yells. (I might even slam a door or two.)

I am a mom who grows impatient, feels insufficient and sometimes just wants to stay in bed.

I am a mom who has placed value in how well her kids are doing.

I am a mom who sometimes worries about what others are thinking as I parent in public. (And sometimes, I truly do not care.)

But… more importantly…

I am their mom. Titus and Ely’s.

 

 

I am a patient mom.

I am a caring mom.

I stretch myself to places I didn’t know I could go to be their mom.

I am an advocating mom.

I am a dedicated mom.

I am a mom who’s heart is torn apart and put back together in new ways as a result of being a mom… and it’s beautiful.

I labored for hours (and in Titus’s case – days) to be their mom, and that labor hasn’t stopped. It has just changed so I changed with it to be their mom.

I am the mom who kisses boo boos and apologizes when she gets angry.

I am a mom who searches for adventures for her boys to experience.

I am a mom who held her son through to his last breath and had the holy honor of ushering his spirit into the arms of Jesus.

I am a mom.

Moms,

We are patient, we are impatient. We are loving, we lash out in anger. We are teachers, advocates, coaches, therapists, fighters, and mediators for our children. We also are the first in line to show our kids how to screw up and treat others wrongly. And in turn, the first to show our children how apologies, forgiveness and grace operate in a broken world.

What a horrifying, painful, beautiful and fulfilling role to be placed in… mom.

It’s different for me this year, as Titus’s transition to Heaven as left a big hole in my role as mom. But as with everything in life these days, my heart approaches mothers day with grief and hope holding hands. My pain is held within God’s promise… a promise to redeem. 

To redeem not just my son’s disease, death and our separation as a result, but to redeem all the ugly parts of me, the places where I’ve failed as mom, wife, daughter and friend. And because of His promise, I enter my day knowing we experience redemption right here, right now. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to do this… write and tell our story. It’s a link in my redemption story.

So yes, I am a mom. So are many of you… maybe even in ways that don’t look “traditional”. You are still a mom. But even more importantly, you are a redeemed and loved daughter of our God –  a king who will one day make everything complete and right. In the meantime, He wraps us up in hope and joy filled blankets as we hold pain and grief, failure and loss in our hearts… because we are moms.

And you, my dear friend, are a beautiful mom.

Thanks for listening,

Bekah

Why the why matters

In our frequent travels back and forth between Ohio and California, I’ve run across many new faces. Sometimes we wind up conversing, other times not so much. In the conversations that do start up, it’s pretty much guaranteed that our story will come out. “Where are you all headed?” “Oh, you have family out there?” And so I begin to explain. “Rare, fatal disease. Travel for experimental treatment. Yes, its genetic. Oldest son just died from it.” (You know, it goes something like that, but with a touch of “Bekah” as my husband refers to it.) I can usually see the struggle and quarrel in their minds as they search for what to say next. Those questions are supposed to lead to small talk and I just hijacked the conversation and laid it all bare. As people process what to say, I hear a variety of responses. And I have been so blessed in these conversations, even though the other person often feels inadequate in the words they respond with. Honestly, I’ve been through it and I don’t even have adequate words most of the time.

But one such response that I hear often is, “I just don’t understand why”. And I’ve wrestled with that. Because, well, I know the answer. But it’s a monstrosity to tackle and it’s messy. And there isn’t this easy way out. But really, maybe we’ve got the why question in the wrong context all together. So… I guess I’m going there this time. And, by the way, I’m not going to pretend I’ve got this all figured out or that I have the depth of biblical and theological training to declare myself an expert in this field. So I’m praying God will be speaking through my words as I share vulnerably what I’m learning deep in my soul as I journey through brokenness.

So, a long time ago- okay, in the beginning of this world, God created Adam and Eve. He gave them so many incredible gifts, one of them being free will. God loved them deeply and created them in His image. He wanted them, in turn, to love him deeply and he knew the only way that relationship could be returned authentically would be if Adam and Eve chose to love him back. (Who wants to have to force people to love them in return?) So, he did what any good and loving parent would do and he established boundaries that held Adam and Eve safe in his love. Well, Satan, who had once been in the presence of God, turned against him and infiltrated the beautiful garden where Adam and Eve lived. He used deception to lead them to believe they could be better, do better, achieve better than God was allowing them to be. All they needed to do was eat some fruit from the tree of good and evil and their eyes would be opened. And so they ate. And their eyes were opened and their hearts were shattered. For God had protected them from the evil Satan wished to penetrate into them and what they had been protected from now ruled in their hearts and minds. They felt things they’d never felt before… Shame, brokenness, incompleteness, fear. And so, yes, they could see good and evil like God could, but they lacked one distinct disadvantage… They weren’t God. And so began this complicated world where good and evil battle and brokenness and sickness and pain and sorrow run rampage. And death… Yes, death happens. This world wasn’t supposed to have death. It was created for life! For joy! For pleasure, adventure, for community, for good! Not death.

This. Is. The. Why.

And how can I just settle with that? Be okay with that? And move on? And, not to mention, still love that God? The one who allowed this? When sin entered, death followed in and became certain. It touched my Titus. It touches everyone.

Everyone except one.

But wait… It actually did touch him. And in the most broken of ways. The very thing Satan eagerly planted in our hearts intending for it to grow strangling vines around us to suffocate, to cause our eyes to lose sight of joy and become lifeless grey- moving through the motions without really living, to feel pain and hit after hit from the circumstances around us; this very thing- brokenness- that Satan meant for eternal harm to our souls is the very thing God uses to reach us deep inside and pull us out.

Our God is so good. He didn’t bring this brokenness into the world, but instead of turning away, he became broken to be in our broken to help us find our way back to him even as we are broken. What the devil intended for suffering, God used for healing. He used the cracks in our hearts to breath life into places that would otherwise be barricaded and unreachable to give us the fullest of healing.

And, yes, that one person I’m talking about who was untouchably touched by death is Jesus. The one whom death conquered. Who was broken apart. Whose very life was suffocated out of him. Did he have to go there? No… But, remember, God is love. God loves you. And if you lost your child in a terrible storm, you’d go right through that storm to get them back to safety. And so, God sent Jesus, his son, to earth to rescue us in the middle of our storms of brokenness. And when he came here he brought life and hope and joy and promise and redemption. And then he showed us the great lengths he would go to save us… Yes, to even die. And then, 3 days later, he showed us the even greater lengths he would go to save us. Yes, even conquer death which is brokenness in its very final and depleted state. Even there, he would rescue us. Brokenness, because of his grace, was made into the most powerful tool for heart transformation and for good. Brokenness flooded Jesus’s soul because he wanted us. He loves us. And he was willing to go there for me, for you, for my sweet Titus.

This is why. This is why sickness and death happened to my son. But this is also why I’m not afraid to go there… To broken places and to live broken.

Just some of the blessings in the broken

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Passing on joy to other kids at our children’s hospital
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Our family has been so blessed!
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Family trip to Disneyland… choosing joy after a devastating diagnosis
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ONU Volleyball supporting us!
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CUI basketball T4T&E game
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CUI track and field T4T&E meet

When we hurt, the deepest need we have is for someone to be there for us. When Titus took his last breath here and in turn got to run to the arms of Jesus, we were left on this side ripped to shreds. We called our friends, Steve and Cathi, to come be with our family. Steve and Cathi ran into our brokenness. They held us and sobbed with us. They recognized the pain and let their hearts break too. They weren’t afraid to be cut by the razors that had just mutilated our hearts and they willingly stood with us and felt it all. This was love. This was the spirit of our God with us – feeling our brokenness. And in that moment, we had good brokenness. The kind that gave abundance. Gave joy. A deep, love filled brokenness. Look at Jesus’s scars.  Reflect on the cross that was carried and died on for you. And the scars on his body remained even after death was conquered and he was raised back to life. Why? Because he wanted you to know there is a great gift in brokenness and that is him and his deep abiding love for you. For you.  That is really the why… Why I will run full on into my broken where I know I will indeed break free.

Thanks for listening…

Bekah

Glorious impossible

As we navigate the confusing messiness of grief during the holiday season, I found myself looking back through my journal at this time last year… Christmas 2015. As we were gearing up for the Christmas season, I remember Danny and I saying to each other that we both felt it was going to be Titus’s last Christmas. Of course, I questioned my gut instinct and wondered if I was just being dramatic. After all, many kids with CLN2 live to 8, 9, even 12. Titus was only 5. That year I was so very aware and eager to make everything perfect. The complicated thing about holdays and family is that things rarely go “perfect”. But it became a Christmas to always remember. I want to take you back to December 24th and my journal entry that day. I was going to post it last year, but there are times I just freeze and cannot share my heart. But today, I can and will.

December 24, 2015 journal entry:

Each time Christmas comes around I hope I go through it slow enough to have what I call, Christmas moments. Some years I feel successful at this, other years I’m drowning in the schedule. This year has been crazy and I’m tempted to create these moments just so I don’t feel guilty about missing Christmas. However, one such moment snuck up on me last Sunday and it is not one I could’ve planned or scheduled. (And aren’t those the most real, anyway?) It was a moment I needed to allow into my heart to sink in and flood my soul. It caught me off guard. I was sitting in church and our worship leader begins playing a song I’d never heard before. The words told of the birth of Jesus. I let myself  seriously consider exactly how this all played out.

A virgin got pregnant and still remained a virgin. Wow!

Jesus, our Lord, came in such a humble and vulnerable state as a baby boy and his first bed was a manger. Wow!

Mary raised “God with us” and didn’t screw him up! Wow!

Jesus walked on water, healed incurable diseases, loved EVERYONE. Wow!

He took on the most brutal death, a very final deed to release the foothold evil had on this world to unleash even greater powers- Grace and hope and love! Wow! It’s all such a glorious impossible!

And as I listened to this song being played, tears flowed down over my cheeks. At first I was embarrassed. I cry way to easily at things sometimes. And then I felt Him nudge me. “Sit in this.” He echoed in my heart. “I am meeting you here. I am flooding your heart with enough… with glorious impossible.”

There is a lot of impossible going on in our lives right now. Simultaneously, there are a bunch of Christmas moments too. Many volunteered to make these moments happen this Christmas for our family in a BIG way. One church in Illinois purchased plane tickets for family members who couldn’t afford to get here so they could get here! Another generous donor from Illinois sent enough funds for us to make accomodations for our entire family! And a wonderful, new friend helped us land incredibly close accomodations to us (ya know, like 4 doors down). Our California church family stepped in the gap in a big way and provided food for all of us while everyone was here celebrating. A family whom I’d never met beforehand came by to love on our family through the gift of 2 Disneyland tickets. Just a few days later our church family surprised us, yet again, with annual passes to Disney, allowing us to use the 2 extra tickets to treat Gramma Cindy and Grandpa Eddie to an experience with the boys there. Our boys’ rehab team decided to put together a “southern california christmas” to remember and treated our whole family to a duffy boat tour of the harbor, all lit up beautifully, and with delicious food to boot.

The desire in my heart to have everyone here for Christmas had looked quite bleak and, well, impossible! Nothing is as life changing as what happened in Bethlehem all those thousands of years ago, but this year we truly have experienced the glorious impossible through the generosity and love of so many others!

But still the heaviest thing on my heart is the disease my boys fight against on a daily basis. The insane amount of pressure, guilt, and fear that can take over in a finger snap without warning… and I have to talk it back into its little corner. The timeline on a drug that looks to be truly helpful to our boys but is unavailable at this time as it begins the long journey through FDA approval. It’s an impossible situation. Desperately impossible. For me. And in that moment, sitting in that chair in the sanctuary on that gifted-to-me Sunday, I was reminded – No, not desperate impossible… Glorious impossible. 

-End journal entry

Here I am, again facing the holidays with a whole bunch of desperate impossible. At least, that’s what many would think, and often how I feel. The 17th of this month marked 3 months since the last time I held my oldest baby, my 6 year old. That miracle Christmas I journaled about really was his last Christmas. I consider it a gift that God gave us the hunch. And as I watched death swallow him up on this earth in one final breath the night of September 17th at 10:52 pm, I felt the glorious impossible that was the confident hope that our Lord already conquered death and Titus could now fully live the way He was always intended to.

We also find ourselves now 7 treatments in to that treatment I referred to in my journal entry last year. It is still moving through FDA approval, but Ely was graciously granted access to an early access program. The Ride for Ely campaign made it possible to accept the offer for his spot and not have the travel expenses swallow us whole. Glorious impossible.

Now we take on a new chapter. The one where we balance grief, pain, hope, reality… it’s not easy. We have seen first hand in our story and so many others that life doesn’t always end easy. We don’t always land on our feet, but rather curled up in a ball crying out, again, that we simply can’t do this. It’s all a desperate impossible.

And don’t we all have those? Those desperate impossibles? We are a broken people. But my prayer is that as you experience Christmas this year, it won’t be just about the tradition, the food, the family get togethers, the drama, but rather all about the hope and grace this glorious impossible has to offer you this Christmas.

See the Virgin is delivered
In a cold and crowded stall
Mirror of the Father’s glory
Lies beside her in the straw

He is Mercy’s incarnation
Marvel at this miracle!
For the Virgin gently holds
The Glorious Impossible

Love has come to walk on water
Turn the water into wine
Touch the leper, bless the children
Love both human and divine

Praise the wisdom of the Father
Who has spoken through His Son
Speaking still, He calls us to
The Glorious Impossible

Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Glorious Impossible

He was bruised for our transgressions
And He bears eternal scars
He was raised for our salvation
And His righteousness is ours

Praise, oh praise Him, praise the glory
Of this lavish grace so full
Lift your souls now and receive the
Glorious Impossible!

-Glorious Impossible lyrics

 

Merry Christmas and thanks for listening…

Bekah

Chasing Thankfulness

Lord, my brain is mush. I don’t know if it’s a coping skill or if it’s simply just the way it is in grief. I’m kinda numb. I’m here to chase thankfulness because I want to feel something. And, in gratitude, I find hope and joy.

It’s weird… It’s not hitting me that this Thanksgiving is any different than the last one. We had Titus last time though. And the fact is, this time we are missing our party of 4. We are checking in as -1 and I don’t really know how I’m supposed to react to that. I’m not worried about what others want or need to see from me… but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to feel to help my heart grieve… or process… or move forward.

titus1
That moment when you have to sit and wait for the dreaded to happen… you stay and hold each other close.

It’s been more than two months since I’ve seen and held my boy. He left us. He actually had the strength and courage to leave us and face death. He held on as long as he could and I’ll always cherish those last days and moments. My heart held so much anguish, love, admiration for him in that final week. And now, my little boy is gone and perhaps what hurts the most is the admitting that here wasn’t the best place for him. That there – with you, Lord – is the best place. I know that. And it aches in my tightened constricted throat. In the quiet tears and nose gone runny. In the muscles flexing in my abdomen to keep the sobs to a minimum… Oh, I don’t know why I hold those back.

I cannot kiss the top of his head to show my love. I cannot sing silly songs and twirl him in an uncoordinated dance. I can’t even seem to dream about him… at all.

But what I can do… what I can summon the constricted throat and hot teary eyes to see and proclaim is thankfulness. One little piece of “Thank you” at a time.

Thank you for our neighbors who surprised us with flowers and cookies.

Thank you for time with friends who give us joy and provide a safe place to just “be”.

Thank you for sweet fruit from our tangerine tree.

Thank you for amazing smiles in the pictures Titus left behind that still ignite a smile in my soul.

Thank you for a husband who has chosen to love me through the ugly parts.

Thank you for the subtle lean of love I receive often from Ely.

Thank you for giving us such an incredible support system who, in this Thanksgiving season, we get to surprise a few with our tradition of Thankful Baskets.

Thank you for football, parades, and chocolate chip pancakes to enjoy with those close to my heart.

Thank you for a man who loves to cook holiday meals!

Thank for an opportunity to treat Ely in hopes his course of Batten will be halted.

Thank you for all our new Ohioan friends who surround us with love and support.

Thank you for redemption.

Thank you for love, compassion, grace.

Thank you for filling our empty buckets so we can pour them out again.

Thank you for power to live through brokenness with the Holy Spirit.

Thank you for holding my son.

Thank you for the way a yellow rose or sunflower gives me a gentle reminder that you love us and are with us through it all. That even when broken- to pour even more out and we will be full. That when we are on our last thread of our broken stem, we still know without a doubt that you are good, Lord.

And you are enough. 

And when that day comes that my stem fully breaks, and this earthly body is done, I will be with you, restored to beauty that reflects your glory… no more brokenness in sight. Just like Titus. Thank you for that promise, Lord. The very essence that is the fullest weakness and defeat in death actually becomes the vessel that fills us to the most completeness. Thank you for that kind of love.

We can rejoice, too, when we run into problems and trials; for we know that they help us develop endurance. And endurance develops strength of character, and character strengthens our hope of salvation. And this hope will not lead to disappointment. For we know how dearly God loves us, because he has given us the Holy Spirit to fill our hearts with his love. – Romans 5:3-5

And here, as I chase thankfulness, I learn to just be. That right now, in this moment, this is ok. To be numb, to feel hurt, to give and be given to… it’s really living. All of it. And so I sit in it and I move in it and I rub my eyes clearer to see in it. This life… it is all a sign of your love. And I feel my soul showered free. Free from expectation. Free from idealism. Free from the need to hide. Here I am Lord… you get all of me. Not just the accolades, the accomplishments, but you get the anger, the cursing of this life that leaves my lips, the spewed words that come out in hate. All of me is all of you and because of that, I know that no matter what, I am enough because you are enough. And for that, I am most thankful.

Thanks for listening,

Bekah