Retrieve Lament: a mourning story from Nancy Linenschmidt

Each year during Holy Week, I ask friends to share a mourning story from their own life as a way to help us see Christ in the midst of suffering. My friend Nancy tells our first story this year. We've gone to church together for almost 5 years, but it wasn't until we were on a ministry retreat a few weeks ago, that I heard about Nancy's friend Liz.  I knew this story belonged in our blog series this year. May we all receive the ministry of Liz's suffering grace.

“You have cancer,” my friend Liz was told by her physician in October 1996.  The suspicious lump was indeed malignant, and suddenly Liz found herself thrust into the dreaded world of the cancer patient.  A world of anxiety, uncertainty and fear.  A world of hospitals, surgeries and chemotherapy.  A world of waiting, wondering and wigs.  My independent, vibrant, elementary school art teacher friend who was following hard after Jesus was embarking on what would become a seventeen month journey of both sorrow and joy, of pain and pleasure, of fear and peace.

I, too, was beginning a journey to a place I’d never been before.  It was a journey alongside my friend into the unknown world of the terminal cancer supporter.  It was a journey that raised fear in my heart.  It was a journey that was full of tears and treasures, of both heartache and hope.

UNEXPECTED BLESSINGS

Liz was hospitalized in November 1997 to have lung surgery.  The prolonged radiation treatments had caused fluid to build up on her lung, and surgery was indicated to correct the problem.  She was hospitalized in the medical complex where I worked at the time, so I took advantage of my lunch breaks to visit Liz and her Mom while they were there. I’ll never forget visiting her in the Intensive Care Unit the day after her surgery.  “It’s the right thing to do, probably more for her Mom than for Liz,” I convinced myself.  “But don’t wear her out by staying more than a few minutes.”  I found Liz sitting in a surgical chair at the bedside, groggy from the anesthesia and in pain from the surgical wound and the chest tube in her side. She smiled warmly at me when I entered, her smile crooked from the dry mucous membranes. She reached out her weak hand, tender from the IV taped to it, to hold mine and look me in the eye. We chatted and even laughed.  During the few minutes I was there, she drifted in and out of the conversation. As I left, she smiled again, thanked me for coming, and said with all sincerity as she often did, “God bless you.”

Those few minutes are still so vivid in my mind.  They were remarkable minutes.  I had gone into that room with hopes of being a source of encouragement and love.  Yet, I left as the one who had been loved and encouraged.  Amazing.  Amazing love.  “How can it be that my heart feels lifted?” I asked myself. Because I saw the love of God in a new way through my suffering friend.

Some few weeks later in Liz’s home, another unexpected blessing occurred.  Her condition had worsened, and desiring to minister to her, our singles pastor called together a group of friends to meet at Liz’s home and pray for her.  After the dozen of us gathered, Neil led us in a time of worship, using a Psalm to focus our attention on the attributes of God – His love, His presence and His goodness.  Since not everyone knew Liz well, she recalled the recent events surrounding her treatment, her condition and her hospitalization.  She then gave what I have come to call her “soliloquy of grace.” She said that over the 13 months since her diagnosis, she had never felt alone.  She felt loved in a deeper way than she had ever experienced before.  Ever, in her whole life.  

She recalled the countless expressions of love she had received – cards, letters, telephone calls, meals, a maid service, people showing up to plant pansies in her yard, to put a fresh coat of paint on her white picket fence, to decorate her house for Christmas, the student who had given her a lamb beanie baby, symbolizing her favorite passage of Scripture, the 23rd Psalm.  She spoke of feeling “fortified” (she often used that word) by all the prayers.  And then she dropped the golden nugget.  She said, “On the outside my body is deteriorating, but on the inside my spirit is blooming.” (2 Cor 4:16) Neil ended the evening by leading us in a time of prayer for Liz.  Among other things, we prayed for her healing.

That evening is still so vivid in my mind. It was a remarkable evening.  I had gone into her home with hopes of being a source of encouragement and love.  Yet, I left as the one who had been loved and encouraged. Amazing.  Amazing love.  “How can it be that my heart feels lifted?” I asked myself. Because I saw the goodness of God in a new way through my suffering friend.

WHAT ABOUT DEATH?

As I saw how peaceful and joyful Liz remained despite the hardships associated with her illness and its treatment, I began to wonder, “Is she in denial about the seriousness of her condition, or is it that she is experiencing God’s grace in a way that I just can’t appreciate?” One Friday after work in February 1998, I arranged with Liz to stop by for a visit.  The first hour we caught up on life in general. It had been some time since we’d been together one-on-one.

Then the subject changed to more serious matters.  We began to discuss the question: We are all praying that God will heal her.  That is our heart’s desire.  But suppose the Lord doesn’t intervene and heal her as we have asked Him to, but rather allows her to continue on this course?  What is she feeling about that?  She openly and willingly verbalized two thoughts.  First, she made it clear that healing was still the desire of her heart. There was so much more she wanted to do. Then she said that although she is not afraid of death, she had two fears about it.  She wondered if it would be painful; she wanted it to come quickly. And she was concerned about the hardship it would be on her family – her elderly parents, her sister, three brothers, nieces and nephews.  Through tears, she said again that she felt so loved. As I was leaving, I expressed concern for keeping her for so long. She smiled and said that it felt good to talk about it.

That Friday afternoon visit with Liz is still so vivid in my mind.  It was a remarkable afternoon. I had gone to her home with hopes of being a source of encouragement and love.  Yet, I left as the one who had been loved and encouraged.  Yes, I left as the one who had been loved and encouraged. 

Amazing.  Amazing love.  “How can it be that my heart feels lifted?” I asked myself. I saw the goodness of God in a new way through my suffering friend.

My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness. (2 Corinthians 12:9)

A VALUE IN SUFFERING

In January 1998 some of Liz’s teacher friends came up with the idea of developing a community-wide event to show their appreciation and support for Liz. The Liz Beighley Art Run was born.  Since Liz taught art, and the race was scheduled to occur during Youth Art Month, the run became part of the annual Art Festival. The idea grew, and soon it was a full-fledged race with brochures, T-shirts, race awards, corporate sponsors, and a web site.  It involved students, teachers, parents, community members and friends. 

As race day approached, Liz’s condition continued to deteriorate. Her participation became doubtful. She died peacefully on Monday, March 2, just 5 days before the race. Out of town family and friends gathered for the funeral on Friday, March 4, and many stayed over for race day.

Those planning the event had hoped for 500 to 1000 participants. Over 1600 people turned out to show support for Liz and her family. Along the 3-mile race route, people had decorated their mailboxes with pink balloons and put signs of support in their yards. Neighbors sat out in their yards together and watched the people run by. I heard colleagues speak of the courage and faith Liz exhibited, of her loving spirit that reaches out to all with whom she comes in contact. They spoke of her dependence on God to carry her through each day, and how her strength, faith and testimony are so real and have touched the lives of so many people. 

There was value in Liz’s suffering.  

Her suffering:

Brought glory to God,That the works of God might be displayed; 

Gave evidence of her faith in God; 

Showed the love and compassion of God; 

Promoted ministry within the body; 

Helped us realize our dependence on God.

This is really a story of how a dying friend ministered to me.

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Nancy is a retired healthcare professional (nurse), Stephen minister, friend, wife, sister, aunt, outdoor enthusiast and daughter of her Lord Jesus Christ.

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I count it a high privilege to know -- at least in small part -- the mourning stories of the dear ones who will share here for seven days. Their lives walk the path between celebration, yes, but also suffering -- illness, relational disillusionment, anxiety, joblessness, death of loved ones, death of dearly-held dreams. Their stories have helped form me in my understanding of suffering and I believe they could also encourage you too. The philosopher Blaise Pascal said that Christ suffers until the end of the world. As we welcome each other's stories, we welcome the Suffering Servant himself.

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(See all of the Retrieve Lament stories from previous years here)

Retrieve Lament: Paul Van Allen (Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.)

"Once, ritual lament would have been chanted; women would have been paid to beat their breasts and howl for you all night, when all is silent.  

Where can we find such customs now? So many have long since disappeared or been disowned.  

That’s what you had to come for: to retrieve the lament that we omitted." 

             -- Ranier Maria Rilke, from Requiem For A Friend

Each year during Holy Week I ask friends to share a "mourning story" from their own life as a way to help us see Christ in the midst of suffering. Each story reflects on one phrase of Jesus' dying words. We have only just begun to know the Van Allen family.  I'm so glad that we entered each other's lives in time to wait for Henri together.  May his brave life remind us all that in the "wild uncontrollable adventure of being born", what have any of us to but to commit ourselves into the hands of often hard to see -- but never distant -- Father.

Waiting for Henri

I find Jesus very easy to follow in theory.  Its when he wants to go somewhere specific that I start having problems.

December 2nd, 5am: I’m inexplicably unable to sleep and find myself reading The Road to Daybreak by Henri Nouwen.  He talks of God’s call on him to leave the intellectually stimulating environment as a professor at Harvard Divinity School to go and live in a community of disabled people.  He describes himself as going “kicking and screaming.”  The coffee and the unusual silence of our house help the words slow down a little.

December 2nd, 4pm:  We receive a phone call from the birthing center saying that the genetic test results for our expectant baby boy just came in and we needed to “come in immediately” to talk about the results.  We knew immediately that this means Downs Syndrome.

We have two beautiful daughters Ava (7) and Layla (6).  Layla came into the world without any observable trauma and yet an MRI when she was three showed damage on both sides of her brain.  She is considered intellectually disabled and speech impaired.  Her disability meant the end of our life in China, our home for the previous 11 years.  The cost and the blessing of Layla frame the news we receive.

In the movie The Green Berets John Wayne is a seasoned Colonel leading missions in the Vietnam war.  In a scene boarding an airplane preparing for a parachute mission John Wayne comments “Colonel Kai you haven’t said a word all night.”  “You know why?” interjects a third officer.  “He’s never jumped before.”   “Oh, first one’s easy” John Wayne responds.   “Its the second one that’s hard to get ‘em to make.”

This is our second jump.  Our minds are a rush of resetting expectations.  The amount of diapers we will need to buy probably just tripled.  The decimal point on medical bills moves to the right.  I see a fork stuck in the hope that we will ever return to our globe trotting international life.

December 2nd, 8pm  we have tickets to Handel’s Messiah.  We keep our babysitting and our plans to go.  The tenor sings “Comfort ye my people…prepare ye the way of the Lord.”  This is getting a little too real.    I feel my soul kicking and screaming.   I sense that this is one of those points where my expectations that Jesus follow me are exposed and He puts the original offer back on the table.  “Follow me,” I hear Him say.

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March 31, 15 days before Henri's arrival

Waves of apprehension and anticipation are swelling each day closer to your arrival (scheduled for April 15th!).  As I take time in the early mornings to consider your coming I can’t help but wonder if I’m ready to welcome you with grace.  C.S. Lewis talked about the stresses in our lives that turn the lights on in our basements and expose the rats of sin…our grossest moments.  I’m looking forward to meeting you Henri but wondering if I’m ready to meet myself in the context of your needs and a deprivation of sleep.

I wonder too what you are getting yourself into.  In God’s mysterious and inexplicable ways he has taken mine and your mother’s broken DNA and woven in an extra copy of the 23rd chromosome into you.  The grief that that news brought us has been gradually replaced with expectation of blessing.  The stories that surround different boys, girls, men, and women with Down Syndrome that have come our way since your diagnosis have been consistently stories of childlike and irreplaceable joy.  Life has its costs and its benefits and the thing about believing in God is that we look with faith for surpassing blessing.  Life is not a zero sum game for those who love God.

Our life before kids and for a few years after your sisters came was marked by adventure and global travel.  That phase of life seems to have come to a screeching halt, and yet as I wait for you I sense an adventure coming much greater than the mountain roads of the Karakoram or island hopping in Indonesia.  G.K. Chesterton called out the shallow sentiment of the adventurer who elevated tiger hunting in India which was a chosen and somewhat controlled adventure to the wild uncontrollable adventure of being born:

“There we do walk suddenly into a splendid and startling trap. There we do see something of which we have not dreamed before. Our father and mother do lie in wait for us and leap out on us, like brigands from a bush. Our uncle is a surprise. Our aunt is, in the beautiful common expression, a bolt from the blue. When we step into the family, by the act of being born, we do step into a world which is incalculable, into a world which has its own strange laws, into a world which could do without us, into a world that we have not made. In other words, when we step into the family we step into a fairy-tale.”

Henri, I can’t wait for you to be born and to share life with you.  I hope you will learn to like baseball and Chinese food.  I’d warn you about your crazy sisters and the love they are getting ready to smother you with but you’ll figure it all out in time.  When we pass the peace in church my favorite part is reaching down to your mother’s tummy and saying “Peace of Christ” to you.   You are most welcome to our family be it fairy-tale or misadventure. There is a Storyteller at work who is hard to see but who does not stand at a distance.  

Peace of Christ to you, Henri.

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Paul Van Allen and his wife Lisa live in an uncool neighborhood in Austin, Texas where they are waiting for Henri along with Ava (7) and Layla (6). They moved home from Asia in 2012 after their younger daughter was diagnosed with Cerebral Palsy. Paul studied theology, speaks Mandarin, loves Texas skies, Austin cuisine, and his local Anglican church. he is tinkering with a new blog at www.hardbreakfast.com

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Jesus gave us a litany of last words as a Sufferer; we refer to them as the Seven Last Words of christ. The deathbed words of the Suffering Servant provide a framework for the stories of lament we share here this Holy Week.

I count it a high privilege to know -- at least in small part -- the mourning stories of the dear ones who will share here for seven days.  Their lives walk the path between celebration, yes, but also suffering -- illness, relational disillusionment, anxiety, joblessness, death of loved ones, death of dearly-held dreams.  Their stories have helped form me in my understanding of suffering and I believe they could also encourage you too.  

Retrieve Lament: Rachel Brown (My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?)

"Once, ritual lament would have been chanted; women would have been paid to beat their breasts and howl for you all night, when all is silent. Where can we find such customs now? So many have long since disappeared or been disowned.  

That’s what you had to come for: to retrieve the lament that we omitted." 

             -- Ranier Maria Rilke, from Requiem For A Friend

Each year, during Holy Week, I ask friends to share a "mourning story" from their own life as a way to see Christ in the midst of suffering. Each story reflects on one phrase of Jesus' dying words.  Today's story is a collection of words from my courageous friend Rachel, articulately describing the messy complexities of physical and psychological suffering.  Perhaps most courageously of all, she invites us -- her friends and family -- to pass the peace of a forsaken Christ as fresh healings over the recurring wounding of her body and soul. May we all know ourselves and each other in the same way.

1.

I have Bipolar Disorder.  This is not news.  I always think it’s news.  I always think it’s going to be so scandalous to announce.  I think that telling anyone I am sick will be disappointing, will discredit any ounce of wisdom and wellness I may ever have, undo any bit of the good I’ve done.  As if this is a disease tamed by diligence and strong moral character.  It does not matter how perfectly I eat, how long I sleep, how meticulously I curate my media consumption, sometimes, I just get sick.  Really sick.

Right now I am really sick.  

Sick enough to sit with psychiatrists for hours.  Sick enough to choose anti-psychotics and mood stabilizers.

Sick enough to say I can’t do my job without a tremendous amount of help.

Sick enough to say it out loud.

2.

Depression is an old friend. I have built my life around its coming and going.  I am rarely surprised by its arrival and I have systems in place for when it stays too long or pushes too hard.  Depression slows me down, gnaws at my hope for any good to happen in life ever again.  

Mania drops like an anvil from the sky.  It has no schedule, no rhythm.  It sings it’s siren song and dashes me upon it’s rocks.  It empties my bank account and fills up my notebooks.  It swerves the minivan and sets tarantulas on my writing desk.  It steals my sleep and my friends. 

Mania has crushed me more than once, but even so, I wave the red flag in front of the hypomanic bull, begging it to chase me so that I will finally write fearlessly, satisfy all the extroverted requirements of my world effortlessly, give generously, impress everyone, and clean out all the closets.

It feels easy to write about my back injury and all the ways it disappoints and inconveniences me.  It feels acceptable to be on the prayer list at church every Sunday since the fire shot down my leg, to let them read my name out loud and ask for my healing.  The scar on my back and the leg that drags give me permission to ask for help.  My MRIs and hospital bands and stacks and stacks of medical bills make the pain real and accessible to the world.  Physical pain is universal.  Everyone has a spine, has accidents that break bones, pull tendons, misalign ribs, crush intervertebral discs.  There is no shame in breaking your back.

3. 
When I was a little girl, I would get up in the middle of the night and rearrange my furniture.  I would  take out all the drawers, lay on my back on the floor, and push the dresser across the carpet with my legs.  Then the bed.  I would shove the mattress off and scoot one side, then the other, until I had the whole thing on the other side of the room.  It was deeply satisfying to have control over such big things, and to have a quiet way to exhaust my energy when the whole house was asleep.

When I had heaved and pushed and reordered all I could, I would lay in the dark, staring out into the dark room in it’s new orientation and imagine I was not myself, but some other girl in a far away land.  It didn’t occur to me until very recently that those sleepless nights of heavy lifting, rearranging were likely an early version of mania.

In the years I have spent unmedicated in adulthood, nutrition has been my chief protector against depression, but exercise has rescued me from mania.  Powerlifting is the equivalent of a seven year old moving dressers and double beds. In my most stable years, I was training 4-5 times a week, without fail.  My schedule was incredibly consistent and there were a number of times when I would double up my workouts, add extra weight, or throw in some hill sprints to burn off a mixed state.  Endorphins and hormones worked their magic on my brain chemistry.  It was a potent and effective medication.  And I loved it.

When I injured my back at the end of November (not while lifting), my surgeon assured me that I would be back in the game in just a few months. I found a new surgeon and at our second visit he looked me in the eye and said, “You will never be able to powerlift again.  No more squats, no more deadlifts.  Ever.  You will have to find something else, something gentle.”

Now I have three herniated discs, a failed back surgery, chronic pain, three kids under six that I planned to homeschool, two with major health issues, a husband weighing a significant career change, weekly migraines, and a completely untreated, severe mental illness.  Add the chicken pox, stomach viruses, and unending rain and darkness of the previous weeks and you can see why being told I would NEVER be able to do one of the few things that made me a functional human being ever again might be more than I could take.

It’s really no wonder that weeks later I was out of my mind, faced with an ultimatum — the mental hospital or six pills every morning, one at noon, three at bedtime.

I chose the pills, though I have regretted it many times over the last two weeks.

4.

When I was twelve, I laid in bed for a month, my head pinned down by the beak of a massive black raven.  I stayed in the dark and refused to speak.  Eventually my mother lured me out with a cherry Slurpee to get an MRI to make sure my brain wasn’t riddled with tumors.  On the way there, as I sipped the frozen, bright red sugar, we talked about what it would be like if my famous curls all fell out.  Would I wear a wig?  Would I choose to be bald?  We talked as if it would be so tragic, but I was secretly hopeful.  I wanted to have something visible, something everyone else could see, something that would force my father to love me and my mother leave me alone, quit shoving me out of my room.  Maybe cancer would feel better than this?

I threw up in the MRI and everyone panicked.  When they found out it was not blood, but Slurpee, the tone changed.  They were annoyed, but polite.

I did not have any tumors, just “chronic tension headaches and depression”.  I kept my hair.

5.

I quit meds eight years ago.  I did not go cold turkey, run wild and squeal, “Nanny nanny boo boo!  Psych meds are a joke!”  No, I titrated down with the help of a psychiatrist, a tiny baby in my belly, and a year of stability under my mental health belt.

I spent the years that followed perfecting a formula to replace the lithium I had faithfully swallowed everyday the decade before.  Like all great discoveries, I found ketosis by accident.  In an attempt to change my weight, I changed my brain.  Ketosis worked better than lithium ever had and it lifted the haze I had been swatting at my whole life.  Then came exercise, at first just a way to push the babies round and round to sleep, then a way to run straight up hills, then a way to pick my weight up off the ground until I found myself unreasonably calm.  And with both came deep, solid sleep, the kind that wakes you up in the morning all by itself, full.

This formula worked so well, I bottled it.  I was my own pharmacist, measuring precise doses each day.

So it should be no surprise that when my formula fell apart, when my spine crumbled and I lost exercise, when stress knocked me out of ketosis and head first into cupcakes, when post-surgical narcotics had a paradoxical effect and stole whole weeks of sleep, that my brain would come tumbling down.

The good news is that nothing catastrophic happened outside of my head.  I was able to stay out of the hospital with the help of quick doctors, a good husband, lots of babysitters, friends, and an excellent therapist.  I didn’t drain the bank account or fly off the roof.  My kids got the truly fun parts of mania: fantastic tea parties, Build- A – Bear, the Lego store, and all the Muppet movies (except that creepy Treasure Island one. Yikes!) and several amazing babysitters who will stay with us for a season.

And in the end, we are all okay.

This is the brilliance of fighting mental illness out loud, with a crowd.  Mine is not a secret battle.  This is not a secret blog.  I have help beyond fountain pens.  My kids have help beyond Sesame Street.  My husband has help beyond Bluebell Homemade Vanilla.  We are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, visible and invisible and they are quick to swoop in, despite my comfort level, to intercede.  I am not alone, out in the field.

My precise formula may have failed, but this one holds firm.  And while these new medicines I’ve swallowed work their chemical magic (and yes, they are working!) I grow increasingly thankful that I have this skilled team fighting for me while I go back to just dealing with a bad back.  Just a bad back.  Which doesn’t seem as hard a pill to swallow.

6.
Between all of my wildly inappropriate responses to completely appropriate behaviors, questions, lighting, flavors, sensations, looks, tones, and temperatures, I am trying to be nice.  More than nice.  I am trying to love.

Loving while disembodied by all the pills I’ve swallowed, while shaking and forgetting every third word, is hard.  But I am trying.  I am thanking my husband for ordinary tasks.  I am hugging my children any moment the thought doesn’t undo me.  I am using excessive emojis when texting my mother.  I am accepting forgiveness as it is offered.  I am accepting gluten free carrot cupcakes as they are served.

And while I do not think the pills are working, the cupcakes seem to be doing the trick.

7. 
The smile is real and the love is real and the fire is real.  This sickness is just like the flu, a stubborn virus I am prone to, that knocks me out more than the average person and instead of snot I get whisper screaming in Target. When I talk about how hard it is to love, I do not mean to be in it, I mean to do the touching and the sounds and all the sensory bits of being flesh and blood.  When my brain goes haywire, that is the part that is hard.  Those people in our family photo, they are not hard, just look at them.

So when you see me at church tomorrow, when I pass the peace, when I meet your smile as I limp back from communion, hauling my crew up the side aisle, know that all my love is right there, for real, or I would’ve spent my Sunday morning at The Steeping Room with the cupcakes.

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Rachel Brown is married to the man she fell in love with in junior high.  Together they've made three other people, Beatrice, Leona, and Harriet.  They live with those people in a house near downtown Austin, Texas.

Rachel's blog is a story about manic depression, obesity, motherhood, God, marriage, and fountain pens. You cand find it here:  mosesface (www.mosesface.com)

The LORD would speak to Moses face to face, as one speaks to a friend.  Exodus 33:11 

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Jesus gave us a litany of last words as a Sufferer; we refer to them as the Seven Last Words of christ. The deathbed words of the Suffering Servant provide a framework for the stories o lament we share here this Holy Week.

I count it a high privilege to know -- at least in small part -- the mourning stories of the dear ones who will share here for seven days.  Their lives walk the path between celebration, yes, but also suffering -- illness, relational disillusionment, anxiety, joblessness, death of loved ones, death of dearly-held dreams.  Their stories have helped form me in my understanding of suffering and I believe they could also encourage you too.  

Retrieve Lament: Les & Renee Aylesworth ( I am thirsty.)

"Once, ritual lament would have been chanted; women would have been paid to beat their breasts and howl for you all night, when all is silent. Where can we find such customs now? So many have long since disappeared or been disowned.  

That’s what you had to come for: to retrieve the lament that we omitted." 

             -- Ranier Maria Rilke, from Requiem For A Friend

Each  year during Holy Week I ask friends to share a "mourning story" from their own life as a way to help us see Christ in the midst of suffering. Each story reflects on one phrase of Jesus' dying words.  The man who wrote today's reflection was a God-send to us when we were first figuring out how to be parents to teenagers - befriending our oldest son at a key time in his life.  We've grieved Renee's illness from a distance and have grown in our ability to understand what suffering-bourne love looks like -- in marriage, in family, in community.  Christ died fully human -- with every bodily need made evident in public.  The same Christ who told us to give the smallest gifts to the most vulnerable people, was Himself given cruelty when he asked for liquid relief.  May each time we give drink or food or comfort in His name, we relieve a little bit more the suffering, thirsty Christ.

A journal entry upon the one year anniversary of Renee's stroke:

I can't even begin to describe what this year has been like.  The ups and the downs, the highs the lows, the fear, the worry, the pain, the grief, the loneliness, the despair, the despondency, the frustration, the anger, the everything negative emotion you can imagine.  Yet somehow after hitting all these emotional and physical potholes along the way; some that threatened to completely engulf us - we have made it!

In our darkest days, there has been light.  Sometimes, oftentimes, just a sliver - but enough to keep going; to keep hoping.  The darkness can never overpower the light; and we have lived that this year.  In those early days when we weren't even sure if Renee would move again, let alone walk or talk; all we had was hope.  A hope that didn't generate from within us, that was manufactured or conceived by some superior ability of our own; but from somewhere, from Someone else.  From Jesus, who then placed it in us.  In our profound weakness and groanings, He instilled hope within us.  There have been days, many days, when hope faded, that it seemed like futility; but because of Him, somehow it came back - and has carried us.  Anyone who has gone through a major trauma in life and who knows Jesus can understand and probably say Amen to that.

And it has been your prayers that have kept us going.  Not that they are magical, but because you brought us faithfully to the throne of grace, for us to find mercy and healing and provision - God responded to those prayers.  I've been reflecting lately on what prayer is; what it does and how it does it.  I don't really have a lot of answers, because God maintains a certain level of mystery, but I know prayer works.  So I keep praying and trusting that His desire and plan will be done.

Renee has made incredible strides this past year.  As we've been in this new world of stroke recovery with aphasia (which I've discovered it's own animal), we've met people, mostly over the internet who have and are enduring similar things, but are farther down the road to recovery.  They have encouraged me that Renee appears to be making great progress; and coming from them it carries a lot of weight.  Even this morning is another example.  She wanted to know who was coming today to be with her.  Since she can't come up with sentences on her own yet (she can repeat and practice ones I show her), she usually just says a word.  With much learning and context, I can usually figure out what she's trying to say.  When Renee wants to ask a question about anything, she will say "Where?"  I know it sounds weird, but that's the world of aphasia and stroke recovery - "where" has become the catch all word for all interrogatives.  This morning however instead of saying "where" and me trying to figure out what the question is that she is actually asking; she said "who".  For a second I just stood and stared; then I realized that she was actually asking "who?".  Who was coming today?  I know it's just one little word, but that little word now has the capacity to be built upon and dramatically increase her communication and our understanding!  Thank you God!

I've tried to detail and let you know how Renee has progressed this year so that you could rejoice with us.  It has been awesome knowing that there have been so many people cheering Renee on; who have rejoiced in her victories and have wept in our sorrow.  As God has never left us alone, He has often made His presence known to us through people - through you.  Many of you were and some still are people we've never met - yet you have become family to us.  You have loved us.  You have personified what Jesus said in Matthew 25...

35 For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, 36 I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’

I grew up poor, but I have never known such need as this past year: emotional, spiritual, physical.  And Jesus used many of you to meet many of those needs.  You have provided meals when there was no way possible I could prepare a meal, you bought our growing kids clothes when there was no way I could go shopping for them, you have provided time so that I could go to work and have peace of mind knowing that someone was home with Renee and the kids.  You send cards and gift cards, and Christmas presents.  People opened their homes so we had a place to stay other than the hospital.  You visited Renee, even making a 3 hour drive to the hospital or flying across the country to do so.  And the list goes on and on and on...

I've said this before, but the things I've seen this past year are things you read about or see on a talk show; yet it has happened to us.  In the midst of the worst, we have seen the best.  Yet, as yesterday reminded us, we still need you.

Please continue to pray for us.  For no more seizures, for no more strokes or clots or anything damaging to Renee's already fragile brain.  That she is able to continue therapy.  That "who" turns into "who's coming today?" and her ability to speak is restored.  That our daily needs continue to be met.  That there is someone to be with Renee and the kids for every spot we need filled.  That her right side continues to improve with both ability, agility and sensation.  That Renee's cognitive awareness and mental processing increases.  For no more headaches (she has one today) or worrying symptoms.  That our kids continue to be great kids and do well in school and life.  That I am able to bear the burdens of dad, mom and caregiver.  That we make Jesus proud and are an example of a life well lived for Him.  That Renee is completely healed and restored.  And so many other things that come up.

There's one more thing I ask that you do - rejoice with us!  Renee is alive; my beautiful, wonderful wife, the mother of my 5 awesome kids is alive - and that is worth celebrating.

The road continues to be hard and long and dark, but I'm confident that better days are ahead and there will more many more opportunities to celebrate.  Thank you again from the bottom of this exceedingly grateful husband's heart.

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On February 26th at 2:25am Les was awakened by Renee restlessly moving.  At first he thought she was just moving closer to get warm.  He turned the lamp on to find her eyes open, but unresponsive.  He shook her, calling out her name, but she just would not wake up.  He noticed that as she was trying to grab a hold of me, she could not use her right arm.  

Doctors discovered Renee had suffered a severe stroke caused by a spontaneous carotid dissection. The inner lining of her artery had torn, causing the blood flow to slow and form a clot.  Parts of the clot broke off causing the massive stroke which has left her unable to speak or move her right side.

 Renee is only 38 years old and has 5 kids: Ivan aged 14, Maris 12, Anaya 6, Haven 4 and Aviah 20 months.  Les and Renee live with their family in Newark Valley, NY.

You can follow Les & Renee's journey on their Caring Bridge journal.  

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Jesus gave us a litany of last words as a Sufferer; we refer to them as the Seven Last Words of christ. The deathbed words of the Suffering Servant provide a framework for the stories o lament we share here this Holy Week.

I count it a high privilege to know -- at least in small part -- the mourning stories of the dear ones who will share here for seven days.  Their lives walk the path between celebration, yes, but also suffering -- illness, relational disillusionment, anxiety, joblessness, death of loved ones, death of dearly-held dreams.  Their stories have helped form me in my understanding of suffering and I believe they could also encourage you too.