For the past two years, this week of dates... from my Mom's birthday on the 8th to her post-transplant birthday on the 19th... has been a mental, emotional, and even spiritual struggle for me. And I'm going to be candid about it.
Three years ago, those 11 days were filled with so much hope. I was absolutely convinced that everything would be successful and we'd have extra years with her. I had so much faith.
They said the transplant was a success. They said it worked. And I couldn't stop praising God for it. So many answered prayers for so many people over my Mom's health.
After what felt like ages but was less than a few months after the bone marrow transplant, she was able to come back home [I had moved to Charleston, SC by then]. In August, after Nathan proposed to me, she excitedly agreed to be my matron of honor. She also knew there would be another little one joining the family--a baby girl. And she knew her name would be "Norah," but she didn't know her middle name yet. It's "Jane," just like hers.
We joked about my DNA taking over her body and wondered if that meant she would start liking the same songs I do--even if she didn't before. I kept asking her to listen to this one song on my modern 'Jazz' playlist periodically--just to check. I don't know that it would most accurately be categorized as jazz though... it was more like a contemporary-hipster-funk song with random repetitive lyrics like "put it in my pocket in my pocket in my back pocket"... about a 'Circle yes or no' letter. She would always laugh when it came on because it was such a ridiculous song. I kid you not, it was actually called "Back Pocket." I thought it was catchy. I told her that when she started liking that song, it meant my DNA finally won out completely and we would basically be clones of each other at that point. [Of course, that's not exactly how it works, but we had fun with our interpretation.]
We planned visits for "after the whole corona-thing blows over" and her immune system was back in tip-top shape. Her doctors were keeping an eye out for GVHD (Graft versus Host Disease) which can be fairly common in various severities after a transplant. It started presenting on her skin in patches. But they treated it. She never let on that it was anything besides a minor inconvenience. A hiccup. I didn't take it seriously. I had all of that faith, remember? So I spent our conversations reaching out to her as my confidant. So much time wasted complaining to her... and I know now that she never saw it that way... she saw it as me allowing her to be my mom--even as a mother myself... and she saw it as her daughter loving and needing her... as a chance to connect and be there for me and pray for me and offer advice and encouragement. She was so good at it, too. It was never wasted time for her.
But just a few weeks later, the complications got worse. She waited at the hospital one day... all the way in Philly from the Poconos... for hours... HOURS... all day/night in an uncomfortable chair... mixed in with the general population when she was meant to be isolated... just to get sent home instead of admitted--when they should have kept her there. I remember my Dad sending me a picture of her with a text to update us on what was going on. She was covered up as best as they could, sitting in a corner with a mask on--as far away from everyone else as possible. She looked so frail. But I had faith. I kept telling myself... telling everyone that it would be okay... "because it just HAS to be..."
A couple days later, she was back in Philadelphia; her condition had declined in the absence of medical care.
But I'm not writing this openly to talk about her physical condition... this is about my spiritual one.
After my Mom passed away, my faith changed. I started allowing myself to entertain thoughts of, "Well, look where your faith got you. Your Mom is gone. What good did any of those prayers do after all?" or "Why would you even offer to pray for anyone? They've already seen that the ones for your Mom didn't work..." and the longer and longer I let them linger, the stronger those thoughts became. I allowed myself to feel like a fraud--diminishing my own beliefs over it all. And it pushed me away from my Creator.
I told myself I wasn't mad at God. I told myself the usual placations and kindnesses, "It just wasn't meant to be..." "She's in a better place now and free from pain" [which she definitely is], "She's still watching over you..."
I know she's with Jesus. I know she's free from pain and sadness. And while I don't believe she turned into an angel (Psalm 8:5, 1 Corinthians 6:3) or interferes with earthly things, I believe she already sees the whole picture (unlike us), knows about her littlest grandchildren, and knows that even in the midst of life’s heartaches and trials, God is still working behind the scenes just like He did for her, so there truly are no tears in Heaven (Revelation 21:4).
But still, I questioned my own faith. My own prayers. Those thoughts really can run you for a loop if you're not careful about forcing the bad ones out (Philippians 4:8).
Something stopped me in my tracks this morning though. I heard a song that was popular when I was in middle school and became a favorite to sing together with the track while we waited at the bus stop before school. "God of Wonders" ... My mom would always lift her hands--with the car in park, or do that quirky sort of signature recoil clap motion we'd poke fun at her for (if you ask me in person, I'll show you what it looked like)--no matter who was around. I'd sing and play the egg shaker for our audience of One.
She claimed she wasn't a musician and that she had zero musical talent (except for the triangle she would ring for dinnertime every so often if we were playing outside), but my Mom lived out her worship in so many other ways. I understand it now. She kept an atmosphere of praise in our home with worship music on cassette--or later on CD--playing during the waking hours of the day.
And even though my Dad was the one directly on the worship team (my favorite drummer ever), my mom was there too, behind the scenes, back in the overhead-projector days...making sure the printed lyric transparencies shifted, swapped, and repeated when necessary in order for the congregation to follow along seamlessly without any fumbles or distractions. All while doing that quirky clap motion. I have no doubt that her worship was a sweet aroma to the Lord.
And unlike the funky-jazz-like song about jean pockets, we both loved "God of Wonders". Her favorite was when Mac Powell would sing. Mine, too. We'd listen on repeat until the bus's headlights came into view through the trees and I had to reluctantly go to school.
I heard a version of this song today that I'd never heard before. But Mac Powell was still singing and the pieces all just seemed to click into place. My heart was ready to listen again with a fresh perspective.
Halfway through the song, I realized that there's a difference between faith and denial, even though it's easy for the two to get mixed up sometimes:
Denial says, "If I don't want something to happen, it can't."
Faith says, "I know bad things happen. I know the enemy attacks. I know the threats are real, but I know that my God is bigger than anything and everything we come up against and His ways are higher than ours" (Isaiah 55:8-9).
So even though I thought I was--I wasn't operating entirely in faith back then. And through my denial, I was minimizing the situation--therefore, minimizing God's greatness and carving my own idols in the process.
I wasn't trusting Him. I was trusting myself, thinking that if I just manifested enough positivity... if I just wanted it badly enough not to be real, it would happen the way I planned.
Pastor Trent said something yesterday at church that struck more than just a few chords. He said, "You'll only worship what you're in awe of."
I had to write it down. Because it's true.
I stopped being in awe of God's wonders because I started looking inward instead of up. (Proverbs 9: 8-10)
"You'll only worship what you're in awe of."
Then, Lord, let me forever stand in the amazement of You.
Forever a work in progress,
Elisha
---
Lord of all creation
Of water, earth, and sky
The heavens are Your tabernacle
Glory to the Lord on High
God of wonders beyond our galaxy
You are holy, holy
The universe declares Your majesty
You are holy, holy
Lord of heaven and earth
Lord of heaven and earth
Early in the morning
I will celebrate the light
And as I stumble through the darkness
I will call Your name by night
God of wonders beyond our galaxy
You are holy, holy
The universe declares Your majesty
You are holy, holy
Lord of heaven and earth
Lord of heaven and earth
Hallelujah to the Lord of heaven and earth
Hallelujah to the Lord of heaven and earth
Hallelujah to the Lord of heaven and earth
Precious Lord, reveal Your heart to me
Father, holy, holy
You are holy, holy
Dear Mom,
It’s been a while since I’ve had so much to say to ‘you’ openly. Some might take it as a sign that I started to close off… to compartmentalize my grief. Others might assume it means I’ve reached a transition from sorrow to acceptance. The reality is that I haven’t started missing or thinking of you any less; I’ve just been talking to God more. Directly. We’ve been hashing it out.
He showed me that even though I kept saying I understood and wasn’t mad at Him for ‘taking you away’… it was all just words; I didn’t actually understand, and I was actually furious. First at God, then at me, then at God, then at God AND me… marinating in the guilt that maybe if I were a ‘more Christiany Christian’ at the time (whatever that means) … maybe if my prayers held more weight… if I pleaded more… if I were louder… then maybe you’d still be here. You’re not though. Nothing is changing that. And that was silly of me to think, but I’m also human.
Remember when I was a little girl and I used to take turns in the pages of my diary writing, “Dear God,” then the next one would start off with, “Dear Jesus,” cycling through the trinity ‘so no one would feel left out’? I did that more recently with my frustration too… except I didn’t have the endearing nature of childhood naivety to obscure my intent. It was adult immaturity… a pachyderm ‘hiding’ behind a bonsai. I was bitter towards Them ‘all’. Shaken, but not stirred.
I stopped writing for a while. Internal suffocation. I don’t know if I did it as a subconscious effort to ‘punish’ myself… to sever my passion, my habitual outlet, to ‘punish’ God by keeping it all in (which is futile, really, because none of our thoughts or actions are hidden: Psalm 139), or because I just felt like none of it really mattered anymore… the same emotions cycled on repeat… who would want to relive it all in words, too?
I need to start writing again. But not about the same things as before—not the cataclysmic spectrum of past relationships, or the woes of a broken heart: passive-aggressive verbal arson. I see now that it was all just self-gratifying hollow justification for plank-eyed indignation—no matter how eloquently penned. I’m not going to live there anymore. The pain. The sorrow. It shook me without harvest.
I have a new purpose—or perhaps, I’m finally discovering one that was there all along. It wasn’t writer’s block… it was an intentional shift of focus—I was looking down when what I really needed was to be reaching up.
Yesterday, I heard Pastor Art Thomas say something that resonated quite loudly: “There’s life wherever the rivers flow.” And it brought to mind the very last song I ever sang at your bedside:
All who are thirsty, all who are weak
Come to the fountainDip your heart in the streams of life
Let the pain and the sorrow be washed away
In the waves of His mercy
As deep cries out to deep
We sing, come, Lord Jesus, come
Holy Spirit, come.
As I sing it again now, I realize that I was the one who was thirsty. I was the one who was weak. I was the one whose heart needed new life… a new purpose… all I needed to do was to let go of all the wrong things and fully embrace the right One.
You already figured it out.
I miss you, Mom… but we’re in good hands. And so are you.
Love always,
“Pookie”
Kaleidoscopic Grace 