“if i were him, i’d just want someone to hold me,” steve said, one day, years ago, when ian was still really sick and steve was still alive.

i knew what he meant because in the desperation of ian’s condition those first few weeks, months after the accident, there was nothing we could do for ian. except to show him we loved him.

but there was always a bed in the way. and i wasn’t strong enough to lift his stiff torso toward me.

or there was always a wheelchair in the way, and he couldn’t lean forward so i could get a good wrap in.

so at night, when steve and the care giver would help ian sit up on the exercise mat steve built, i would wait. and sit and wait. and cancel plans because i didn’t want to miss that moment. that moment when steve would open the bedroom door and let me know that i could come in and hug him.

i could put my arms all the way around him. because he was sitting on the edge of his exercise mat, nothing behind him.

my torso was holding his up, but i was around him.

and he tried to lift his arm to be around me, too.

and i forget those times, when a hug was all it took to get me through another day. how ungrateful i’ve allowed myself to become, forgetting that one of the greatest gifts, holding and being held, is right next to me every day.

it’s  there and it’s so sweet. and he now always  wants to be with his wifey. and when someone starts to pray, he reaches for my hand. and when i sit next to him, his arm wraps my waist. and sometimes he squeezes the extra skin that wasn’t there a few years ago and we laugh because he’s not supposed to notice but we have changed in these nine years.

God gives us joys in the littles.

He gives us joy when we look for it in the most over-looked movements.

and even though i forget, what a great God there is surrounding me.

tonight, i’m thankful for arms that wrap me into him tight.

last week, ian got on a treadmill at therapy with assistance from us. on his best round, he got about 10 steps in on his own as he held on onto the handles.

it’s small to us that have full use of our legs, but to ian, it was a huge step.

in a few hours we leave for the mountains and the city, to celebrate jesus with our wonderful families.

please enjoy times of rest and hope.

love
i&l

we were talking about the acronym the pastor gave us, reminding us about the ways of love, how they look and feel and act.

we were sitting in a small room, circled together, thinking on how we distribute love and who we know that does it so well.

“ian, how are we to love our spouses?”, our group leader asked.

“thinking of them before yourself.”

we kept reflecting on love and what it looks like and then what i always fear happened, as i saw the effect of a catheter that decided to stop working. i saw on the floor what is always on my mind in public; i saw my own example of what joni eareckson tada has spoken of many times before, the fears that remain into adulthood when disability lives in your body.

i left the room quickly, discreetly, to find what i needed to hide it, remove it, fix it.

when i came back into the room, she stood up and moved closely to us, gently reminding us that we were family. gently reminding us that we need not be embarrassed, that they loved and would help us.

and there it happened, the love that we were speaking of, the acting out of Jesus death and what it did for us. they helped us to the car. they cleaned up after us when we left. they joyfully loved.

in the safety of our car,

“ian, i’m so sorry. i’m so sorry that those embarrassing things happen.”

then tears because it was a hard week and because lies were making a home in my heart.

“ian, i don’t understand this. i hate this.”

“joy is closer than you think.”

“how can you handle this? i’m so sick of this brain injury.”

“God gives me joy in the stupid things, like caths breaking.”

i asked him how, because i didn’t get how he could be laughing, while he sat in wet sweat pants, and while i cried.

“because this is all so fleeting.”

then quietly, in our little white car, his truth knocked out the lies in my head. his Psalm 73 truth cut through the lies that i was believing.

and there, in the midst of the week that was holding anything other than hope, i experienced the little miracles that i had read about earlier that morning. the little miracles of hope.

in the midst of a week of crying and longing and heaviness, the miracle of Jesus, living out in my husband, living out in our small group, who entered into our lives and put on Jesus love instead of selfishness or judgement.

and deep inside, a little spark grew, just a fraction, but enough to remind us.

“God is in this.”

“ian, you bring a lot of hope to people.”

“do i bring hope to you?”

pause, because i wanted to hear more.

“why do you ask?”

“because that’s the most important one.”

“i just wish i could skip the holidays,” she told me, as she dreaded the days that meant more memories flooding to mind. memories of the little red-head life that left too soon. 

i get it. ian gets it. 

because the holidays don’t always look like we want them to. or like we think they should.

because some of us are in a house alone thanksgiving morning. some of us don’t have a home. some of us have closed wombs and kids with wandering souls and gaping heart wounds and some of us, some millions of us, weren’t even given the chance to breathe this year.

some of our holidays don’t fit into pinterest-shaped boxes.

some of us, when we get back to work, will be asked how our holiday was and we’ll fake a smile and say “great.” but it didn’t really feel great.

sometimes, holidays hurt. because the pressure of expectations builds and the reality of our lives doesn’t change on  a thursday in november or on december 25.

yet, there’s that blood. that blood that was wrought to fill us every day. the mercy blood that doesn’t skip holidays but is there, available, when we dig in and let it cover us. 

For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is his steadfast love toward those who fear him; as far as the east is from the west, so far does he remove our transgressions from us. As a father shows compassion to his children, so the Lord shows compassion to those who fear him. For he knows our frame;he remembers that we are dust.
psalm 103:11-14

that blood is there, and when we allow ourselves to enter in to it and know that all of this, before and behind, is grace, we can put one foot in front of the other.

we can fight to have hope. and fight to give thanks. and fight to love. because Jesus did it for us.
  

we tucked ourselves underneath the feathers of our big fluffy spread, our goose bumps giving in to their warmth. i sat with our bible opened on my knees, a hot cup of tea within my reach for us to share.

“what do you want to do for our quiet time,” he had asked, a question that spurs smiles because it means he’s feeling well.

we’ve been reading proverbs, and so made our way there again.

All the ways of a man are pure in his own eyes, but the Lord weighs the spirit.

we were sharing our hearts, how differently we see ourselves than how God sees us.

Everyone who is arrogant in heart is an abomination to the Lord; be assured, he will not go unpunished. 

our patterns, so similar, mine not as refined as his. the habit of anger and pride, that lead to destruction but are so hard to overcome.

“ian, i know i’ve been given a new heart. but sometimes my old self, that still wants to sin, feels so nearby.”  

“it is. that’s why we need Jesus.”

in seven words he takes me to the heart of it, to the heart of my human-ness. in those words he takes me to the heart of our marriage – a relationship that helps me to love and fear God more.

these moments, they are beautiful.

love
L  

 it’s easy to recite the verse, the one that we hear at weddings and memorize in sing-song tones as children.

Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful;  it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.


it’s easy to hear it, and know it, but to really sink into our bones is different. patience is still sinking in to mine, and nothing has pressed patience into me more than our marriage. because life with a brain injury is slow. and it’s  unknown. and it’s not clearcut.

which creates a greater void that needs to be filled with patience. which is exactly where i need to be stripped. which is why God gave me to ian.


i needed him to help me learn patience.

like when he doesn’t answer me as quickly as i want him to. 


or when i just really want him to be able to walk on his own. (because even in the midst of the excitement of his progress, my heart still sins).


or when we don’t yet have what we think we need.


i. i. i. that’s what i make it about. the root of my inpatience is my selfishness.


and if someone had been watching, filming, observing my heart and outward acts for the last two days toward my husband, they would not see love that was kind, or un-resentful or patient.


i don’t see that in myself.


but i do see my god, hanging on a tree for me, that my impatience might not separate me from him. i see his blood traveling down his body and onto his toes and drip on the ground so that i not be lost in my sin. 


i see his head slumped down by death so that i my face may be lifted up to gaze in His face on the ressurrection day.


this was done for me. and for our marriage.

I was telling him my heart, explaining the difficulty I was having in my mind. I wanted something, something that wasn’t guaranteed to me in the bible, but something God could very well give us.