my aunt told me how important they were to her, the days when my uncle was still alive and they chose rest over work.

“you need to do that. we didn’t even do laundry. no cleaning. no cooking. we just did nothing together.”

it was a practice that needed to happen so his body could heal and their marriage could have rest.

it is a practice that we need to do, because sometimes life moves too quickly for a brain injury and a wifey is doing too many things that distract.

sometimes the do nothing days mean reading, listening to audio books, watching movies, and napping. sometimes, like yesterday, they mean sleeping late into the afternoon, letting tired bones rest.

and the guilt of doing nothing can’t be there because the bones are tired from the work. the work that makes the nothing so much sweeter.

his walking that is so hard and takes so much.

her walking to the work that takes focus and energy.

the waking and reminding ourselves that God is not done that takes courage.

it all adds up to work, making the beautiful practice of do nothing that much sweeter.

and really, he loves nothing more than just being with his wifey, doing nothing.

  Filed under: "a disabled life", "marriage"
  Comments: None

we love having chances to tell our story, because even though sitting on a stage is scary because brain injury’s are unpredictable, it’s also life-giving. God still moves in our story, eight years past, and when our voices drift into a microphone, we never know what God is going to do. we don’t know which of our words are the words that God ordained for someone to hear that day because maybe their sould was tired and weak. we don’t know who we will meet after, like the young mom with a diagnosis that meant a future life in a wheelchair, and knowing that we’re doing that now gives her hope.

in february we shared a stage with a dear friend, a church just miles down the road from where ian grew up. re-listening to it now, God teaches me through our own story.

please enjoy the first of two videos here.

  Filed under: "a disabled life", "God Himself"
  Comments: None

“my happiness level is a 10,” he said, as we spread comfortably atop the snow, just looking at the blue sky.

my heart grew at his words. they were unprompted and were discovered while he was zippered into his father in law’s snowmobile suit from 1970. he wore them out to the property where we got married, the snow blanketing the field where our tent stood and our dance floor lay.

we were laying at the bottom of the hill that i walked down to get to the aisle. snowsuits hiding our skin from the wfet snow, i looked over at him as he said those six words that meant we were doing something that i would want to remember forever.

he was happy because we had just come down from the top, riding together on a little plastic sled that had no idea how much it was helping to make happiness.

the little plastic sled didn’t realize that a year ago, it couldn’t have held ian, because ian wasn’t healthy enough to get on and off a four wheeler, or get down on a sled, or sit in the sled.

“laris are you sure you guys can do this?” my mom asked. she was there with all of her kids, unexpectedly, because we had surprised her for her birthday.

“the worst that will happen is we fall into snow.”

i needed us to do this because we need to be willing to take risks in order for ian to feel that he’s alive.

and he spoke it as he lay at the bottom, listening to his nieces and nephews scream their way down.

again, he found those little big things, that mean the world to someone who’s world has become small. he found one of those things that make us feel little again, seeing excitement in the ride down the white trail.

he found a reminder of all that God has done.

tonight we’re grateful.

  Filed under: "a disabled life", "family"
  Comments: None

sometimes we have chances to see the big picture.

last weekend was one of those times, as we found ourselves on planes to indianapolis. and we got to experience God’s love through people who had just before been strangers.

like the sweet life pictured above, who was brought to tears at seeing us, because she knows how hard life can be, but she also knows how good God is.

or like the young mom who dedicated her table to us, because changes in her health now mean doctors talk about wheelchairs in her future. she’s seeing now through ian’s life that God doesn’t leave when our abilities do and through the words in our book she’s given hope that she will not be led into her future in fear.

it was a weekend where i timidly stood on stage in front of a crowd  with 300 unique stories of seeing God’s love in the messiness. we sat at a table after, markers ready to sign the pages that contain our heart, he making his “x” with a smile each time, and heard story after story of how God used those weak words.

it was a weekend well spent, and spent in ways that we hope to do so many more times in the future, because our lives and our story are so much bigger.

  Filed under: "a disabled life", "our writing"
  Comments: 3

there are two spoons in our bowl tonight.

normally there is one because we share. and I help him and sometimes just feed him because it’s easier and it’s hard for him to have a steady hand sometimes.

normally I’m too lazy. too impatient.

but tonight there are two, because he’s doing it himself.

im letting him do it by himself.

I’m forcing myself to move at the speed he needs and to be ok with a floor and husband covered with rice. I’m forcing myself to be there and praying that I stay there, because when I’m helping him with everything, I’m not helping him at all.

he needs me to step back so that he can move forward.

he needs me to keep learning how to slow down my pace and ask Him for patience.

he needs me to help us get better together.

and he is so grateful, as he worked on buttoning his shirt for twenty minutes. twenty minutes to button is how hard he works.

“I need a timeout,” he said.

“why?”

“I need a kiss from my beautiful wifey.”

i should know this pace by now, in year eight. I can’t let the guilt in but need to let God shape this in me and make it possible.

would you pray for us?

  Filed under: "a disabled life", "marriage"
  Comments: 23

September 30 – the day that will live in infamy for me. Some reasons why? I don’t know what happened, really, because I don’t remember it. It affected the people all around me. My life completely changed.

I wish I remembered it.

Who helped me?

Who watched me as they rescued me?

What did I look like?

Not remembering this car accident that completely shifted my life is debilitating because my inability to remember it means I can’t grieve it appropriately.

But He is good. Even though I can’t remember it, He does. And that gives me peace.

– Ian

  Filed under: "a disabled life"
  Comments: 5

We waited for five weeks after clearance from the surgeon. We waited for his brace to be approved by insurance so that he could safely start to rehab.

we were praying, and the 828 board was praying, that the brace would come before vacation.

because there are two weddings this week, very special people joining their lives, and he needed to be able to walk and dance.

and the day before leaving, it came. And this morning, after an incredible book release party with some of our dearest friends, he walked out the front steps of our new bungalow for the first time.

“amazing. It feels normal,” he says. “The old Ian.”

and we can’t help but be grateful for our dear surgeon who God used to make it possible. Who took the chance on a rare surgery because he believed that Ian was strong enough and courageous enough to learn to walk again.

and we can’t help but be grateful for our therapist who got him to this point.

and our caregiver. Who every single day does more and loves more than his job description requires.

this morning we leave our bungalow with more hope for our future. And more hope for #walkbythirty.

thank you for helping us to get here through prayers, love, and faith.

all our best,

The Murphys

  Filed under: "a disabled life"
  Comments: 13

  Filed under: "a disabled life", "marriage", "our writing", gratefulness
  Comments: None

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.”

  Filed under: "a disabled life", "God Himself", "marriage"
  Comments: 23

Now he’s walking, without a walker. Just a cane and one of us helping balance with a gait belt.

  Filed under: "a disabled life", gratefulness
  Comments: 30