Two Hospital Stays and the Real "Guru"

This past March, my beloved IronMan (who has scarcely been sick a day in his life) found himself in a hospital bed teetering on the fulcrum between possible grave-danger and life for eight long days. His pain was excruciating. He was not allowed to eat or drink, and he had four separate IV sites running multiple hefty antibiotics and fluids through each individual line. Mean (but necessary) potassium (which definitely earned its reputation) had an exclusive IV line. Veins were blown. IV's were removed and re-inserted until there were hardly any new usable sites. Everything surrounding IronMan's care was to prevent emergency surgery that could bring its own new set of extreme challenges and risks. One nurse painstakingly researched all of the ordered meds to make sure they "played well" together in the IV lines, and spent 90 minutes after her shift ended untangling and organizing the lines and thoughtfully placed the bags on a more complex IV pole to help insure something serious wouldn't get mixed up. Round-the-clock vitals were monitored and all that could really be done was to wait. Wait to see how bad this might get. Wait to see if he would be thrust into surgery. Wait to see if the meds were going to work. Wait in the midst of unrelenting physical pain. 

Our lives were disrupted. You cannot prepare for a life-event like this. It just happens to you, and all you can do is your best. YOUR BROKEN-BEST. When IronMan was finally discharged, he was so happy to be going home, but he was not well.  Being out of serious danger and being well are two very different things. Although he was released from needing round-the-clock medical care, he still needed care. Although he was no longer in a hospital room, he was not yet ready to return to his usual daily life. Continual pain nagged that something was still very wrong. After a series of detailed tests, various imaging, and consultations with doctors and surgeons, the decision was made to have elective surgery to remove the problematic area entirely. We were assured that choosing to have a scheduled surgery was far safer than waiting and risking invasive emergency surgery. We were not far enough removed from the trauma of the eight day hospital stay to chance repeating that again, so surgery was scheduled. Each day leading up to surgery felt long. IronMan felt a bit like a ticking time-bomb that could blow at any minute, but he made it. 

We awoke at 3:30 a.m. to make our way to the hospital. The air was heavy and warm and a nearly full moon dispelled the haze in quiet peace. We had our eyes on that beautiful moon all the way to the hospital. It felt so profound that I stopped to take a picture right before we walked through the hospital's revolving doors. As soon as we walked in, it was busy, busy, busy getting prepped right up to the moment IronMan was wheeled away from me. He was nervous about the anesthesia, and even joked with the surgeon prior if they could work something out where he could stay awake for the procedure because he was worried he might not wake up. The answer was clearly no. 😜 This was probably his biggest source of anxiety about the surgery, but God knew that, and sent a little help. Anesthesiologist Traci was the last of the professionals to see him, and after she went through all the details of what she would be doing, she said, "Now, there's one more thing I want to do. I'm going to pray with you." She didn't ask permission. She just did it. Our daughter said she must have been prompted by the Holy Spirit and I couldn't agree more. God had everything completely covered and IronMan knew the person in charge of making sure he would "wake up" was a Jesus-follower who had taken time to pray with him. ❤️

I made my way to the surgical waiting room and found a spot to camp out for a few hours. I ate a few crackers, tried to read a book...then tried to read another book, and a dear friend started texting me. She was my life-saver in the waiting room, and helped me feel a little less alone. She helped me pass the time by sending me pictures of her morning errands and making me laugh. I kept checking the monitor in the waiting room that kept loved ones apprised as to when the surgery would be over and the patient would be in recovery, sent to a room, or sent home. There was a wife in the waiting room that must have had fifteen or twenty people waiting with her. It seemed like groups of people came in waves to talk, laugh, and encourage her. Her husband was having complex heart surgery and a nurse came in the waiting room to update them about every 45 minutes. There was a middle-aged mom working from her computer who was waiting for her daughter's back surgery to conclude. Around the time IronMan's surgery was scheduled to finish, a young mother and son sat down on the other side of the waiting area. The mom was in tears, and her little boy had his Teddy bear. I could tell she was trying to be strong. I heard whispers that there was a motorcycle accident. My phone chimed and I had a text to go to the nurse's station. The nurse put me in a consultation room where I continued to wait. 

I wondered how many people sat at this very same table and received devastating or difficult news. How many people were told their loved one didn't survive or their surgery didn't go as expected? They were sitting in the same chairs around the same table where I was sitting. Perhaps someone would be exactly where I was later in the day and would receive heartbreaking information like the young mother with her son or the wife of the heart patient. The pretty sliding glass doors that closed off the room offered little protection of keeping out such news. It was sobering. I thought of the moon and how it was kind of guiding our way to the hospital. God knows how much IronMan and I both love His moon. It was right there when we walked into the hospital in the early morning hours hovering as a reminder that the One who holds the moon holds us, too. I thought of Traci and how she was prompted to pray, and that sweet prayer was minutes before I kissed IronMan and said, "See you soon! You're going to be okay!" as they wheeled him down the hallway through the folding doors. I thought of IronMan's amazing surgeon, and how he came with glowing recommendations because he was a "guru" in this field (slang according to Webster meaning "trusted expert, master, or go-to guide in a specific area"). I thought, too, that this was not emergency surgery, and the risk of complications was much lower. I thought, prayed, surrendered, and waited. 

The surgeon finally came in. He told me everything went well, but he found some interesting things. Without going into detail, let's just say that without a doubt, this surgery was needed and we are so grateful that IronMan chose to have it and made it to the elective surgery date. Since his hospital stay in March, he had been dealing with daily pain, some days were worse than others, but there was continual pain. He was not well. I felt so relieved that the surgery was over and quickly messaged family and a few close friends to update them. When I was finally cleared to see IronMan in the recovery room, he was extremely groggy. He turned his head towards me, opened his eyes about halfway and whispered in my ear, "I woke up!" 

There were no rooms readily available in the hospital, so it was a long wait in the recovery area before IronMan was given a room of his own. He was so grateful to get there and immediately everything felt different from March. The first thing he was told to do in the room was order something to eat. In March, he could not eat at all. This time, there were still IV's and other tubes and machines, and lots and lots of pain (oh my!), but when you are experiencing pain because you are recovering from the removal of what was making you sick, it is much different than the pain of making the sick thing less inflamed so you can get by. RECOVERY PAIN IS SUFFERING BECAUSE YOU ARE GOING THROUGH THE PROCESS OF TRUE HEALING. Recovery pain is suffering, but you will reach the other side. You will improve. You will be better, and it won't always be this way. You might not be exactly whole, because sometimes the sickness needs removed (whatever that looks like), but you will be better. The March hospital stay felt dark and hard because we didn't understand what was going on in IronMan's body. The hospital stay for surgery felt hopeful and brighter, even though there was pain, because something had been put behind him. With each day, the pain will improve. March was an emergency thrust upon us that derailed our lives for several weeks. The scheduled surgery, although disruptive, was something we could be a little more prepared for. Sometimes, you have to surrender yourself to surgical precision of the body...  and of the soul. To be sure, both are painful. Some surgical precision is more painful than others, and let's face it soul-surgery doesn't have pain meds readily available to help manage it (not for most people anyway). As IronMan was recovering in the hospital, Matthew 9 kept going through my head when the pharisees challenged Jesus disciples, "Why does Jesus eat with such scum?" Those pharisees had all the answers, didn't they? (eye roll) Jesus responded, "Healthy people don't need a doctor, sick people do," and Jesus continued, "I want you to show MERCY, not offer SACRIFICES...I have come to call NOT those who think they are righteous, but those who KNOW they are sinners." (emphasis is mine from Matthew 9:11-13 NLT) If we approach this with transparency and humility, Jesus is talking about ALL OF US here. Remember that the process of true healing is costly, soul or body. There will be suffering and pain, but you won't stay stuck there forever. You will improve and you will get to the other side even if the road is or feels long. There's only ONE soul-surgeon that can be  described as a "guru" because He is THEEEE expert in the field. It is important for me to interject here that this allegory doesn't always feel like it holds up. We have been on the receiving end of horrific news that has no give. We have been years deep in healing of other kinds of trauma, as well, and I suspect that because life can be so life-ey, there will be more before it's all said and done. I do not share this as one who is naive and this certainly is not a platitude. I share this as one who tries to depend on Jesus when life is hard and when there are no answers. This time, the outcome was favorable (and we are so so grateful), but we have lived through when it has not been. Be kind to yourself, because the best you can do is your BROKEN-BEST. Thankfully, by His grace, it is enough. 

Always grace,

Shanda

p.s. Here is a picture of my IronMan (WHO WOKE UP 😄) recovering at home with a Lego to keep him busy at least for a short while. 

  

My Abuser is... DEAD

Obituaries. 

I've been searching them for years. I'm sure that might sound morbid, and perhaps it is, but what I was searching for wasn't death, but... PEACE. I knew I would eventually discover that my tormentor and abuser, my biological father, had died. No one lives forever even if they try to in your nightmares. His increasing age along with years of alcohol abuse and pack-a-day habit led me to keep digging. I heard a rumor a couple of years ago that he had died. I never found an obituary, so I thought the information was a mistake or miscommunication. His current address was still listed online, as well, so I dismissed the information. A couple of weeks ago, I continued my random (yet routine) online search. No obituary. Something prompted me to keep searching. I proceeded by looking up   addresses just in case he moved. Several websites had his name, current age- 78, last known addresses, and listed people with whom he might be associated. I was about to give up, but then came across a lone obscure website. His name. "DECEASED. Age-74." No addresses. No people. No dates. No associations to verify that this was actually him. It was, however, the first thing I'd ever come across that might verify the rumor of his death that I had received a few years prior, so I kept on. I checked the county records where I believed he last resided to see if a death notice had been posted. No luck. I would have to go to the courthouse, pay their fees, and also prove that I was his biological daughter, and I didn't know if I had that in me. It would have been a huge ask of myself. I got IronMan involved and he paid to access the obscure website that listed my biological father as deceased. Even behind the paywall, there was no additional information. I kept thinking to myself, this is just the way of it. Why would I ever expect anything to be clear? Of course it would be like this and wouldn't be simple. I was conflicted with weird emotions of not knowing how to feel. Is he dead? Is he alive? How in the world would I even begin to process the "probably" but we don't know for sure? I was home alone and I shouted out loud, "Tell me, SOMEONE, how to feel!" There was no PEACE. 

Several years ago, a stranger messaged me on Facebook 0n behalf of my biological father (I will call her Jane to protect her real identity). She told me that she had been looking for me. My father told her all about me (what he knew anyway). She assured me in desperation, "He's a changed man! Will you please pray HARD about contacting him?" She sent a picture of him playing with her small kitten as if that would be evidence I could weigh against the life I lived with this man. Those hands that gently held her kitten were never gentle with me. I told her that I was sincerely glad he had someone in his life that cared about him, but to me he was a monster who had damaged me for life by his violence against me and my mother. I would not be reaching out. He left my life for the most part when I was nineteen due to the long, overdue divorce. I only saw him a handful of times when I was in college. After I had been married for a few years, I started to feel GUILT about being the "only person" that could possibly reach him. Christian evangelicalism had poisoned my perspective at the time and I now understand that it would have been OKAY, possibly even necessary, to protect myself, but I didn't then. That unpacking is for another time, but it informed my decision-making in my young adult life. It felt more like an "eternal" pressure that I was responsible for him, my father...my ABUSER. Regardless, I knew I wouldn't have PEACE if I didn't try. IronMan supported me, and we met my father two or three times, but it was abundantly clear fairly quickly that he had not changed... at all. I tried to facilitate some type of closure with him from the years of HORROR while simultaneously trying to extend grace so I could move on. I didn't know the clinical terminology at the time, but it was a textbook example of gaslighting. He abused me the entirety of my growing-up years, and he not only denied it, but made me feel it was wholly my fault. The good news is that I finally felt RELEASED from the burden that he needed ME to save him from something. As a result, I physically distanced myself from him. However, traumatic nightmares continued  into my mid-life. The nightmarish daydreams still continue, but when I'm awake, I have a little more control to try to change the re-runs in my mind. It might not make sense to some why I would care if this man was still living. I can't explain it, and I believe each victim will likely have a different experience. For many years, I thought it would be a relief to find out he could no longer come after me to hurt me or try to kill me. It became important for me to know if this man was dead or alive and HOW I would verify that beyond doubt. The random message that I had received from Jane seven years prior came to mind. 

I tried to prepare myself for several different outcomes. If I contacted Jane, maybe she wouldn't respond at all? If she did respond, was I prepared for the conversation? I wasn't sure, but I was at a dead end, and this seemed like the only real possibility to get the information I was seeking. Heart pounding, I courageously typed, "Hello, Jane. I know this is out of the blue, but would you be willing to answer a few questions for me?" In less than five minutes my notifications chimed. She had kindly responded. I apologized for the possible abruptness of my question, but proceeded, "Did my father pass away?" Her immediate response unexpectedly jolted me, "Yes." This is a person that evidently cared about my father. As far as I knew, she hadn't experienced the man that I did, and the manner of which I asked her for difficult details could honor her for her extension of kindness that she gave to another person no matter who it was... even if it was HIM. I would also try to dig deep and honor the fact that he was a human being created by God. I could offer that, albeit undeserved, crumb as his biological daughter as the conversation continued. THAT IS GRACE. It turns out, my father wasn't anywhere near his last known address which is likely why I was having trouble finding a death notice or obituary. He had been living in an RV for a few years and after some kind of disagreement (allegedly not his fault- bless Jane for thinking this) was kicked out of the RV park where he lived in Georgia (where Jane had met him) and had to move to Alabama to a different RV park. I couldn't quite figure out how he managed such a move in his seventies, failing health, and mostly alone, but apparently he had some "truck driver friends" that helped as they were passing through. He had gotten into a serious fight a few years prior to all of this (also allegedly not his fault) that resulted in serious bodily injuries and left him with scars on his face. He still smoked like a "freight train," and all I could think of were his yellow teeth, pungent breath, and nicotine stained walls in the house where I grew up. As an adult, I've often thought that I must have reeked like stale-alcohol vomit and cigarette smoke when I went to school as a child, but it was truly the least of ALL of it. The conversation continued and revealed that he had suffered with Alzheimer's. The image became sad as I questioned how a man in his seventies living in an old RV with a broken mind could care for his own basic needs. Jane is the only person I was aware of that had helped him in a practical way, and she lived a state away from him. As for the very end of his life, it was difficult to piece together conflicting details, but with certainty, he died alone. The state of Alabama took over upon his death, and according to my research, he was either cremated and ashes scattered, or he was buried in an unmarked grave. That was the sum of his seventy-four years. Jane told me she saved a few items that were his and asked if I wanted them: two necklaces, a couple of broken watches, and a harmonica that belonged to his father. I told her, initially, that I would accept them. The irony wasn't lost on me- watches that were once used to mark time that had stopped, necklaces he wore around his neck, when his hands were around mine? These were things he wore against his skin, and wore daily. It felt way too intimate. I had a sinking feeling and felt nauseous. Accepting his personal things was a dignity I felt I could not give him. I messaged Jane and told her to keep the items. Perhaps they were even sentimental to her? I thanked her for taking care of him (and I meant it), and I also thanked her for taking the time to kindly answer my questions, and the conversation ended. 

...Then out of nowhere from a soul-deep place I wept and wept... and wept. Something broke inside of me. The man who nearly destroyed me was dead. It wasn't the relief or peace I thought it would be. Flashes of his abuse projected scenes through my mind as waves of anger, blame, and regret gripped me. I wept for what should have been, the father I SHOULD HAVE had. There was no tenderness or care in him. He was a selfish hothead that created an atmosphere of violence in our home. I didn't feel safe or secure, ever. How empowered he must have felt making me flinch and cower under his fist and by his words. He threatened to kill me so many times, and I believed him. My own father was the SOURCE of my fear. I had no father to swoop me up and carry me on his shoulders, no father to teach me how to ride a bike, dribble a basketball, or hit a softball. The shame in gym class and on the playground was embarrassing, and added to my already gaping lack. I had no father to play games with me or sit down to have a tea party with me and my dolls. He didn't read me bedtime stories, tuck me in, or give me hugs and kisses goodnight. He didn't train me, encourage me, or give me guidance. The truth is, I wouldn't have minded the lack in these things if the void was covered in love, but it wasn't. The only things he DID give me were violence and abuse in nearly every form. Whatever was broken in this man is what wielded the weapon that broke me. He was a thief that robbed me of the childhood that should have been and left me with the one that shouldn't. And... I... wept. Sadly, he single-handedly destroyed every gift he did have in his life and ended up as scattered ashes in an unknown grave without an obituary. Was it worth it? He, to say the least, did not leave people BETTER for being in their lives, with the possible exception of Jane, and that's heartbreaking. He was a human being born a tiny baby that needed fed, bathed, dressed, and diapered. He learned to crawl, toddle, run, and talk. He made his way and made his choices... for seventy-four years. He met a sad, broken-minded end, and died alone, NOT surrounded by love, and for that, too, I wept. So maybe I don't have the PEACE I was searching for in this, but I have found a way to GRACE. I can try to lay him to rest in my heart and know I offered him some measure of human dignity by honoring Jane, the person that did care about him, and for me, that matters more than peace in this. All of this was further evidence of what I know deep in my soul-bones that EVERYTHING IS GRACE, and in every single aspect of humanity, it is THE most important thing.

Always grace,

Shanda

p.s. For those who don't know my whole story, I have a BEAUTIFUL redeeming father story that I shared several years ago. It's called "Twice Adopted" and you can FIND IT HERE.  I miss my adopted dad every single day, and I am grateful for his generous, selfless love. I'll see you in a minute, Dad. 🤍

DARKNESS

God on trial.

The maker of stars and dolphins, mountains and beach waves, sunsets and auroras, brown eyes and laughter... GOD... on trial.

Prosecutor Pilate put Jesus in the hot seat and found him without fault, declared him INNOCENT, had him slapped around a bit to satiate the hungering crowd, yet the mob ROARED. Chump Pilate washed his hands to clean soul stains he could never cleanse himself. Scoundrel Barabbas was released from his condemnation so ALL OF US scoundrels could ultimately be released from ours.

Cat o' Nine Tails whipped metal barbs and ripped flesh in chunks from strong carpenter's frame, thorny crown pressed deep, body shocked. People shamed, spit, scorned, turned away. Most don't make it to the beam. Most die in the "chambers" of Roman-handed-hell. But Jesus made it to the beam he couldn't carry up to the hill on his own, because carrying US and that beam at the same time was too much, so…

HE. CARRIED. US.

Iron spiked his arms across cypress, and “King of the Jews” scratched out in olive wood hung above his battered flesh. Sour drink. Staggered breaths. Surrendered spirit. It was finished.

FINISHED.

The temple curtain that hung heavy and thick was rent in two. Graves opened. Earth quaked. Sky was pitch as night. Darkness. This is what happens when you kill God.

DARKNESS.

Palm Sunday From a Hospital Room

A week ago Saturday we were riding the zoo train with our four-year-old grandson and soaking up the sunshine alongside the giraffes and llamas. Two short days later my husband was battling the most severe pain I have ever seen anyone experience in my life due to complications from diverticulitis. From our bedroom floor... to the ER... to an extended stay in the hospital, I am quickly reminded that sometimes life happens in unexpected whirlwinds. It's a hijacking of sorts. Freak accidents, ambulance rides, roses draped across caskets, the shocking diagnosis, chronic illness, horrific phone call, or jarring discovery, and suddenly, you are in the territory of life-disrupted. No matter what you wish or will, it won't give. Everything is now dictated by the disruption and you obey, because you have to. 

I keep looking at the wipe-off board in the hospital room to remember the date. Days melt into each other in hospital rooms. The day of the week isn't written on this particular board, so I have had to mentally track to figure out the day of the week. Today is Sunday. Yes. It's Sunday, Palm Sunday to be exact. I'm trying to be mindful of Holy Week and the significance of the worship and Hosannas over two-thousand years ago. "Jesus, save us." Save us from this old broken world and these broken bodies and broken people. Save us from the heart-hurts and betrayals, rejections and not-enoughs. Save us... from... ourselves. When life catapults us into life-disrupted, have mercy and please... save us. If that saving only looks like Presence, help it to be enough. 

A dear friend texted me a photo she took on their way home from church. There were two simple crosses made out of folded palm fronds. All I could think of were those branches laid down like a royal carpet and waved to hail the King while a simple donkey carried him into the last city he would ever visit before he surrendered to his own murder. Those two little palm leaf crosses remind me of all of those hosannas shouting and crying out for salvation, the kind of salvation we don't even truly know we need. Jesus knew and from his soul he cried looking over the city, "Oh Jerusalem." Oh me. Oh you. Hosannah! Save us... even in this hospital room.

Always grace,

Shanda 

Love, Family, and an On-time Christmas Wish

 

The day after Christmas still holds a little magic of the season for me. I try to let it linger and speak. Days leading up to Christmas Eve and Christmas day are always busy, but the unique quiet of the 26th holds a peace that we are not yet so far removed that we can't just be HERE to soak it in for a few moments longer. Last week, my oldest daughter was telling me how she shared Dolly Parton's "Coat of Many Colors" with her little boy and how much he enjoyed the story. She wanted him to tell me how much it impacted him from his four-year-old perspective. He proceeded to explain how Dolly's mother was given a box of rags and she made a coat from it for her little girl because she didn't have one. My daughter asked him in his re-telling to me, "Don't you just LOVE Dolly?" He paused. As serious as he could be, "But she's not family. She's  a stranger." I was stunned. My four-year-old grandson was onto something. This season, I have been teaching him John 3:16. He has not questioned God's love one single time, and every morning he is here with me we pray together, "Thank you for loving us, Jesus. We love YOU, Jesus." My sweet little guy here knows Jesus is not a stranger. He came, so that every single one of us would have someone to belong TO... to be known, to be LOVED. We are His. We have a place. We have a FAMILY. His love, in ways we have no idea in a glass-darkly kind of way, has done it ALL, and someday we will REALLY know everything that that means. For now, I linger and let the truth that I do know sink down into my soul-bones... in a quiet house with second-day Christmas brunch, Starbucks Christmas blend in my cup, by candlelight and firelight... and with that I will still say (on the 26th) Merry Christmas. It's not a Christmas wish that is late to me, rather right on time. ❤️

Always grace,

Shanda

Run to Joy

These days, I'm really trying to seek, pray, LISTEN, surrender, and follow... in my broken-best, of course. 🙏 I started sharing a couple of humble Advent posts this season and I've been writing off and on about "joy" for over a week, which has turned into a "gloves off" post about tragic death that doesn't really seem all that joyful or all that Christmas-y. Even if we are still in the thick of it (yes, you still can be in the thick of traumatic grief decades later), I think what I have written isn't for right now. Our grief is so much deeper and so much more complicated. A fatal December car accident was the catalyst for a sea of things to follow, and different kinds of deep loss continue to find us. It's the truth. BUT... this is also the truth. JOY and SORROW can be held at the same time. It's life. It's both. 🙏 So for today, I am sharing some of the joy that permeates my mostly ordinary days. ❤️😊 I am enjoying the slow intentionality of listening to childhood records with my grandson and playing games with him that we've had since our own kids were his kind of young. This week, I am also teaching him about the ragamuffin shepherds that were dumbstruck by an angel-filled sky that looked more breathtaking than literally anything ever seen by human eyes. Those grubby old shepherds were also surrounded by singing that would blow away anything the engineers at Bose could ever come up with . It was a sound that only Heaven and those lucky old shepherds have ever heard. Their response? Drop it all. RUN. Recklessly run and get to that smelly stable as fast as possible. Who would even believe what the angels told them they would find? They would, because it's not every day that your eyes and ears have been blasted and disrupted by an other-worldy message directly from God. They didn't have time to doubt, be anxious, feel insecure, or debate about what had just happened. They ran, and under that spectacular star in the home prepared for livestock to reside, they found a brand-spanking-new baby king and they fell to their faces and worshiped with all their hearts. There is no greater JOY than that and they ran right to it and right into it, and they would never be the same. Us, either. ❤️

Always grace,

Shanda

Peace, Motorcycles, and No Vacancy

Have you ever planned a trip or vacation without securing your lodging? Aside from planning where, how, and when you would be going, I think reserving the place you would lay your head at night might rank right up there with the most important things to secure for your journey. Making all of your preparations ahead of time gives you a sense of security and peace that your basic needs will be cared for while you are away from home. 

Several years ago, IronMan and I took my grandparents on a cross-country road trip to visit my parents who were living in Colorado at the time. On the way home from Colorado to Indiana, we planned a different route home so we could stop for quick visits to Mt. Rushmore, the famous Wall Drug 😉, and the Badlands. If you can believe it, the internet wasn't a thing at the time, so there was no quick or easy way to get a hotel reservation. We weren't certain where we would be stopping, anyway, because we wanted to get as far as we could so the final travel day home was as short as possible. While we were experiencing a blissful vacation for our first time ever visiting beautiful Colorado, we apparently didn't stay connected to the news on TV or in the papers. Had we, we would have avoided South Dakota and gone home via the usual Nebraska-Iowa-Illinois trek, but... we... did... not. Our first major clue was when we stopped at Mt. Rushmore. There were no parking spaces to be had. Occupying the parking spaces? Motorcycles. Slightly perplexed after seeing the presidents, we headed towards Wall Drug. I can still see some of the charming little towns along the way, and all of the motorcycles. Motorcycle after motorcycle, on the roads, at restaurants, gas stations, and shops. There were multiple motorcycles crammed in single parking spots leaving no parking spaces for cars for miles and miles and miles. Motorcycles here, motorcyles there, motorcycles 

E V E R Y W H E R E.  I was in my early 20's at the time and the event, Sturgis Bike Week, meant nothing to me the day prior, but on this day, I knew I would never forget it for the rest of my life. I'll bet you know where this is heading. We began to get a little bit concerned at the time, too. After the stunning sunset drive through the Badlands, we had been traveling for several hours. IronMan, who did all of the driving, was getting tired, my grandparents were getting tired, and it was time for us to stop for the night. Remember, this was before internet aaaand also before cell phones! Almost all hotels used "no vacancy" lights on their signs back in the day. We stopped at every single hotel where the "no" part of "no vacancy" wasn't lit, and we stopped at every single hotel that didn't have a sign. You wouldn't believe how many places had broken signs or hotel attendants forgot to light the "no" in "no vacancy." There were no rooms available for miles and miles, city after city, hour after hour, prayer after prayer. We discussed pulling over at a rest area to sleep, but decided to try to keep going. Stop after stop. No vacancy. Weary, exhausted, and stressed, we tried one more place. We spotted a motel that was hiding behind another bigger hotel that was closer to the road. Miraculously, there was one room left. The attendant remarked that we'd found the last room available in the entire city, but I am convinced it was the last room left in three states. We found a lone parking space between the motorcycles, left everything in the car and the four of us dragged our exhausted bodies into the room and collapsed into the two double beds. 

As we think about PEACE during this Advent week before Christmas, I can assure you, once we knew the battle was on to find a place to sleep, there was nothing but stress, not peace. The unknown takes a toll, and discouragement adds to the weary exhaustion. Joseph and Mary were on the journey of ALL OF OUR LIFETIMES. I'm sure they were as prepped as they possibly could be for their trip from Nazareth to Bethlehem, but lodging was not something they could secure ahead of time, either. I suspect it's possible, through personal experience, that Mary knew somewhere mid-journey that the birth of Jesus would be sooner than later. It's impossible to know if she felt anxiety or stress, but I have a hunch she did. She was a human being, after all! I've really been thinking about this over the past few days. When you are prepared ahead of time, you can relax a little and you have confidence in the fact that you've SECURED the basics. This is great if you are in a circumstance that you can control, but how much control do we really and truly have even when we think we do? I think control is a bit of an illusion at times. As Joseph and Mary plodded along, did Mary wonder where they would stay or she would give birth? When they arrived, did some panic set in as Joseph went from door to door to find a space for his mother-to-be bride? "No vacancy" didn't blink on neon signs but it had to flash across their hearts. They were as prepared as they could have been in their circumstances, but they had no control that all of the inns were full. As questions, worry, and stress attempted to creep in, Joseph and Mary TRUSTED. It wasn't their preparation that gave them peace, it was their TRUST IN GOD that everything was covered even if it didn't seem like it was. Everything leading up to this point had to feel almost surreal, but they were also in miracle territory. And lo and behold, likely concerned and about to give up, faithful Joseph knocked on one last door (possibly hidden behind a bigger inn that was closer to the dusty road 😉) and something unexpected was offered, a stable. Joseph and Mary slipped right in between the motorcycles... err... I mean sheep, and ended up in the exact place that GOD HIMSELF HAD PREPARED ahead of time for them. Salvation for the whole world arrived in the most unlikely place as the tiny king was born that night... and those touched by His love will never, ever forget. 

Always grace,

Shanda

Advent Hope (Grief and Joy Together)

 Today is the first Sunday of Advent~HOPE. I wasn't sure if I was going to write anything for Advent this year, because I've been in a (partial) deep-down place. I wonder, sometimes, if it's best to be quiet. People usually want to hear something uplifting, especially around Christmas, but let's be real here. It stirs in my heart that there are others out there in a "place," too. I want you to know you are not isolated and alone. We are all human beings, and because we are, there will always be a cycle of brokenness, sorrow, or grief. No one, absolutely no one, escapes it. I have had seasons where nearly everything felt like heartbreaking grief. This year isn't quite like that, but the grief that is there is very real. At the same time, I have so much around me for which to be grateful. Let me tell you, our four-year-old little grandson is JOY personified! 😉 He is DAILY joy! I have been thinking about this for a couple of weeks and the other day, I wrote a note to myself in my phone, "You can hold joy and grief at the same time. We are human, and being human is tricky." So today, on this first Sunday of Advent, where we are to focus on HOPE, it's okay if it's tricky. I feel joy and in moments, I also feel sadness... and that's okay. What is sad does not have to swallow up what is a gift, and no matter what grief we are experiencing, we all have the ultimate gift of hope in Jesus. This is why He came for me and for you, so that in our darkest days of human sorrow, we would all have His piercing Hope-light to get through. It doesn't mean it will all make sense (1 Corinthians 13:12), but He is HERE with us right in the middle of what makes us cry as well as what makes us sing. It's kind of His specialty. No matter what you are feeling or experiencing, I pray you will reach out for the HOPE that came all those years ago in a humble stable in Bethlehem. May you cling to that Hope and never let go, my friend, in grief... in joy... or both. ❤️

Always grace.

Shanda

 

                 

Seasons

Today is the first day of autumn, and I am READY. 

A few weeks ago, I gathered and placed our fall decor to prepare our home for the changing season. There are familiar decorations I enjoy unboxing that I have collected for three decades from our early married years and into all the growing-up years of our children. I freshened our bedroom with a brand-new pieced quilt with calico fabrics in hues of red, orange, yellow, and brown. Outside, I removed weary annuals that were spent after a summer of showing off their beauty, and I planted fall mums in their place. In a couple of weeks, I will replant tulip and daffodil bulbs with the anticipation and hope of their beautiful blooms next spring. I love autumn. I love everything about this season from warm colors (my favorite), cerulean skies, crimson sunsets, bonfires, football, pumpkins, hayrides, fuzzy blankets, apple cider, and cozy evenings by the fireplace. Autumn is unique, because there isn't another season that really touches on all four of the seasons quite like autumn does. Summery weather lingers for days and sometimes weeks, yet autumn also ushers in the magic of winter. The spring flowers that will be enjoyed were thoughtfully planted many months prior during the early days of fall. The seeming loss and devastation of autumn is also quite unique. My grandson and I read a story today about a little fox experiencing his first autumn. The fox's tree friend was dropping leaves as the worried young fox frantically tried to collect the leaves to give back so the tree could be "fixed." As trees light up in fiery reds, glistening golds, and inferno oranges the beauty of the landscape tapestry is breathtaking, but also fleeting. As wind, other weather, and time strip deciduous trees bare, the contrast from an explosive backdrop of stunning color to stark, gray, and bleak does feel a bit devastating, but a little deeper perspective reveals the gift of autumn- permission to take necessary rest. This is the design of things, even the design of us. The little fox was obviously unable to restore the leaves to the tree. Sometimes we have to surrender and embrace what we are powerless to restore, as well. 

What season are you in? We've had some tough recent days and weeks as a country and as a human race. It's a mess around here, friends. I am willing to say, knowing how life is, that maybe you (like me) have had some difficult "closer to home" days, months, and maybe even years, too. When I say I am READY for this next season, I mean that from the soul of my being. Let the leaves drop to the ground, surrender this, (whatever THIS means to you) to the One who made us, and trust Him that there will be some sort of something to make sense of all we are trusting Him for. I don't say this lightly. I usually rebuke things that sound like platitudes, but I know as the uniqueness of fall has shadows of all the seasons, so do our lives. There is beauty in the mess and even if the heartache doesn't make sense, there might be something in another area of our lives that brings joy to balance the way of things. This is how autumn speaks to me this particular turn of the season. I am here holding fast and letting go all at the same time and praying for the trust I need to be in the center of the design of it all. Fall has always been my favorite. I will give myself permission to embrace and even celebrate all the things I love that make me feel warm and cozy in our little corner of the world, while simultaneously holding the sorrow that still needs held. God bless you with grace as you do the same. In their time, let the leaves fall. Sometimes "fixing" looks bleak and gray...but also a little bit like rest.

Always grace,

Shanda

I'm Still Here (Part Two)

If you're here reading this, you know I'm back. It's been a while, five years to be exact. I've been taking some time to read over some of my blog entries since I first began sharing in 2011. Dotted along the past 14 1/2 years, those entries have marked some part of my/our journey. It's almost a little bit strange, because our lives are so different from when I first started writing. I tend to write about what I am feeling or going through at the time, and to be honest, I have no idea where this new phase of writing/sharing will head, but I am here as God leads me, even if my life is still in a little bit of no man's land. I am a little bit older now, and with some added life experience and maturity, I'm not as concerned about my writing sounding pretty or descriptive. There is a time and place for that, and it may or may not end up here in this space. It is more important to me that TRUE authenticity (not the mocked-up version for hits, likes, and followers), transparency (even when it's not pretty), humility, truth, and grace remain the top priorities in this space. I do know that one thing will be different. The REAL WRITER/COMMUNICATOR  in the family (my IronMan) will also be sharing here. 😊 YAY!

I am a fairly sensitive person, and if I am completely honest, I have some reservations about doing this again. I care way too much about what people think, even if what they think is based on their own misconceptions or even their misconceptions of truth. I'm working on this, on not caring (as much). I believe it stems from a conditioned trauma response from being an abused child. Sure, if someone loves you and cares about you and comes to you with a genuine concern, that is something that I will receive with true humility, even if it's hard to hear or process. But gossipy tongue lashings, quiet slanderous whispers, and accusatory finger wagging, even from fellow believers, well, it's like my sweet grandmother always used to tell me, "Shanda, don't worry about it. GOD SEES EVERYTHING." This truth helps me to attempt to let go of what others think, but it's still hard. I shared some of my reservations about writing again with IronMan, too. Listen. We have been through hell and back a few times over. I have even caused some of that hell myself. This is me being completely transparent. I have indeed been to the "edge of me." I've wrestled with God and probably the devil a little bit, too, but IT IS THE PERSISTENCE OF GOD'S COMPASSIONATE GRACE FOR ME AS HIS CHILD THAT IS THE LIVING VICTORY IN MY LIFE, and that miracle is something to be shared. I am broken, and have also broken things. BUT GOD... and I mean that from the very soul-marrow of my being. In His great love for me, and his tremendous mercy, I am a BROKEN VICTOR. If you have decided to use my surrendered-to-God brokenness as a weapon against me, that is your choice. If you are only comfortable with a seemingly perfect Christian sharing faith things with you, then, gently, this space will not be for you, and that's okay. Bless you as you move on from here. Sincerely. The journey of authentic faith in Jesus can be a messy one, especially, when you believe that God is in and through all. FAITH CAN GET TANGLED UP WHEN HARD THINGS COME. That's why I think I/we are here...to be that voice of some possible untangling. But like I said, I am a sensitive human, and I know I have a difficult/broken past. Sometimes, I feel like I shouldn't have a voice or space like this at all. Others would quickly dismiss me and deem me disqualified, and maybe I would dismiss me, too! But again... God. It's about Him, and His gracious work of rebuilding from my ashes. IronMan sent me a message last week. It has given me the bravery I need to keep going. I questioned everything with him, and this is what he told me:

"YOU SHOULD WRITE. WRITE SENSITIVELY, BUT ALSO UNAFRAID. DON'T WRITE THINKING ABOUT WHAT ANYONE ELSE WILL THINK. YOUR AUDIENCE IS ALL THAT MATTERS. WRITE COURAGEOUSLY. FOR THEM."

I will try. In my broken-best. I will try.

I believe this will be the last re-introduction type post (unless IronMan wants to share a little before he begins writing here). I felt led to say some of these things out loud, and if you are still here sharing this journey with us, thank you. Perhaps we can hammer out the difficulties of faith as well as the joys... together. Peace to you until next time. ♡

Always grace,

Shanda

p.s. See that image of the cross? I posted the perfect, unobstructed picture of it on my previous post, but this one? With all the wires, the pole, the scrubby brush and even the bird on the wire, well, it seemed appropriate for this post. Faith isn't perfect, and the view might be obstructed or tangled. Sometimes you need to shift your perspective, and that perspective is the difference between the two images. A little further up the mountain, and the wires and tangles and brush were no longer in view... just the cross... and I know there is a lesson in that. A LITTLE FURTHER UP THE MOUNTAIN...

I'm Still Here!

Several months ago, I came across a Pinterest post where someone had shared a link to my blog. There were a couple of comments underneath it, but the one that stuck with me said, "Why isn't she writing anymore?" IT HAS BEEN FIVE YEARS since my last post (gasp- five years). There is only one appropriate answer to the question posed on Pinterest. In short, the reason I wasn't writing anymore is "life." If you know me personally, or you have followed my humble ramblings, you know our journey has not been an easy one. The last few posts I shared were about kicking, scratching, and clawing my way to keeping faith, and to be honest, I felt like I ripped open my heart and bled for people that might have been questioning God's faithfulness just like I was. I always want others to know if they are struggling, they are not alone. I believe following Jesus can be messy and hard, and it seems like churches (or Christians) across the board aren't honest about the impact grief, pain, and suffering have on faith, especially if that suffering is continual, or the loss is tremendous. After those last few posts, life really didn't quit, and to be honest, I felt like it was a time to be quiet, so I was. Has life stopped shooting arrows at us now? No. We are currently going through some things as a family that nearly derailed me/us entirely. But even so, I feel like the words might be stirring again. That tells me that some measure of healing and growth has occurred within the years of space of being mostly "still." Faith, trust, and belief can be fragile at times, but I know I AM STILL HERE because God has held onto me, and maybe that is something to write about. 

My blog has never (and will never) be a space for any kind of agenda or promotion. I have restricted my own social media and currently only have a pathetically small Instagram account, so when this very post I am writing here today goes "live," I expect about three people will see it, and one of those will be my husband. 😉 From my very first post in 2011 to now, my heart has always been towards this humble space that those who find it were meant to, whether it's two people or two-thousand people. Each person matters, and I am definitely not about the numbers. I plan to share when I feel led/stirred, and this is just a quick and humble re-introduction to let you know...

I AM STILL HERE! 

More life and faith ramblings are coming soon. Thank you for being here. ❤️

Always grace,

Shanda

God is Not Faithful... Two Years Later, and a Little Hope

Two years ago, I wrote the single most difficult piece (to date) that I have publicly shared on my humble little blog. A year after writing that heart-rending piece, I also shared a one year update. Both of those pieces can be read HERE and HERE. I wasn't sure if I would revisit "God is Not Faithful" again, but this past week I felt led to share something that I came across that might be a tiny bit of an encouragement to those still fighting for faith in the trenches. Since the anniversary of posting the two original pieces just passed, I sensed it (humbly) as a confirmation. This is going to be a very different piece from what I normally share. I want you to read the scripture for yourself and glean what God might stir in your heart. I will share a few of my own thoughts at the end.

***********

Last week, my daily Bible reading had me in the book of Lamentations. I am not going to "cherry pick" here. I want you to be able to read the entire chapter as a whole. Some of the trauma the author experiences might be relatable to you, and some of it might not. We all walk different journeys, so I felt it important to include the chapter fully intact here. 

LAMENTATIONS 3 (New Living Translation)

I am the one who has seen the afflictions

    that come from the rod of the Lord’s anger.
2 He has led me into darkness,
    shutting out all light.
3 He has turned his hand against me
    again and again, all day long.

4 He has made my skin and flesh grow old.
    He has broken my bones.
5 He has besieged and surrounded me
    with anguish and distress.
6 He has buried me in a dark place,
    like those long dead.

7 He has walled me in, and I cannot escape.
    He has bound me in heavy chains.
8 And though I cry and shout,
    he has shut out my prayers.
9 He has blocked my way with a high stone wall;
    he has made my road crooked.

10 He has hidden like a bear or a lion,
    waiting to attack me.
11 He has dragged me off the path and torn me in pieces,
    leaving me helpless and devastated.
12 He has drawn his bow
    and made me the target for his arrows.

13 He shot his arrows
    deep into my heart.
14 My own people laugh at me.
    All day long they sing their mocking songs.
15 He has filled me with bitterness
    and given me a bitter cup of sorrow to drink.

16 He has made me chew on gravel.
    He has rolled me in the dust.
17 Peace has been stripped away,
    and I have forgotten what prosperity is.
18 I cry out, “My splendor is gone!
    Everything I had hoped for from the Lord is lost!”

19 The thought of my suffering and homelessness
    is bitter beyond words.[a]
20 I will never forget this awful time,
    as I grieve over my loss.
21 Yet I still dare to hope
    when I remember this:

22 The faithful love of the Lord never ends![b]
    His mercies never cease.
23 Great is his faithfulness;
    his mercies begin afresh each morning.
24 I say to myself, “The Lord is my inheritance;
    therefore, I will hope in him!”

25 The Lord is good to those who depend on him,
    to those who search for him.
26 So it is good to wait quietly
    for salvation from the Lord.
27 And it is good for people to submit at an early age
    to the yoke of his discipline:

28 Let them sit alone in silence
    beneath the Lord’s demands.
29 Let them lie face down in the dust,
    for there may be hope at last.
30 Let them turn the other cheek to those who strike them
    and accept the insults of their enemies.

31 For no one is abandoned
    by the Lord forever.
32 Though he brings grief, he also shows compassion
    because of the greatness of his unfailing love.
33 For he does not enjoy hurting people
    or causing them sorrow.

34 If people crush underfoot
    all the prisoners of the land,
35 if they deprive others of their rights
    in defiance of the Most High,
36 if they twist justice in the courts—
    doesn’t the Lord see all these things?

37 Who can command things to happen
    without the Lord’s permission?
38 Does not the Most High
    send both calamity and good?
39 Then why should we, mere humans, complain
    when we are punished for our sins?

40 Instead, let us test and examine our ways.
    Let us turn back to the Lord.
41 Let us lift our hearts and hands
    to God in heaven and say,
42 “We have sinned and rebelled,
    and you have not forgiven us.

43 “You have engulfed us with your anger, chased us down,
    and slaughtered us without mercy.
44 You have hidden yourself in a cloud
    so our prayers cannot reach you.
45 You have discarded us as refuse and garbage
    among the nations.

46 “All our enemies
    have spoken out against us.
47 We are filled with fear,
    for we are trapped, devastated, and ruined.”
48 Tears stream from my eyes
    because of the destruction of my people!

49 My tears flow endlessly;
    they will not stop
50 until the Lord looks down
    from heaven and sees.
51 My heart is breaking
    over the fate of all the women of Jerusalem.

52 My enemies, whom I have never harmed,
    hunted me down like a bird.
53 They threw me into a pit
    and dropped stones on me.
54 The water rose over my head,
    and I cried out, “This is the end!”

55 But I called on your name, Lord,
    from deep within the pit.
56 You heard me when I cried, “Listen to my pleading!
    Hear my cry for help!”
57 Yes, you came when I called;
    you told me, “Do not fear.”

58 Lord, you have come to my defense;
    you have redeemed my life.
59 You have seen the wrong they have done to me, Lord.
    Be my judge, and prove me right.
60 You have seen the vengeful plots
    my enemies have laid against me.

61 Lord, you have heard the vile names they call me.
    You know all about the plans they have made.
62 My enemies whisper and mutter
    as they plot against me all day long.
63 Look at them! Whether they sit or stand,
    I am the object of their mocking songs.

64 Pay them back, Lord,
    for all the evil they have done.
65 Give them hard and stubborn hearts,
    and then let your curse fall on them!
66 Chase them down in your anger,
    destroying them beneath the Lord’s heavens.

The author's sorrow is tangible. He (most scholars attribute the author to be Jeremiah, but I am not a theologian, and the strict importance isn't prevalent to the point I want to make) feels crippled, debilitated, abandoned, lost, confused, and hopeless for most of the entire chapter. However, a third of the way into the chapter, a few steel verses undergird this crisis and its truth bridges his grief beginning with three little letters: 

YET. 

"Yet I still dare to HOPE when I remember this: The faithful love of the Lord never ends. His mercies never cease. Great is His faithfulness; his mercies begin afresh each morning... The Lord is my inheritance; therefore I will hope in him." (Lamentations 3:21-23)

There have been songs and books written about these verses. They are familiar and held dear by many Christians. To some, the familiarity may have reached the status of distasteful platitude, and maybe you'd rather not hear them while you feel swallowed up in your own pain. To the latter group, I pray that my simple thoughts might bring you some fresh hope. 

"I will never forget this awful time, as I grieve over my loss." (Lamentations 3:20)

When I read this verse this past week, the word grieve stood out to me. It is present tense. The author is currently grieving. His grief hasn't passed. He is still in the midst of pain, pain which he is forthcoming, transparent, and bold about. Right in the middle of that piercing pain, right in the middle of the mess of life and the anguish and sorrow, the author declares his truth that everything is NOT OKAY, yet he also declares further truth that GOD'S LOVE IS FAITHFUL and HIS MERCIES NEVER END. These are not mutually exclusive. They are both possible at the same time. In fact, because life is so...well...life-y, it is PROBABLE that both truths coexist. I am not going to get into all the ways that the church and Christians sometimes dismiss pain and expect rapid surrender to God. I simply want to leave you with the encouragement that in the midst of grief, loss, pain, sorrow, doubt, and anguish there is a yet, and the yet is the faithfulness of God that loves you and floods you with his mercy. I hope like Jeremiah and ragamuffin little me, too, that you will "still DARE to HOPE." You are heard, you are not abandoned, you are loved, you are seen, you are redeemed. Even if you don't feel it. Even if you are suffering. In grace, I humbly share...

"Therefore, I will hope in him." (Lamentations 3:24).