Day 351

It's good to see them smile.

For the first time ever, I Skyped with my parents.

I miss them so much.  It’s incredible.

Dad asked, “So how many days left in your year?”

“Sixteen.”

There was a pause, and then he asked, “…you got anyone in mind?”

Turned my head, and thought.  “No, no one in mind…but, after all this, he’s going to have to be pretty amazing.”

Mom chimed in, “That’s too bad ‘cause I married the last amazing one...Dad's one of a kind.”

#sweetestthingiveheardhersay

Then she said, “Maybe you should start easy.  Don’t worry about commitment.  Just be friends first.  Go younger…”

Dad laughed, “Naomi, she doesn't want a boy who thinks he can, she wants a man who knows he can…”

“Are you quoting Spice Girls?” Mom asked.

Dad just laughed.

I love my parents.

God is amazing.  He has brought us to this amazing point where I don’t think I could love them any more than I already do.  He’s opened doors I thought were long closed, locked.  But here we are.

I’m living my life, my parents are supportive, and can even joke about parts of it.  They’re proud of me, even though I never turned out to be better.  To make more money.  To be smarter.  They’re proud of the me that I am.

I miss them so much, and wonder how much longer of my life will be spent in Memphis…

Day 318

I told her to call me at work whenever they were ready to take Dad in for the procedure.

So when I picked up, yes, I expected a weary voice, but this—this was different.  Worn, ragged, worried.  There was a desperation within her that broke my heart.

“Daddy’s not doing so good,” she managed to squeak, and as she passed the phone to my father I knew not what to expect.

With his heart having beat a million beats per minute for more than twelve hours, it was as if he was on the tail-end of an absurd marathon.  He spoke, but his murmurs couldn’t even form words.  When Mom took the phone back, I was a wreck.

Not only could he not eat before the procedure, leaving him weaker still, but Mom also revealed that there was a chance that even the procedure may not be able to slow his racing heart—that it stood the chance of failing.  And the possibility of a worthless procedure did nothing to quell my father’s fears.

I told her I was praying, and we hung up, her promising to keep me updated.  After I tried pulling myself together, I opened my Facebook and Twitter apps in an attempt to reach out to as many people as possible with as little energy as possible.  After all, I had none left.  My fighter’s spirit was present, but my energy had long been spent.

Desperation.

It seems to be God’s favorite tool.

But not because He’s an evil, condemning God, but because He loves us and wants to see us prosper.  And a way to prosper is to be forced into places and situations and feelings.  To be forced to react in a way aligned with His will.

Desperation causes a meek girl to set aside her pride and call out to the world for prayer.
Desperation causes two people who do not believe in God to not only receive prayer, but request it.

God has used desperation in my life as a key, unlocking so many doors.  The door leading to an opportunity to minister.  A doorway to trusting Him, no matter what.  Doors to being faithful and experiencing His faithfulness.  Doors to build bonds of community and brotherly love.

And yesterday, after only hours on waiting on God, He answered.

“One-eighty.”

That was the term the cardiologist used to describe the rhyhm of Dad's heartbeat.  It had done a complete turnaround.  The medical staff had changed nothing within the last few hours.  Not the medicines, or dosages, even the procedure had not been done—and now it wouldn’t have to be.

I ran up and down the ball halls at work when I heard the news.  Baby, if you’ve never seen a white girl shout, yesterday was the day.

God will take you through some things to teach you some things.  You learn how much you trust Him and how far you’re willing to follow Him, to what degree you sacrifice yourself.

After receiving the news that he would be returning home after an abrupt, spontaneous healing, I came home from work, collapsing on my bed from overwhelming relief and gratitude.  I have never had more reason to praise God.  Not even when He saved me did I rejoice as much as I did last night.

It was fitting then to spend the rest of the night in the large halls of Bellevue, being led in worship by Hillsong Live.  I’m pretty sure that if those awesome Aussies can’t get you to sing, no one can.

Singing at the top of my lungs, waving my hands high, fingers outstretched, the rhythm pulsing through my body, the echo of a thousand people worshipping, I had never felt God’s glory stretched so widely.

God orchestrates everything in amazing ways.  And I never case to be astounded by His love and compassion for His children.  To take my family through this, to challenge me, and at the end of the hardest day giving me a way to celebrate and feel close to Him.

Even when times are rough, God is good.  Even when it hurts, God is good.  And when it’s good, it’s God and only God.

We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure... Hebrews 6:19

Day 316

Because maybe

You’re gonna be the one that saves me

—Wonderwall, Oasis

My dad is strong, but fragile.

It must be a Linford thing, how we let our emotions engulf us.

And it must be a father-daughter thing, how we know truly how the other is feeling without even a hint of it in their voice.

“It’s going to be okay, Jamie.”

I know deep down he’s saying that, because he’s the dad.  Because he doesn’t want me to worry.

But also because he’s trying to talk himself into believing it.

It’s so hard to be 2,000 miles away from him.  All I want to do is be there beside him.  But I’m not.  I’m here.

I saw a missed called from my parents after dinner tonight, and when I called back, I could hear it immediately in mom’s voice that something was wrong.

And then she passed the phone to dad.

I tried to hold it together, and I did, but as soon as we hung up, I just started bawling.

In the quiet darkness of my car, I just sobbed.

God, I thought we were done.

God, I’m so tired.

God, I don’t know if I can fight anymore.

God, what are you trying to teach me?!

Thinking that if I only knew what lesson was on His chalkboard that the test would cease, my dad would be home, and my burden would be no more.

But that’s not the case.  No, whatever God is trying to teach me, whatever He’s trying to teach us as a family has yet to sink in.

And here I sit two thousand miles away.  And there he lies, two thousand miles away, in a hospital bed, waiting for his heart to be stopped so they can start it again.

Even to be dead for a nano-second is still to be dead.

Is there symbolism here, God?  What are you working on, Holy Spirit?  For those who live must die to gain?  Is it too much to hope that this is but a turning point in my father’s life and not the end of it?

My prayers for my family to be saved haven’t stopped.  But I realize at this point that nothing of which I’ve asked from God comes to me as I think it will.  And no easy thing is it to accept Christ and welcome him into your heart, so by what means will it come?

Exhausted.  Drained.  Aching.  Hurting.  Desperate.

These are the adjectives that describe my family right now.

And these are the very same that described my life almost two years ago when I asked God into my life.

May this be what brings him closer to Christ and not the story we tell at his funeral.  May God be his wonderwall.

We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul, a hope that enters into the inner place behind the curtain, where Jesus has gone as a forerunner on our behalf... Hebrews 6:19-20

Jesus, you've been there, done that.  You walk before my father, you've walked before me.  You clear the way long before we even step foot onto the path.  Be with him tomorrow and let his heart be at peace.  And let me be at peace, knowing if He takes my father, God is still good.  If He doesn’t save my father, God is still good.  God is always good and His glory will always prevail.

Day 312

My dad is still in the hospital, but I feel as if the weight has been lifted from our family.

Sure, there’s still the recovery.  The changes that will have to be made at home.

But he’s alive.  Albeit weary and nauseous, but alive.

I called Mom a few minutes ago to check-in.  She had already come home from visiting Dad in the hospital and was now cooking dinner.  Funny, on the other side of the states, her daughter was cooking, too.

I imagined us, the women of the family, standing in our kitchens, pots sizzling, fears calmed, anxieties dissipated, energy dissipated, but hearts flooded with relief.

“Jamie, thank you so much for being there,” she said after catching me up on Dad’s current state.

I laughed lightly.  To me, so far away, I felt like I had done nothing.

“Mom, I only did the best I could from 2,000 miles away.”

“Oh, honey, you did everything…and more, so much more.”

I expected her to stop there, but she continued.

“That Tango call really helped.  Seeing you before he went into surgery, I think that helped a lot.  He was so calm and peaceful…so unlike the first time.  I mean, and how could seeing all those pictures of all those people praying not make him feel at peace?  He was just so different from the first time…”

I leaned my elbow on the counter and covered my eyes with my hand.  I felt the tears.  It was like those words had been delivered straight from God.  Out of my mother.  The unbeliever.

The inner evangelist in me wanted to cry out then, to tell her it wasn’t me, to tell her about God, to tell her about why everyone was praying and Who they were praying to…

…but instead I just said…

“I love you, mom.”

And for right now, for today, for this time, that was enough.

When I hung up, I let the feeling of hope bath me.  The feeling of faithfulness.  Of love.

Thank you all for praying for my family.  For praying for my father, my mother, and me.  Thank you for it all.  I can’t even tell you how much and how amazing this experience has been.  Tragedies, yes, they’re terrible and awful, but in the midst of them, if you focus the scope of humanity, you are blessed with gifts that you otherwise would never experience.

Faithfulness.  Friendship.  Opportunity.  Love.  True, grace-giving, unconditional love.

And that is something always worth acknowledging.

Thank you, thank you, a million times, thank you.

Day 311

I sat in the leather chair in a room all by myself.

The paper smock crinkled over my skin.  And all I wanted to do was be home.

I don’t know what happened, but I was having a hidden anxiety attack by the time the anesthesiologist came into the room.  It was the five minutes before the operation that I began to panic, and the panic grew.  Unexpected terror.  I had to suffocate myself from crying, from sobbing.  It was one of the most terrifying moments of my life.

I remember it—a feeling so clear it still reverberates off the walls of my memories like it wasn’t really two years ago.  The older I’ve gotten, the more terrifying surgeries have become.  And I think it’s because when we age, as we age, our mortality sets in, in a way that it never could in our youth.  Youth held us in immoritality and impenetrability.  But age, oh, age, every year the golden gates are closer than the last and we know the inevitable is, in fact, inevitable.

I remember pondering all the shortcomings of my life in that moment, cradled by the leather chair.  I sat alone, the only people to surround me, strangers.

And it’s this feeling that makes my heart cave at the thought of my father going under the knife.  While much of life events are faced with family and friends, in an operating room, it’s just you.

Exhausted, I woke up early this morning to take my roommate to work.  When I reached my parking lot, I pulled out my phone and Tango’d my family.

There he was.  He was smiling, but his eyes were tired.  I wanted to reach out, to touch him, to hug him.  But from two thousand miles away all I could do was keep myself from crying.

And my mom was curled up beside him.  She, to, was tiered in layers of exhaustion.  Hair tousled, drowsy eyes, and a mouth that did its best to hold a smile.  Weak.  We were all weakened by the coming schedule of the day.

We talked for a  few minutes of simpler things.  YouTube videos of cats.  My upcoming trip in October.  Family from out of town visiting.  My OYC progress.  And then there was a pause.

“You’re going to be okay, dad,” I said, meekly.

“I know,” he almost whispered, looking at something far away, something I couldn’t see.
“Dad, you wanna grab mom’s hand and I can pray for you, for us...I’ll say a quick prayer?” I promised, trying to convince them both.

And he grabbed mom’s hand.  And I prayed.  I tried to keep my words simple, casting only love in easy language—to stay away from “Biblish,” as my friend called it last night.  Together she and my small group prayed I could away from overwhelming, eloquent Bible jargon.  I’ve been speaking it for so long I’ve quite forgotten how overwhelming it can be for an unbeliever.  And so I prayed, simply, for God to give dad peace and strength.  I prayed for mom that she would have strength to sit through the hours met with silence throughout the duration of the operation.  For her and my brother, to be there for one another, to find strength in one another.

And when I finished, we continued to talk.  Not so much because we had anything to say—we had long exhausted the remainder of our energy and the last of our words.  We remained on the phone because we knew what it would mean when we hung up.  Dad would be on his way to the hospital.

I just stared at my dad through the screen.  So close and yet so far.  It became an even stronger battle not to cry.  I knew I couldn’t, because I was the last not-crying member of the family.  If I cried, they cried.

And so I tapped the END CALL button on my phone, crumpling into a cardiganed heap of numbness.

I gave myself five minutes to pull away, out of my body.  I sat, still.  And even though the entire world was moving, my ears were met with the silence of the morning, and eyes sought out the digital clock on my dash, warring with time.

I replayed the short phone call, recalling my father’s slight smile and my mother’s tired eyes.

I am so tired, God.

So tired I just want to cry.

I just don’t understand.  How do people disciple people, be in small groups, be part of a church plant, volunteer their time to church, have a family, wake up extra early to drive their children to school, cook dinner after work, be a wife to a husband, lead small groups, meet new people, invest in new people, invest in the unsaved, maintain current friendships, have time to pray, make time for quiet time, and then add on all the other unexpected emergencies?

I’m worn.  I’m weary.  I’m exhausted.  I’m confused.

Is this where You want me, God?

So exhausted that I can’t do anything but lay in Your arms?

I hear You saying good and faithful servant.  I hear You say keep pushing.  But I don’t know if I can push anymore, God.

I’m just so tired.