"Children Everywhere!"

Over the past months several families close to us, some close by friendship and others close by blood and friendship, have lost a child, either by disease or tragic events. These recent losses have, of course, triggered memories of children lost in recent years.

In my own journey of loss, today, August 28, is a date that rings true in that it was the birthday of my late wife, Dana. So it seems fitting to share a story from the journey today that might bring encouragement and hope to those who’ve experienced one of the worst heartache’s this world can dish out, the loss of a child.

First, some necessary, and brief, backstory. This blog, A Journey Observed, is the chronicle of my journey of loss and recovery: the loss of Dana that left me feeling that I don’t need to love again, and the recovery that led to actually loving again. Loving again times three, in fact; not only as husband to Jessica but as father to Reade and Rachel…proving that God is not only miraculously redemptive, He’s also funny.

Dana and I didn’t begin thinking family until a few years into marriage. But, a few months after deciding to let nature take its course, instead of getting pregnant, we got breast cancer, which tends to mess up child bearing plans. And just to seal the deal, on our 5-year “all clear” anniversary from breast cancer, and at a time we could still consider a narrow window into parenthood, we learned that Dana would need a hysterectomy.

We grieved the loss of parenthood but eventually embraced our new position in life and, with a few longings here and there, were relatively fine with being the non-parents in our circles. Dana always had a soft spot for the babies and children in those circles, a spot that took on new significance once child rearing was completely out of our picture. She coined the phrase “baby holdies” as in “I need some baby holdies,” capturing the restorative, divine vibe that comes while holding a baby. When knitting became her forte, booties were a “must knit” for any new babies that came along. She certainly carried the nurture gene and I would get a little sad when I thought of her not getting to maximize that gene. To this day one of my favorite pictures of Dana is her displaying two freshly knitted sets of booties for friends pregnant with twins.

Within a few days of Dana’s passing, even before her funeral, I received an email from our good friend Karen Norval. I had known Karen for many years through youth ministry circles and she was serving on InWord’s board of directors at this time. She and Dana were good friends but had not spent a lot of time together. In her email, Karen shared that she had a dream about Dana the previous night. In her dream she saw Dana in heaven and then she wrote, “Barry, there were children everywhere.” Karen is a soulful, thoughtful, discerning person. I take her dreams seriously.

For many years I was comforted by that scene…by Dana getting to experience the joys and fulfillment of nurturing children in ways immeasurably beyond what she could imagine. Of course, it would only be the joys and fulfillment part of nurturing, not the frustrating parts of nurturing…this is heaven, after all.

But I had a specific epiphany (“spepiphany”?) while sitting in church a couple months ago that has melted my heart: I can now picture some faces in that scene of “children everywhere.” I don’t want to presume to know what God has going on for our little ones who’ve gone before us. But when I feel the pain of our friends and family who’ve lost their precious ones, I am comforted by the redemptive circle that is being completed in heaven. I share this in the hopes that it may comfort them, if maybe for just a moment.

In the months we spent in hospice mode, in the shadow of heaven’s gate, we had two very clear moments that reminded us of how thin the veil is between here and There…moments of assurance that all you believe about heaven is true, moments of assurance telling you that you can trust all your instincts and beliefs about hope, that God is indeed communicating with you through unusual means, including dreams.

So it seems that we can take heart in a particular reunion in heaven: children whose lives have been robbed of being raised by their nurturing, loving parents connecting with someone whose life was robbed of getting to nurture and love her own children. It’s God-parenting at the highest level. Literally.

Whether we feel like it or not, we are part of something that’s bigger than what we see.

I leave you with a picture from one of Dana’s scrapbooks, just sent to me by Dana’s mother, my mother-in-law for life, Mama Sue…a little something that might help us picture that particular reunion in heaven. This is Dana showing toddler Buzzin Cara (“beloved cousin”) how to play the harp. Cara, now married to Aaron, is a beautiful woman with two energetic boys of her own.

My 1 Corinthians 13 Mom

 

Writer’s Note: Many years ago I took a crack at writing up a family history for my grandparents’ (my mom’s folks) 50^th wedding anniversary. I was inspired and it came together surprisingly well. In fact, over the years my mom has asked me to create similar writings for various family occasions and milestones. So, I thought I’d take it upon myself to write something, without her asking, for a special birthday milestone we just celebrated with her. (I will let her share the milestone.) This is my humble attempt at a gift with the written word.

 

I have been privileged to be reared by a 1 Corinthians 13 mom. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard the phrase “1 Corinthians 13 mom.” This makes sense because my mom may be the first one ever. We all know 1 Corinthians 13 as the “love” chapter of the Bible, a book that is an anthology of love. Every day Mom displays some combination of that chapter’s familiar trio of goodness: faith, hope and love. This being the year of a milestone birthday, which we celebrated last month, it seems fitting to share.

 

We’re told in 1 Corinthians 13 that the greatest of the trio of goodness is love. So, saving the best for last, let me start with hope.

I am grateful that I grew up under the influence of Mom’s hope, which manifests as all-out genuine enthusiasm for everyone around her. When I was growing up, the word on my mom was, if you’re at a gathering and can’t find her, simply listen because soon you will be able to hone in on her laugh.  It wouldn’t be a loud obnoxious laugh but an infectious, gracious laugh that ties together everyone in the room, the yard, the fellowship hall, whatever the space might be. Scripture doesn’t list a named spiritual gift of enthusiasm, but it should. Mom has it. It’s driven by her hope. As soon as you meet my mom, she is your number one fan. It doesn’t matter what you do or what stage of life you are in: you have a new fan to encourage you, laugh with you, and connect you to others who do what you do and are in a similar stage of life. It’s enthusiasm driven by the hope Mom sees in each person she’s around…not simply seeing “the good side” but hoping for the best out of anyone in her orb.

This is the kind of hope you have when it is driven by faith.

I think the biggest and best gift regarding faith that Mom gave to me she actually didn’t know she was giving it. And I didn’t know I was receiving it. In the house where Mom and Dad now live, where I grew up from seventh grade on, all of the bedroom doors are clustered around the end of a hallway. So, when growing up, we all shared in each other’s pre-bed routine, which for me, usually involved a trip to the kitchen for a bowl of cereal. On my trek to the kitchen I would always see Mom and Dad in their bedroom kneeling in their respective prayer spots, Dad at the chair, mom at the side of the bed. I would fix my cereal, (which at the time involved mixing cereals), find something to read, and enjoy a nice big bowl of cereal, the size of bowl you can enjoy when you don’t yet have to worry about calories. This of course included additional pours of cereal and milk until the last of each came out just right. After 20-ish minutes I’d head back to my room, passing Mom and Dad’s door. Still praying. I’d go to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Still praying. Eventually I’d hear them stir about, hear a chuckle or two from both of them as they laughed about something in the day, and then I’d hear the click of their light. And a few more chuckles.

It wasn’t until later in my adult life that I realized the impact of seeing my folks pray long and often (daily, actually). Their actions planted a seed in me about the reality of God; that a relationship with God was personal enough and real enough to affect daily behavior. I saw that God wasn’t a compartment in their lives. He was their lives. His promises and precepts were worth trusting. Heaven was real. God was real. I had no idea, as I brushed the cereal out of my teeth while they prayed, how much I would need that rock-solid reality later in life.

This then brings us to the greatest of the three traits of my 1 Corinthians 13 mom: love.

 

I remember, around late grade school, forming the thought that people enjoyed being around my parents. They lingered around the dinner table long after dinner was done. Our family seemed to be a drawing card.

As a child growing up with a 1 Corinthians 13 mom, (really, 1 Corinthians 13 parents, but it’s my mom’s birthday we’re celebrating at the moment) I always knew I was loved. Looking back I see the security that gave me. I always felt safe. As a new parent myself, I see the sacrifice it took. The essence of love is selflessness. What stands out about Mom, though, is how easy she makes selfless love look.

 

I am a grateful son. At that point, here are some things Mom has taught me…things I’m thinking of at this moment. The list gets longer the more that I think; I better start writing and hit “post” soon.

 

1. The best things happen around the dinner table (or breakfast table, or lunch table, or birthday table, or Christmas table, or Buckeyes-on-TV table).

2. Laugh. Laugh until you cry, or pee your pants, whichever comes first.

3. Go to funeral visitations, even though you don’t want to. You’ll never really want to.

4. Send thank you notes; gratitude is the force behind all things good.

5. Pray.

6. Enjoy your family; value time over money.

7. Forgive. Your ability to forgive protects your family more than anything else you could do.

8. Start with the benefit of the doubt; be quick to let someone off the hook.

9. Sing. If you can read music, sing your part. If you can’t read music, learn to. Then sing your part. The Doxology and Happy Birthday are both better with harmony.

10.  Contentment is great gain (more stuff means more problems).

11. Never speak harshly to your kids, whether to them, or about someone else; in fact, the less you speak harshly in total, the less you have to worry about that.

12. Respect teachers (especially the math teacher you’ll have all four years).

13. Keep falling in love with your spouse; not only is it the best gift for you and your spouse, it’s the best gift for your kids.

14. Oneness with your spouse—in decisions, in finances, in disciplining children, in faith, in everything—is the hub that supports all other spokes of life.

15. Respect authority (a paddling at school will mean a paddling at home).

16. Don’t let your son get away with saying “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

17. Make compliance your first thought, it’s the path of peace.

18. Read the classics (it took 30 years for that one to take, but it took in a big way).

19. Understand music’s Circle of Fifths (45 years and it’s still taking).

20. Affirm people every chance you get; make that your default setting.

21. Respect your elders, both spiritual and chronological.

22. Don’t be selfish, especially with your time and resources.

23. Look for more than the good side of people; find the best side.

24. Know and trust the Word of God; in fact, stay fascinated by it.

25. Life is not fair; in fact, life is one, giant freshman semester: one adjustment after another.

26. Eat the things you don’t like but are, of course, good for you, especially Brussels sprouts.

27. Be able to quote things your dad said, your mom said, your grandparents said.

28. Even though it will eventually hurt, don’t be afraid to get pets for your kids (cats, ponies, ducks, gerbils, wonderful dogs).

29. Don’t be critical.

30. Offer your giftedness to your church.

31. Tithe, and start the habit early. Ten percent of a $1 allowance is a dime. Drop it in the plate. The dollar amount of that 10 percent amount will grow, and it won’t get harder as the amount gets bigger.

32. Record, collect, and act on those spiritual reference points, those times when God pokes His finger through the veil and you’re more assured of His existence than your own.

33. Cherish your friendships.

34. Be a good worker.

35. Take sermon notes. If you know shorthand, take sermon dictation. Decades later you’ll be glad you did.

36. Aspire to the organization mantra of “A place for everything and everything in its place” and give yourself one messy room so that other rooms can be organized by that mantra.

37. Love and trust Jesus. He never fails.

 

 

Mom, you have taught me how to be a good parent, a skill I never thought I’d employ. And as I now get to employ that skill, I get a front-row seat to watching you be a 1 Corinthians 13 grandparent. And of course, my hope, is that someday my kids will be able to write about their 1 Corinthians 13 dad.

Grace in the Key Changes of Life

Music is a gifted discovery.

 

Even before Jessica brought the worlds of opera and classical music into my living room (and dining room and basement, not to mention other rooms in my heart and life), I have long been enamored at how composers and musicians can combine the mathematics of a musical score with the mechanics of a musical instrument and create a beautiful sound that makes people cry.

Or more accurately, create sequences of sounds that make people cry. It’s the contrast we notice as the music moves from one chord to another, from the minor to the major, from staccato to legato, from suspenseful to resolute. The change is what creates the beauty that magically draws out the tears.

Music is what’s used in movies to, quite literally, set the tone. It’s what let’s us know whether we should be fearful or happy; it’s what gives us a heads up to a sad ending.

In nearly all episodes of ABC’s Modern Family (I am catching the reruns at the dinner hour while Jessica and babies are off on an extended singing gig), every branch of the family hits meltdown mode at some point. Conflicts and dynamics reach what appears to be an unrecoverable peak. And then, with just two minutes left in the episode, the emotive music trickles in and the voice of the family member who’s been narrating the episode (in its mockumentary format) comes on in resolved tones saying something like “yeh, we’re a crazy family, but we’re our crazy family.” The narrator’s words are always well-written and inspiring, but it’s the music that makes it believable, that makes you feel that all the forgiveness, understanding, and grace-giving needed was actually bestowed and accepted in those two minutes. You wouldn’t believe this without the music.

And it got me to thinking.

We all need those moments when, after all elements of our lives have reached their full fevered pitch, our personal musicscape changes keys and our Narrator ties it all together for us, leaving us with at least the very slightest inspiration that gets us to say, even ever so weakly: I can do this.

Thankfully, this happens in real life, not just on television. I know this to be true.

The musicscape of our lives, of course, isn’t an audible soundtrack (although I know we’d all have a blast creating one). In the situations and pain that we face, the shift from a minor to a major key comes in the form of moments of grace. Or, if you will, grace notes. It’s those moments when the finger of God pushes through the veil like a finger pushing through shrink wrap, and we are touched. A few years ago, in a conversation with mother-in-law-for-life Mama Sue, we came to call these poke-throughs “God stamps,” divinely coincidental events that left us no doubt that God’s stamp was all over this journey, that He was with us just as sure as the tears on our cheeks. For those who’ve been journeying along with me you know these “stamps” as The Deer Story, The Rainbow Story, and, in a direct connection to music, The Church Bells story. (So maybe the musicscape of our lives can be literal music after all.)

And just like the change in the music that sparks emotion, it’s the contrast of the darkness of a situation with the light of God’s poke-through that sparks a moment of resolve, or strength, or encouragement.

 

In recent days many people around me have been experiencing great loss. In the past few weeks, our friends Dan and Brittany lost their dear one-year-old Avery after a year of overcoming one obstacle over another. We lost Jessica’s dear uncle Ken to a long battle with cancer. Our friend Amy lost her much-to-young uncle to short battle with cancer. My neighbor across the street lost his mom. A neighbor behind us passed away. My cousins Mike and Susan are well over halfway to the one-year mark of losing their precious 3-year old Will. While I don’t know them personally, I’ve been intimately touched by the loss of Joey Feek, wife of Rory Feek and part of the Christian/Country duo of Joey + Rory. And those are the tough situations that come to mind without even thinking. There are many more.

 

I write this today, as a prayer, for my many friends and family members who are in the epicenter of loss. I wish, hope, and pray that you have moments when you modulate from the minor to the major chord, that you experience a poke-through from God that gives you a touch of grace, a moment that gives you enough strength to say, even ever so slightly, “I can do this.”

 

For those, like me, who’ve lost a spouse, as you move farther, and further, from the first moment of loss, you find that there are three dates on the calendar that tend to have their own pulse: your spouse’s birthday, your spouse’s date of death, and your wedding anniversary. I’m writing today in commemoration of our wedding anniversary. I’m using the occasion of this date to somehow try to pay forward the comfort I received from God. His grace is real. And as the apostle Paul said, it is sufficient. When I think, though, how God’s grace ministered to me, the word “sufficient” seems a gross understatement. But from the sense that God’s grace is all we need, which is what’s being said here, the measure is exactly right.

It’s fitting, too, that today, March 20, marks the day that nature makes its own key change, from the minor key of winter, to the major key of spring. It’s easy to imagine in your mind’s ear a harp glissando as you breathe in the spring and exhale the winter.

Of course, just like a TV comedy series, there will be a new episode of mayhem right around the corner. But at least we know we can listen for the music. And our Narrator’s voice can be heard any time we listen. Grace notes are written into the music scores of our lives. I’ve learned that actual grace notes in a musical score can be considered optional. The conductor or musician decides on whether they’re played. For me, when applied to the music scores of our lives, they are required playing. When it comes to grace, I do not want to miss a note.

A Journey Toward Recovering Well

Recover well.

 

Those words, so far, have been the most distinct, near-audible words I’ve ever heard directly from God.

 

Those words came to me in the chaotic fog of grief when I was looking to hear something specific from God.

 

Those words, at first, seemed insultingly simple.

 

Those words, though, as I actually listened to them, began to drip with hope.

 

Those words, however, brought caution before they brought hope. The grief journey offers many opportunities to recover less than well.

 

Those words gave me several warnings: don’t leave any life-marking scars. Don’t make friends with bitterness. Don’t get comfortable with anger. Don’t mistake escape mechanisms for healthy recovery.

 

But it was the hope in these words that provided the knot in the rope I was holding on to. The simplicity of these words is what ministered to me. There is something to recover for.

 

As I type, I am watching a 5-month-old part of that “something” squirm on the couch as she works to roll over for the first time. I am listening for the wake-up sounds of an 18-month-old part of that “something” as he finishes up a long nap. We travelled yesterday to Los Angeles where we are spending Christmas with Jessica’s family, Jessica being the original part of that “something” to recover for.

 

That’s three, wonderful, glorious parts of the something to recover for. And I think there are more parts to come (no, this is not a birth announcement; in fact, we are definitely stopping at two little “somethings”).

 

As I look back on these past six years, I see that I have been the blessed recipient of two of the biggest themes all through Scripture: restoration and redemption. Those are, I think, God’s favorite tools He uses to love us through the fallen nature of the world. Those words of “recover well” kept me in a position for God to use His tools.

 

I don’t, though, want to give the impression that God is the big genie in the sky, or more appropriately for the season, the big Santa Claus, who grants our every wish. I had no idea how God was going to redeem my pain, and I know that I am still on the journey of restoration and redemption.

 

One of my early observations in my recovery journey was watching God restore my ability to love. In my deepest trough of grief, I had concluded that I was content to tough out the next 30 years of life (the amount of time I likely had left, going by actuarial tables). I was content with simply observing others enjoy moments and life in areas like love, Christmas, worship. There was no need for me to enter in. I had had great love. I had experienced my fair share of special Christmases. I had known great worship.

 

Those words of “recover well” acted as a stopper in a door to keep it from latching shut. Through a series of events I watched God use the small opening to do a miraculous work on my ability and interest to love and engage in events around me. I concluded that one of the redemptive threads through the journey was a restoration of my ability to love; but it wasn’t a 1:1 restoration. It was more like a 2:1 restoration in that I eventually realized that I had a greater capacity to love than before losing Dana. Loss will do that to you. So will God. But I saw the manifestation of this deeper capacity to love in my roles as a son, brother, uncle, friend, believer, cousin, neighbor. I had no idea that it would include husband, and in one of the wildest twists of all, dad.

 

I think, though, that one of the biggest, if not the biggest, purposes for being directed to “recover well,” was to be a voice for the goodness and mercy of God. I experienced first-hand what it meant that God is close to the broken-hearted. I experienced first-hand the promise of the Comforter that Jesus spoke of in John 14. I have been, and continue to be, the beneficiary of God’s merciful reminders of His presence through rainbows, deer, elk and so much more.

 

With Dana’s death date coming as it did on December 23, it affords the opportunity to look back on the year each time that date rolls around. This past year has brought loss and hardship to close family and friends. I do not presume that what comforted me will comfort my cousins and friends. We all carry heavy burdens. I have no idea how God will manifest Himself in your burden. I do know, that He will show Himself. His presence will be made known. While God impressed on my heart the words “recover well,” He may impress something entirely different on your heart.

 

I can confidently say, though, He will impress.

 

Thank you for journeying with me, for rejoicing, for crying, for watching mourning turn to singing. Soprano singing, in fact.

 

Barry

 

P.S. This post is a little bit rambly and not as profound on screen as it is in my mind. I will attribute this to sleep deprivation, a small side effect of the circle of redemption and restoration :-) .

Make that "Tripling Down" on Love

In baseball they say, “Let’s play two.” A movie theatre calls it a “double feature.” In the Shafer home we say, “Reade is going to be a brother.”

And because the Shafer home has been busy rearing aforementioned Reade, it’s been remiss in announcing this wonderful news.

 

In fact, the due date is August 3, as in this August 3, as in less than two months, as in Reade and his sister (yes, it’s a girl!) will be 14 months apart.

 

Jessica and I have been thinking all along that if we’re going to have one child, we should go for two. We both have siblings and we are pro sibling. Jessica has seven half siblings, I have one full sibling (Beck!). While Jessica enjoyed “only child” status until 11 years of age, I am only 17 months older than Beck. My goal is to train Reade to be a better big brother than I was; this is actually setting the bar pretty low. I was not a good big brother.

 

In my last post I wrote about how it’s only through God’s mercy that I have been able to love at all. I wrote of how I can now love with abandon, without fear of losing love…that I have been able to grow new roots for love, not only for Jessica, but also for Reade. I called it “doubling down” on love. Now make that “tripling.” God continues to show the depth of His tender mercies.

 

While this news did not come as a complete surprise to us, it did come a little sooner than we expected. This way, though, it feels both our babies are both from the same batch, and it seems that has its advantages, namely that we have not moved into a different era of baby gear technology.

 

We’re excited in every sense of that word—eager and anxious. The “crazy” in our lives will be ramped up a few notches, but so will be the awe and wonder.

 
A few days before Jessica and I met, four years ago this month in June 2011, we had exchanged emails and text messages in setting up a plan to meet and possibly grab supper. After finalizing a pick-up time and place, Jessica’s email ended with the phrase “…and we’ll be off on our adventurous way.”

We had no idea…

 

 

Much love and gratitude,

Barry

Doubling Down On Love

I am doubling down on love.

 

That might sound like a safe bet. But when life experiences teach you that where there is love there can be hurt, you may not be willing to take the risk.

 

Recently as I looked into the smiling eyes of my son Reade, who I’m pretty sure is the cutest baby in the history of all humankind, I reflected on the new roots of love for him that have grown out of my heart, roots that have grown right next to the love I have for Jessica, a love I never thought I’d see. And having lost great love five years ago today (12/23), I didn’t think I’d ever want to see love again.

 

Too risky.

 

But, now, I am doubling down.

 

I have a son and a wife whom I am loving with abandon, without fear of losing that love. There is only one way that’s possible.

 

God.

 

It’s not simply belief in God, but His merciful reminders that He is near. Reminders that we’ve come to call God stamps.

 

In a recent post I referenced the rainbow story that launched the whole “God stamp” phenomena and journey. I tried to link that reference to the post that first described the rainbow story. I then realized that I had never actually written about the rainbow, but had always linked to a local newspaper article about the rainbow, an article that was no longer available.

 

So, in the vein of encouragement through the “word of testimony” I’d like to share a story: a story that kept me upright in the anxious days of the cancer fight, that kept me out of the fetal position in the heavy days of grief, a story that makes it possible for me to double down on love. It’s not a story about me, it’s a story about God and it seems to be the appropriate story to share at the five-year mark.

 

And it goes like this.

 

The month that Dana was diagnosed with her recurrence of breast cancer (August, 2006), our longstanding Tuesday night Bible study group, the Group Formerly Known as Zelos (TGFKAZ), with Zelos being our beloved college-age ministry, was in the middle of a “march through the Old Testament” Bible study. On the Tuesday night before our first chemo appointment in the recurrence battle, we happened to be studying Noah. We ended the study time focusing on the rainbow. I pointed out that I’ve always loved how God described the rainbow reminder in Genesis 9:16,

 

Whenever the rainbow appears in the clouds, I will see it and remember the everlasting covenant…

 

Whenever we see a rainbow we can take assurance in the fact that God sees that same rainbow. It’s like we’re having a moment with God with the rainbow serving as a wonderful bridge between the physical world and the eternal.

 

I asked the group to share their rainbow stories, suspecting that everyone would have at least one, which they did.

 

At the close of the evening our dear friend Sue, noting that the next day was chemo day, said, “Tomorrow I’m going to look for a rainbow.” That sounded like a good idea.

 

However, the next day, chemo day, was a cloudless, blue-sky, “severe clear” day. No chance for a rainbow. I did still take a peek out the window of the doctor’s office, because, well, you never know.

 

The next day, however, was a rainy, stormy day. That afternoon my cousin Carl had stopped by the house. As we were talking at the dining room table, I noticed out of the dining room window that the sun was peaking through the clouds while it was still raining. Perfect rainbow conditions. I had never been a rainbow chaser or a sign seeker, but I said to Carl, in mid-sentence, “Hold that thought,” and stepped onto the front porch and looked to the sky where I saw the biggest, boldest rainbow I had ever seen. I called Dana out. I called Carl out. We stood in awe, and then stood in tears. Soon our phone was ringing off the hook…Bible study folks calling to tell us they were looking at the biggest, boldest rainbow they’d ever seen.

 

While Dana fielded the phone calls Carl and I kept staring at the rainbow, attempting to interpret its ordained timing. I remember saying to Carl:

 

“I am definitely taking this as a sign. But, you can take it a couple ways. Either, A.) Everything is going to be okay; or B.) God is with us no matter what.” I was hoping for “A.”

 

At that moment, good friend Chuck said to Dana on the phone, “Where I am it’s a double rainbow.”

 

We looked a little closer, and sure enough, a double rainbow. This led Carl to say, “So, it’s both! A and B!”

 

That sounded good to me.

 

In the ensuing months, rainbow reminders came fast and furious. And they always came at divinely appointed times: when we’d just received bad news, on days when both of us were down, or times when our fears were gaining momentum. That’s what made them such powerful rainbow reminders; they came in almost immediate response to hard turns in the journey. I even started keeping a journal of rainbow sightings. Entries were anything from phone calls from friends and family as they were seeing a rainbow (my mom driving home from our house with a rainbow in her rear-view mirror the whole way home; Dana’s uncle Jon calling to say he was looking at four rainbows at the moment) to divinely-timed coincidences such as being handed a notebook in the oncology office with a set of colored pencils in ROY G BIV order, to staring at the computer screen, momentarily paralyzed at all we were processing, only to notice the rainbow-esque nature of the Google logo. I was able to start tapping on the keyboard. All of this was uncanny enough for the city newspaper to pick up on the phenomenon and write up a story.

 

A couple weeks after that first rainbow sighting, after having already collected enough reminders to think that something special was going on, we experienced something that gave the rainbow the official stamp of “God Stamp” status. Our neighbor, Star, from a couple doors down was at our front door on a Sunday afternoon. She was standing there with some pictures in her hand, saying: “Did you guys see that rainbow the other day? I took some pictures of it and I thought you might like to see them since they include your house. ” I responded by crying. I shared the significance of that rainbow: the recurrence, the Tuesday night Bible study, the looking for the rainbow, to which Star replied: “Wow. That explains something. I have never felt more compelled to do something when I thought about giving you these pictures. I just felt that I HAD to bring these to you. I’ve never felt that way before.”

 

Let the God Stamp journey begin.

 

As a side note, it was during the final hospice months that a series of divinely-timed, weirdly-coincidental events occurred that caused Dana’s mom, whom I affectionately call “Mama Sue,” to say, “It is so evident that God’s stamp is all over this.” This gave us our personally coined phrase of “God stamps.” They started with the rainbow.

 

That rainbow, in September 2006, was eight years ago. Dana passed away three years and three months after that rainbow. And now, here we are, five years since Dana passed. With five years of perspective, I can see that Carl was right with regard to the double rainbow: it was, and is, both A and B, but not in the way you might think.

 

During the cancer fight I obviously had my own thoughts on how to define “everything is going to be okay.” In total candor, my definition did not involve heaven. My definition involved complete physical healing. Heaven was not yet needed. Obviously, as we all now know, complete physical healing did not happen.

 

From the perspective of today, enjoying a great deep love as a husband and a great deep love as a father, I might be tempted to say, “So that’s what God meant by ‘everything would be okay.’” But I don’t think that’s what God meant. Everything being okay had nothing to do with how the rest of my life would turn out. It has everything to do with the end of my life, or, more specifically, heaven.

 

Throughout the Bible you can pick up on a theme of “hang in there, there is great payoff in the end.”  Some verses say it outright, like Galatians 6: 8-9, …whoever sows to please the Spirit, from the Spirit will reap eternal life. ⁹ Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. Jesus alluded to this theme in John 16 with these words: In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.

 

You also see this theme in the big picture of the book of Revelation, as paraphrased by our good friend Chuck, “It’s going to suck, but it'll be okay.” Chuck, who's leading our Revelation study, speaks with authority in that he and his wife Sue lost their beautiful 10-year old daughter Natalie to an unfair brain disease, just over a year after Dana passed.

 

What I’ve come to learn, and slowly embrace, is that God’s definition that “everything is going to be okay” is all about heaven. Here’s why: heaven is that good.

 

This was reinforced through my “conversation” with Dana about six months after her passing (you can see it here). To this day that experience has been one of the most profound moments in the journey. I’d love for you to check out that post, but here’s the gist: As I imagined Dana comforting me from her perch in heaven, I was assured (either by her words, or God’s words, or something supernatural, including the uncanny confirmation along the trail I was hiking) that the Place where all this is headed is so mind-blowing that it is worth all the pain and hurt and suffering that we have to endure to get There. That’s how everything can be okay. God has such a confidence that heaven is so freaky good that He can say to us, when we are facing our most horrific fears, that everything is going to be okay.

 

But the “okay” comes in the end, not, necessarily in the way we want it in the now.

 

Admittedly, this is not a fun concept to grasp. It’s the ultimate delayed gratification—literally. You can’t get more delayed than “the end.” This doesn’t seem helpful in our moments of fear. And in true confession, I never found much comfort in “eternal reward” and “ultimate healing” while navigating the tortuous days of chemo and scans. The promise of heaven could not penetrate the prospect of loss.

 

What I’ve since had to press through is that to embrace this definition that “everything will be okay” in the end, we have to endure the now. Curiously, this is one of the most prominent concepts in the New Testament. It’s like God knew what we would be facing. Hmmmm….

 

Which brings us to Part B of the double rainbow: God is with us no matter what. This is real. And it matters.

 

He’s told us this all through Scripture. It’s the biggest guarantee in Scripture. It’s even a favorite Christmas title of Jesus: Immanuel, God with us.

 

God was merciful with me in His relentless reminders of His presence. He didn’t have to do that. Rainbows. Deer. And then a heart cloud. This is why I can double down on love, to not only put myself over a barrel of possible hurt in loving a wife, but now to add a second barrel of possible hurt in loving a child (said child is on my lap as I type…hmmm…can drool short-circuit a keyboard?) because I know that God is with us, all of us, no matter what.

 

By nature I have tended to protect myself from hurt—we all do this to a certain extent, some of us more than others. As Jessica and I moved through the early days of relationship at warp speed, I never felt one pause of “But what if…” Any thoughts along these lines were fleeting and met with, “But God is with us no matter what.”

 

I feel that I am a walking testimony of 1 John 4:18, “There is no fear in love.” I wonder if one of the biggest miracles in this journey is simply the fact that I have been able to love again. This, I believe, is the evidence of God’s presence.

 

I would hope that this story might be an encouragement to your story, that you might be less inclined to take the safe, protective path and more inclined to take the path that counts on God’s presence no matter what.

 

I even feel that God has doubled down on love Himself. First, He has lovingly prepared this mind-blowing, heart-dancing Place for us. Secondly, He has promised to be with us until we get There. Someday I may explore why we throw tantrums when He doesn’t fix things the way we want before we get There. I’m pretty sure that when we see ourselves from the perch of heaven we will be embarrassed.

 

To that end, let’s love without fear, dance without embarrassment, sing without shame, create without limits, laugh till our fillings show, cry till we’re ugly.

 

I invite you to, with me, double down on love. Why? Because everything is going to be okay. And, God is with us no matter what.

 

Thank you.

 

Barry

 

P.S. I leave you with three pictures. The first two, pictures that Star brought to our front door of that first rainbow. The second? Giving us a stamp upon a stamp, the night that Jessica and I invited Chuck and Sue to our house to ask them about being God parents to Reade, this picture happened. The rainbow is nearly in the exact same spot. You can’t make this stuff up.

Two Turns in the Journey

For the life of me I can’t find the connection between a first-born child and open-heart surgery.

But I experienced both within 10 days just a couple months ago.

Which brings me to a bit of an announcement. On June 8, 2014 Jessica and I welcomed Reade Edwin into the world—five weeks early, beating us to the punch on picking a pediatrician and a name.

We learned of both baby and leaky heart valve last fall. The valve news came in September by way of a routine screening that I had asked for. The baby news came in November by way of a stick. Actually two sticks. We couldn’t believe our eyes.

Jessica and I had casually talked about family and had intended to have a “serious” conversation on the subject. Well, we never had that conversation, and now we don’t have to. At our first official OB/GYN visit last December a due date of July 15 was set.

With regard to the leaky valve, I had asked, as part of my 50,000 mile check up, and on advice from bro-in-law Rick, for a baseline stress echocardiogram (“echo”). I’ve had no symptoms and truly was expecting to establish nothing but a heart function baseline. I now have a new question I will never forget, posed to me by the cardiologist who was called into the room by the tech in mid screening: “You know you have this leaky valve, right?” Uhh, no. I do now. The doctor indicated that the leak would simply be something to be monitored, assuring me that only 10 percent of leaky valves need treatment. And of course, at my first official cardiologist appointment a few weeks later we learned that I was in the 10 percent. It was measuring as a “severe” leak and treatment was a matter of “when,” not “if,” sooner rather than later (with “treatment” being open-heart surgery). Our knee-jerk thinking was to wait until after our delivery date in that the leak wasn’t an emergency. But a couple second opinions and an opening at the clinic at the University of Michigan (where my cardiologist wanted to send me; and btw, if you are in need of cardiology in the Middletown area, I would highly recommend Gary Brown, MD, and his great team) pointed to a date before Reade’s due date. We scheduled the surgery for May 30, a date that would accommodate a 30-day recovery with a two-week buffer before the July 15 due date.

So I spent about six weeks contemplating my life as a younger-than-usual heart patient and an older-than-usual new dad. When people joked with me about being an older dad they would unknowingly assure me with something like, “Well, at least you’re healthy.” To which I would have to say, “Well, let me share something with you.”

Thankfully, after successful valve repair surgery, and thanks to the world class skills of surgeon Stephen Bolling and his world class team, led by his amazing nurse Marguerite, I am healthy.

And not a moment too soon.

Within minutes of being discharged from the University of Michigan Medical Center, while working on my prescriptions list in our hospital hotel room, Jessica began experiencing some alarming pre-labor symptoms. Her OB/GYN in Ohio said, “Well, I know the University of Michigan has a great labor and delivery department. I’ve seen it. Go ahead and have them check you out.”

My mom and dad, the blessed Bonnie and Miles, phoned my sister and her husband, the blessed Beck and Rick, who had just left the facility to head home. They made a U-turn. We called our newest best friend, my nurse Marguerite, who had championed me through my entire surgery process. Rick came back to our room to pick up Jessica in a wheelchair. Marguerite met them in the hotel lobby to wheel Jessica to labor and delivery.

 

I laid on my bed in the hotel room like a slug. It was my only way to help. (Bonus points to you if you get that reference.)

 

After the labor/delivery folks monitored Jessica for several hours, we learned that she was having contractions, was dilated one centimeter and had a possible placental abruption. So, they admitted her.

My thought, as I lay in the hotel room like a slug: This can’t be happening.

But it was.

It was a harrowing thought to realize that if our baby was born at that time that I would not be able to do one thing to help or support. If he would happen to be over 10 pounds (though unlikely), I wouldn’t even be able to lift him for 30 days.

Jessica, after having been admitted on Monday (June 2) was discharged on Wednesday, giving us two days of great care in yet another of the University of Michigan’s great health centers. She made best friends out of all her docs which included Dr. Breed (I know! Great OB/GYN name) who looked like a 12-year old kid (but a very gifted OB), and Dr. Berman who came to U of M on a gymnastics scholarship, attended medical school there and stayed and who constantly asked Jessica “Who ARE you?” as she learned more about Jessica’s career and accomplishments. We were asking the same question of her as we learned of her career and accomplishments. The two-day stay also included a visit from Marguerite and Dr. Bolling, my healthcare team.

We left the University of Michigan on Thursday, and Reade, probably in a move to hold out until we crossed the Ohio line, was born on Sunday.

With me still unable to drive, we had our dear friends and neighbors, David and Angie Miller, drive us to the hospital after Jessica’s contractions began. David is a urologist and Angie is a nurse. We were in good hands. We left for the hospital around 9:30 p.m.  Reade entered this world at 11:46 p.m. Yep, that quick. And he weighed five pounds, six ounces, thoughtfully coming in a good four pounds under my lift limit.

Arriving five weeks early, Reade was soon taken to the neo-natal intensive care unit (NICU) where, because of his prematurity, he could be monitored for any complications. Thankfully, these were few, probably because of the great care (and two steroid shots to Jessica to help Reade’s lungs) at the University of Michigan.

While the NICU stay did mean that we were now spending extra days at the hospital, it also meant getting exposed to some of the kindest, wisest, gentlest, best-all-around-est people on the planet: NICU nurses.

But you know, as I ponder the connection between these two watershed life events, open-heart surgery and a newborn, here’s what I got so far (admittedly, it’s pretty simple): it’s the strengthening of our receiving and giving muscles by deepening our connections with people. The NICU nurses were actually the lead band in a parade of the kindest, wisest, gentlest, best-all-around-est people on the planet. Jessica and I had a curbside seat. We saw kindness and wisdom and gentleness we would not have otherwise seen, and we saw it from a position of flat on our backs. All of us sometimes find ourselves in that position, times when we can do nothing but lay there like a slug. We have to depend. To rely upon. To, and this is the kicker, lose control. This causes us to engage emotional and spiritual muscles that we seldom use. I’m convinced that the more we exercise our receiving muscles, the more we fire up our giving muscles. Then as we become more upright, we can’t wait to give. And it’s a deeper, better give.

Throughout this stretch I have said several times to myself, sometimes out loud: “I can’t believe how giving people are.” We’ve had: Neighbors mowing our lawn, friends organizing meals, guy friends throwing me a “diaper” shower at a local pub (we have a wall full of diapers and a shelf full of “toys your kids liked when you were a new dad”, girl friends throwing bi-coastal showers for Jessica and setting us for life in baby gear, our families stepping up in countless ways (like my mom and sister taking the night shift several nights a week!), friends bringing food to us in the baby hospital, friends making the trip to Michigan to visit us in the heart hospital, lactation nurses inspiring us with new levels of persistence, labor and post-partum nurses in the Dayton hospital making sure I’m doing okay, heart surgery nurses in the Michigan hospital making sure that Jessica is doing okay, my heart surgeon and nurse visiting Jessica in the labor department, Reade’s neonatologist and nurses making sure I was getting rest (and watching my coffee intake). We even made an unexpected friend out of my hospital roommate (both of us had asked about the availability of private rooms).

Over the past couple of weeks I’ve been pondering what God might be trying to teach us—if anything (everything doesn’t have to be a lesson)—through these concurrent life events. Then this happened. A few days ago, the day I started writing this post, I took my first “normal” bike ride—no babying of the heart and pushing as hard as I wanted. While on the final leg, a near-professional bike rider, all decked out in the latest gear with more logos than a NASCAR car, went zooming past. As he passed he said, “Did you see those deer back there?” To which I said, “No! How did I miss that?!” I mean really, how could I miss that? I quickly turned, and there in the edge of the woods, two doe. And two fawns.

Then, as if to put a giant exclamation point on the whole deal, as if to leave no doubt that God is up to something in all this, later that evening Jessica and I saw one of the biggest, boldest rainbows we’ve seen in a long time. I haven’t had a deer/rainbow combo since June 2011, the week Jessica and I met.

If you are new to this blog, this deer story post [click here] will help bring you up to speed on why these sightings of a deer and rainbow are significant. (Strangely, I don’t think I ever wrote a post about the rainbow story, but just directed folks to the newspaper story, which is no longer active. So, rainbow post coming soon. Meanwhile, if you search "rainbow" on this blog you will get some good background.) Simply put, I am in a blessed position (whether flat on my back or upright) to experience new life and a repaired heart, a heart that was broken in more ways than one.

Thankfully, more than one kind of healing has happened, too. Bring on new life. There is much to experience, much to receive, and much to give.

Thank you for journeying along.