life in God's waiting room

I’ve been thinking about waiting. The waiting you do when your hopes and dreams have been deferred—again. The waiting you do when you’re offered the opportunity you longed for but have to turn it down—again. The waiting you do when the future is uncertain and your plans can only be tentative and provisional—again.

Waiting, through twelve years of raising young children and five years of our son’s chronic illness, for a time when I can do more of the ministry I love outside the home. Waiting, through my husband’s cancer diagnosis, a six-week hospital stay and half a year of chemotherapy, to be washed up on the shores of not-quite-ordinary life again. Waiting, now, for his medical scans, the fork in the road; one path leading to further treatment, the other to four more years of waiting until we receive the all-clear.

Waiting for the waiting to be over.

So what do I do, here in life’s waiting room? Do I choose escapism? Do I complain and grow resentful? I do both, sometimes. But surely there are better uses of this time.

Here’s how I see it. There are two possible things going on here.

The first is that this isn’t so much a waiting room as God’s training-ground. A hothouse where I’m grown in Christlike character (Jas 1:2-4). A boot-camp to strengthen the muscles of perseverance, humility and hope (Rom 5:3-4; 1 Pet 5:6-11). God’s university, where he teaches me to mourn with those who mourn (Rom 12:15) and gives me the comfort that I will one day share with others (2 Cor 1:3-7), preparing me for life and ministry.

The second is that this isn’t a waiting room for life; it is life. These hardships may continue for many years. In which case, this isn’t preparation for anything more than the hard slog of patient endurance. And that’s okay. Because if I never get to do the ministries I long for, and just keep encouraging others by trusting God in hardship, that will be sufficient service for a lifetime.

Come to think of it, those aren’t alternatives. They are different perspectives, views of the same reality from opposite sides. Whatever God has in store, this is both training for life and life itself. This is the life God has given us. You don’t stop living just because you are waiting.

So what do I do, here in the waiting room?

• I fulfil the duties of this time. I may not have chosen them—the doctors’ visits, the extra school trips, the weight of care—but this is the good work God has given me, and I try (and often fail!) to do it cheerfully, patiently and well. 
• I make the most of the time we have together as a family to build strong relationships as a foundation for whatever may come (I’ve planned more family holidays and weekends with my husband this year). 
• I train my own mind, and the hearts and minds of our children, to trust God during the trials we face now and the ones we may face in the future. 
• I remember all those who have waited: for an affliction to end (Ps 27:14), a prayer to be answered (Ps 5:3), a ministry to begin (Exod 7:7), a hope to be fulfilled (1 Sam 1), and (this includes all of us) for Jesus to return (Rev 22:20). I am not alone. 
• I put one foot in front of the other. Sometimes this means telling myself, “I know you feel lousy, but just do the next thing. It might make you feel a little better, and if it doesn’t, at least you will have finished one more task.” 
• I pray the prayers of those who wait (e.g. Ps 130), bringing my fear, grief, disappointment and frustration to God, turning to him rather than away from him. 
• I make plans that assume life will continue the way it is but that allow for uncertainty, then commit these plans into God’s hands (Jas 4:13-15). 
• I manage my energy levels so I can keep serving: a good night’s sleep, regular exercise, a daily time of rest, and a weekly morning off to read an encouraging book, pray, and reflect on life. 
• I live the ordinary Christian life wherever we are, from hospital to home (1 Pet 4:19). I read my Bible, pray for others, turn from sin, meet with God’s people, and try to use every opportunity to make Jesus known. 
• I choose ministries that I can maintain, that use my limited time effectively to meet others’ needs, and that allow for interruptions. It helps if some of these ministries energize me so I can fulfil my primary ministry to our family. 
• I learn the lessons that waiting teaches me: that we may plan, but God directs our steps (Prov 16:9); that the building of his kingdom doesn’t depend on our usefulness (Ps 127:1-2; 1 Cor 3:7-9); that his grace is sufficient for every day he gives us to face (2 Cor 12:9-10). 
• I fight to choose contentment, thanksgiving, trust, and joy (1 Thess 5:16-18), remembering that God’s plans for me are better than any I could make for myself.

I don’t want to waste this time in the waiting room. I want to use it, every bit of it. Whether it turns out to be a waiting room or simply the life God has given us, I want to be able to look back and say: I did the work God gave me to do, in his strength and for his glory. And that is more honour than I deserve, and joy and privilege enough for me.

This article first appeared at GoThereFor.com.

Photo credit: Erich Ferdinand

how we're going

I have started and abandoned this post a few times now. I want to let you know how we are going - those of you who don't already know - but such a huge amount has happened since I wrote about Steve's diagnosis and surgery that it defies fitting into a blog post!

Here it is in miniature:

- 10 weeks ago my husband Steve was diagnosed with adenocarcinoma of the third and fourth sections of the duodenum (at the top end of the small bowel) after half a year of strange symptoms; it caused a blockage and he became unable to keep down solid food.

The tumour was removed successfully, for which we praise God (the surgeons were surprised at the success of the surgery). It was a stage 3 tumour - it had already spread to the lymph nodes - but there were no visible secondaries or spread to local organs, and the margins were clear.

- Steve spent a very long 5 1/2 weeks in hospital, and I spent much of that time with him while Mum cared for our 4 children at home.

They were strange weeks of shuffling walks down hospital corridors, wheeling him to a sunny courtyard every day (all the doctors say, "Sit in the sun while you recover from surgery"), sitting by Steve's bed while he suffered silently, getting him wet facecloths or blankets, reading the Bible to him and praying, or writing and looking out the window.

Hard days of diagnosis and grief, fear and surgery, tears and nausea; a terrible day when he had a septic shower (due to an infected haematoma) and I thought I would lose him; days of discouragement and slow, slow recovery.

- We have been home for 4 1/2 weeks now. You look forward to escaping hospital, so it's a bit of a shock to discover you have brought all the difficulties home with you. Of course, you knew this would happen, but it's hard all the same.

That said, it is wonderful for Steve to be home and for us to have him home. It has been slow, but his digestive system is gradually recovering from surgery. He can eat a little more, and we are learning to manage the issues caused by whipple-style digestive re-plumbing (for those in the know, he still has his pancreas and stomach, which makes it easier).

- He started chemotherapy - to mop up the remaining cancer cells in his system - 2 weeks ago. He had his second treatment this morning and it went fine. The treatments are in a beautiful new oncology room with a wall of windows looking out into the canopy of a huge oak tree.

He will have 12 treatments, God willing, every 2 weeks for 6 months. Already there have been unpleasant side effects, and they will increase over time. And so the next 6 months are going to be challenging.

The chemo will be followed by scans to check if the cancer has gone. I guess that will be a whole new stage of waiting, praying, hoping and trusting. We are planning a family holiday for after chemo if Steve is well enough.

- Many, many things have changed. Steve lost work, ministry and health. I lost ministry and have taken on the role of a carer to Steve as well as to our chronically ill son. We are at a different church now, just down the street from our house: our old church is too far to travel at the moment.

There is a lot of trauma and grief to process. My health hasn't been good due, I guess, to the stress, but I am beginning to recover. Our kids are doing okay and processing what has happened in their own ways.

It is the most beautiful Spring here in Melbourne. I go for walks and rejoice to see the new leaves of oaks and elms opening against the sky; sit by the lake nearby and listen to music or cry and pray.

We are learning a lot about endurance and persevering in faith, about turning and looking to Jesus, about trusting the Father's plans for our lives and seeking to glorify him. I love and live in the psalms more than ever (psalms 61-63 are my new favourites).

Steve and I are reading John Piper's tiny booklet Don't Waste Your Cancer together in the evenings. At one or two paragraphs a day, it's just about the right length! It's been very helpful and challenging.

We are upheld by many people's prayers, practical support and encouragement. If you have been praying, thank you so much!

And thanks too to our great God who loved us enough to give up his only Son to die for us, who understands suffering from the inside out, and whose love never fails.

For regular updates you can "like" this page on Facebook: Pray for Steve.

thoughts on an imperfect holiday

Hi, friends! We're back from 2 weeks' holiday. We spent the first week at a conference for our uni Christian group, and last week at the beach at Apollo Bay.

There were many lovely moments:

- a wild wind blowing spray backwards from the waves
- the golden lights of evening on the harbour
- seeing the world "like a bird does" (as Thomas said) from the lookout
- sampling the best coconut ice cream ever
- jogging and walking along the beach.

Steve was sick throughout our holiday (he's had a rough year). In the end, he had to take anti-nausea medication. He's still sick - he's now on medication for gastritis - but he made it down to the beach a couple of times. I did my best to look after him, and help the kids to have a good holiday.

I used to think holidays had to be perfect. I'd try to capture that mood where body and mind are at peace, and there's nothing to disturb the feeling. It's not something you can get just by wanting, so I spent every holiday in a state of nagging disappointment.

There were also holidays of teary exhaustion because none of my babies ever slept away from home. And the time I fractured a bone in my foot (I was trying to put a piece of tomato down my brother's back at the time, so at least it was in a good cause). And the plague year when I discovered an allergy to midge bites. Yup, holidays aren't perfect.

I have learned to be thankful for imperfect holidays. Watching the kids splash in the freezing water in their wetsuits. Sitting with my daughter in a cafe, both sipping on spiced chai. A family game of Cluedo. I don't care if I'm sitting on a lump of hard sand, or the kids are bickering; I love moments like those.

We're taught to idolise holidays. We post photos of beaches on Facebook - #it'sahardlife - and wait for the "likes!" that hide our friends' envy. We work and save all year for a week at a resort. We're always in search of the perfect experience - the perfect location - the perfect rest. Like all idols, this one is empty and unsatisfying.

Holidays are good. They're a gift of God for our refreshment. They renew us so we can serve him. They give us meaningful time with family and friends. But they're not yet heaven. In this world, they will often be marred by illness and injury and dissatisfaction. They will always, in some way, disappoint.

There's a better holiday coming - a perfect rest - one where there will be no midge bites or arguments or illness. A holiday only hinted at by those rare, perfect holiday moments. A holiday that will never come to an end.

I, for one, can't wait.

catch-up

I have written so little that's personal for a while. I apologize for that - although I'm sure you understand. That's the nature of blogs, to grow and change and shrink with the demands of life (except for those uber-bloggers like Challies that seem to keep it going time without end, amen and hallelujah.).

I've been busy working on a seminar on contentment, and I find that I don't have time and energy to focus on more than one major writing task at a time (again, unlike the uber-bloggers. I have to learn not to aspire in that direction.).

But more significantly, life doesn't allow me much time to write. The mornings are filled with getting kids off to school; the afternoons, school pick-up and chores (days, too); the evenings, time with Steve (see me put first things first! ;) ). I mentor a couple of women, and recently I did a talk at a women's event - fun!

Steve's health has been poor for some months now (he is having tests to find out what's wrong). Ben is home for parts of every day (he is still doing a 2-5 hour school day, which we are gradually extending). The pain team assures us that we are on the right track with his chronic headaches. We all had a nasty flu earlier this term, and we're into our second cold this term.

It hasn't been an easy time for us. If you're a pray-er, please pray for our family, especially for Ben and Steve. Pray that we will use this time of trial well, to grow in patience and endurance and joy.

But thank God, too. Thank him, with me, for freedom from anxiety - such a blessing after last year's intense, ongoing anxiety! Thank him, too, that the bitterness of those first few years when Ben was sick have given way to acceptance and trust and hope and even joy. That's a miracle, friends: to change this stubborn heart of mine.

Thank him for watching over us and loving us and always, always drawing us to himself. And pray that we will be able to face whatever else this year may bring, still trusting in God and living for him.

catch up

It's been a while since I let you know how we're going, and how you can pray for us. The year started with me feeling rested and eager to get into things. But life has become more complicated since then. I guess I'll take this one person at a time ...

Steve got ill with what looked like flu 10 days ago. Two days later, he woke with red swelling up the side of his face, and couldn't give his Bible talk - unheard of, this close to the start of the uni year. It turned out to be erisypelas, a rare, serious infection of the skin that required injected penicillin. He's slowly recovering, but please pray for him, as we have some concerns about his ongoing health.

After a good start to the year, I am struggling. Things are better than last year: my anxiety has decreased, and I have learned much about trusting God in suffering. But it hasn't been easy, with sick people in the house, including me - we've had a nasty virus going round - and bearing the load of multiple school and doctor's trips while Steve's ill. I am so grateful to those who have cooked meals, shopped and cared for us - you know who you are!

Lizzy has had a good start to the year. She loves year 10, is doing year 11 Visual Communications, and has a good teacher putting her through her paces in Painting and Drawing. With all that practice, she's becoming very skilled. She is working her way through Couch to 5K with me - she's up to about week 5. See if you can recognise who this is in her portrait:

Ben isn't getting a whole lot better - three days of migraines a week - so it looks like we might have to go back to the pain team at the Children's Hospital. On the other hand, he manages his "everyday" headaches well, has been at school each day for at least 2 hours, and is keeping up with his work. He just started with a physio yesterday and she seems excellent.

Thomas is growing up. There's something I love about age 10 (have I said that before?). He seems a whole lot older, and is keen not to be lumped in with the "little boys" any more. Fair enough! He's learning to serve cheerfully around the house as he grows in responsibility.

Andy is 7, and we have to stop ourselves calling him "cute" (he is, so it's hard). It's lovely still having someone young enough to bounce around and get excited about events like the athletics carnival and multicultural day at school - even when I'm not (it's my 11th year of going, so I'm a little jaded). Here he is, dressed as an Aussie:

So that's life. It hasn't been an easy term. But God is good, and holds us in his hands. I am so thankful for the way he cares for us.

end of year wrap

Yes, I know, it's not the end of the year. But it feels like it. And I'm about to have my annual break from blogging.

This morning I reflected on the miracle of the Lord of the universe becoming a tiny baby. How good he is, that he comes to us who need him!

Here are some final catch-ups, for those who want to know how we are:

Steve has given me comfort and strength this year. He looks forward to a well-earned break from work, starting tomorrow. We'll explore our beloved Melbourne for a few weeks; then Steve returns to work, and the rest of us holiday with my parents by the beach.

I am gasping for air after the busiest pre-Christmas I remember. I finish this hard year cheerful and hopeful, for which I thank God. The women at church came here for a chocolate fountain the other evening, and I'm so excited about our plans for next year.

Lizzy is 15. I love her zest for life and the maturity of her faith. Next year she's in year 10. She'll do a year 11 subject in graphic design, and work experience at a pre-school - which tells you something about her interests and gifts.

Ben is 13, cheerful and strong and trusting in Jesus, thanks be to God. He had migraines nearly every second day this term, but made it to a few hours of school every day. His current interest is Howard Shore's music for The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit.

Thomas is 10, growing in maturity and responsibility. Like Lizzy, he's an extrovert, and brings affection and fun to our family. He and Ben have become great mates, and play endless imaginative games together.

Andy is 7 and cute as a button (sorry, Andy, I mean "cool"). He builds Lego every spare moment, happy in his own company; but is also full of love and laughter, and we have the most fascinating conversations.

None of this matters a bit without Jesus. He is the meaning of our life and the purpose of our days. Let's not forget him this Christmas.

That's a wrap, folk. Have a blessed Christmas, and I'll be back sometime in the new year.

family catch-up (and a few photos)

Okay, so it took me a while to upload some of these photos, which means they're a little out of date. But no worse for that. 

Steve recently had one of those days. The kind of ministry day when you're doing the kind of ministry you really don't like doing. But mostly he loves his job. Our MOLDI (Meaning Of Life Discussed Intelligently) Dinners went well this term: lots of students brought friends along, and there were good discussions. Pray the conversations would continue. (And no, that's not Steve in the picture, but Andy does look a lot like him!)

I have had a much better term than last. Less doctors' visits, lower anxiety levels, and lots of happy hours jogging and swimming and walking and reading. I have to prioritise these things to overcome high stress and anxiety levels, which is a privilege more than a hardship. I also enjoy meeting with a few girls; so this term draws to an end with me very thankful to God.

Lizzy is ... well, it's hard to express the joy I get from having a teenage girl in the house. And they say the teen years are dreadful! Don't believe them. There are challenges, as with all ages; but this is a lovely age. It's great having the opportunity to develop a more "adult" relationship with your children. (The photos are of a "shop" she helped prepare for her little brother Andy.)

Ben is slowly, surely getting a little better. I thought he would run out of energy towards the end of term; but he actually has more cheerfulness and "bounce". It seems that an earlier bedtime (much to his disgust) and our every-day-at-school policy are starting to help him heal. He's missed a lot of Home Economics, so we do that at home.

Thomas just did his first piano exam (preliminary) and very well he did too. My mum recently knitted jumpers for all our kids; Thomas chose this beauty all by himself. That's big-and-little-brother on footy day on the right (you don't get to live in our house and not barrack for Carlton).

Andy is 7 years old, so I'm officially out of the "early childhood" phase. It's a strange feeling, but a good one, saying goodbye to one season of life and welcoming the next one. Here he is doing a science experiment for school and playing in the ocean in his $10.00 Savers wetsuit (we call him "Burgundy Man").

family catch-up (and about time too!)

So, how are we all going? I'm sure I heard you ask.  

Steve is busy with talk-writing - three talks a week at the moment, two of those repeats (thankfully!). We're looking forward to things quietening down in September. He did some wonderful talks on judgement at our mid-year conference. You can listen to them here.

I am recovering, slowly but surely, from a brush with anxiety and panic late last term. Unpleasant. It's taking rest, and sleep, and exercise, and some sensible reading - Arch Hart's The Anxiety Cure and Ed Welch's Running Scared - but I am slowly getting better. Now we have less doctor's appointments, I'm enjoying having the energy for a bit of extra ministry: mentoring some girls in our university Christian group and hosting a church Bible study in our house once again.

Lizzy and I have been poring over year 10 subject choices - very exciting! She is choosing a range of subjects, from Visual Communications, Cooking and Community Involvement to Literature, History and Chemistry. I love that she's interested in so many different "pathways" (that's what they call it now). We tell her she can study anything she wants at uni, as long as she does a degree in Christian Union!

Ben was at school between 2 and 4 hours every day the whole first month of term. I was so proud of him! He's still in pain most the time, but he perseveres at getting better. A nasty cold meant he just missed a week's school: we're counting that as a God-given mid-term break.

Thomas recently turned 10. I love this age, when children come out of the "middle childhood wobblies" (that's how I think of them) and grow in responsibility and independence. It's good to see him growing up so well.

Andy has been sick a lot lately - sore tummy, a bout of flu, and now he's coughing hoarsely from a cold. So he's been a bit grumpy and miserable. Picture us sitting on the couch while I read piles of old favourites: Shirley Hughes and Lynley Dodd. Lovely!

the best advice ever

No hide, no Christmas box.

Right now, your face is blank. Unless you're among the privileged few who has heard this phrase before. Think about it for a minute... Got it?

Nothing?

Well, think of it this way: No courage, no reward.

There are mothers who raise their kids with oodles of cuddles and lashings of sympathy. There are mothers who raise their kids with a hands-off, you-can-do-it attitude. And there are mothers who raise their kids with pithy sayings.

My mum, like her mum before her, was one of the last kind (the first kind, too). I've had no cause to regret it. Present me with a sticky situation, and you can be pretty sure that one of my mum's sayings is on the tip of my brain, rescuing me from my not-so-carefree personality.

The other day, I asked a sales assistant to take half the price off a half-way-through-the-year Tolkien calendar, and she did. I'm not the type to approach a stranger and ask for something, so I've got my mum to thank for the extra money in my wallet. No hide, no Christmas box.

Here's another. Imagine your son is the saddest-looking clown in school, not having a shiny wig like all the other clowns, just a random collection of drooping clothes from his sister's dress-ups. Not that this would ever happen to me. But if it did, I might happen to say, as my mother said to me, It's not the end of the world. Because it's not.
 
I was once on the tram, scrambling for my ticket, when something embarrassing and *cough* feminine may or may not have fallen out of my handbag, in full view of the passengers. It must run in the family: my Grandma carried out an entire conversation with the milkman at the door ignoring the underpants around her ankles, the elastic having given way thanks to a bad case of pregnancy belly. Oh well, You've got to laugh or you'd cry.

You know those little phrases that get handed down like a family fingerprint? Every time my mum and I set off on a mother-daughter outing, the seat belts would click and she'd say, Well, this is fun! Much to my daughter's annoyance, it pops out of my mouth (I can't help saying it! I have to say it!) when we set off anywhere. I tell her she'll say it to her daughter one day. She tells me she won't. We'll see.

Now let's put them together.

Let's say, theoretically of course, that your boys are behaving, as boys will, with maximum noise and falling-about, right in the middle of Myer, despite all your tellings-off, and they pull over, of all things, a rack of expensive suits, and the women at the counter gives you a dirty look when you apologise, and says, in a fierce hiss, "I'll fix it", when you offer to put them back ...

It's not the end of the world. Now you're feeling a little better.

You've got to laugh or you'd cry. Now you're giggling.

Isn't this fun? Now you're talking like my mum, and all the better for it.



Written, very, very late - with apologies, but holidays are important, people! - in response to Meredith's writing challenge.

how we're going (and a bit about chronic pain)

Well, friends, it feels like we've just passed through a very dark tunnel; but we're beginning to see the light at the end (cliche, anyone?). Hope feels fragile and uncertain, like we can't quite put our weight on it. But I am so thankful to God for his mercy to our family.

Ben and I visited the OT at the hospital last week, and were actually told - get this! - that we might be seeing too many doctors, and did we want to stop seeing her? We didn't (she's wonderful); but we did put off our next appointment for a month.

Picture me mentally dancing around the room at the thought that we might not have 3-hour-round-trip doctors' visits most weeks, and sometimes twice a week, this term!

If I'm tempted to hopelessness - and I am - I only have to compare the start of this term to the last one. It was a black dog of a term, take it any way you like. Endless trips to doctors and the hospital. Ben still missing heaps of school. By the end, I was battling pretty intense anxiety. In God's grace, I'm recovering; and Ben is looking healthier and stronger.

Looking back, here were some turning points:

• Ben's diagnoses after a few years of illness: migraines (2012) and chronic daily headaches (2013)
• a phone-call I made to the paediatrician late last term, when I said, "This can't go on. I think Ben's just going to have to go to school even when he's feeling horrible!" and she said, "Yes." Hard, but good.*
• attending a pain education clinic and reading a book on chronic pain. I now understand what we did to contribute to this situation (ouch!) and what we can do to help Ben get better.
• a meeting with the hospital psychologist in the final week of last term, when she said, "You need to stop asking Ben about his pain." I did, and it helps him to focus less on his pain and more on living.
• 2 weeks holidays and lots of exercise - soccer, ropes' course, boogy boarding - helped Ben regain strength and energy.

Here's what I'm learning about chronic pain:

• Chronic pain can happen when you respond to ongoing pain as you would to acute pain.
• You rest, so your body becomes weak. 
• You protect the area, and your nerves become super-sensitive. 
• You get help, but begin to rely on others. 
• You avoid danger, until everything looks dangerous. 
• The result is that your whole system becomes oversensitised to pain. Your nerves grow extra sensors. Your brain lays down pathways that reinforce the pain. Your nervous system becomes overly responsive to stress. Migraines often turn into chronic daily headaches this way.
• What's needed is to reset your system. Your brain needs to learn new pathways; your nerves need to be desensitized; your body needs to be strengthened. Normal function generally returns before pain decreases. A slow process!

Here's the plan (otherwise known as "how to deal with chronic pain in children 101"**):

• get on with life despite the pain, slowly and steadily, as you are able. Don't focus on the pain (and, if you're a bystander, don't ask about it); instead, do things that distract you. This turns down the brain's awareness of pain.
• set achievable individual goals - e.g. a 2 hour visit with friends every weekend - and build up slowly
• pace yourself: 16 hours playing with your brothers on the weekend is great, but you need regular short breaks to rest, or you'll overload your system
• gradually work your way back into normal life as your system re-adjusts - we're planning Ben's first full day's school next week (now put off by a week due to migraines - such is our halting progress!). By the end of the year, our goal, God willing, is for Ben to be doing full weeks.
• get daily exercise: swimming, walking, strength training ... Some kids have to start by walking to the door and back again. Thankfully, we're further on than this, but it takes perseverance and commitment.
• learn to do relaxation exercises, because anxiety contributes to chronic pain. Ben dislikes these, so we're still working on this one!
• learn to read your body, manage your stress, and know when you need rest. Ben is getting very good at this.

So we start this term with new energy and new hope. Last week, Ben did 4 1/2 hour school days, as planned, though he was in pain every day. This week a full-blown migraine shortened his days, but he's making it to a bit of school each day - a great achievement. If he goes downhill, we'll rethink things. But at least we now understand what is happening and what to do.

Thank God for his mercy and his grace, and keep praying for us. God hears and answers your prayers.


* If this sounds remarkably like advice I received many months earlier, let's just say that it takes time and experience to realise just how much pain it's possible to be in, yet for it still to be the right thing to go to school.
** Disclaimer: I am not a professional, and this is not medical advice. You can find a good practical guide to some of the current thinking on chronic pain at MoodJuice.

family catch-up

Steve turned 45 - or is that 46? - today. I think it's 46. Yup, definitely 46. My parents have given us a gift of a couple of nights away. Yay!

I am ... well, I'm not sure, to be honest! A bit worn out. Ready for a couple of days off. It's been a big week, with a few changes made (see Ben below).

Lizzy is cleaning up her school right now: it's community service day. Don't remember doing that when I was a teenager! But I went to a fancy schmancy school, and maybe we didn't have to do that stuff. ;)

Ben has been given a new policy by his paediatrician and his mum, to get him back into normal life: he goes to school every day, even with a really bad headache. He wasn't impressed. But he had a wonderful day at school yesterday. I'm praying for him today, because it looks like being a tough one. [Update: He's home, and it was a good day, so it looks like we're on the right track.]

Thomas didn't bring any show-and-tell to school this morning. He's "talking to the class" instead, telling them about his exciting weekend: Grandma! And Dad's birthday celebration coming up!

Andy is saving his reflections on Dad's birthday for journal writing next Monday. He told me he will write, "We didn't celebrate it last Friday because we were too busy (for which read: Mum and Dad selfishly went out on their own). But we will celebrate it today."

Gluten free sponge cake and all.

a more cheerful take on life at our house

I thought, after yesterday's rather gloomy post, that it might be good to fill you in on the bigger picture of how things have been going for us.

Steve is in the eye of the storm, in the brief but relatively quiet few weeks between the busyness of the start of the university year and talk writing for our mid year conference. It's good to have a husband who's emotionally and physically a bit more present!

I was feeling worn out, sad and irritable after a difficult start to the school term, but finally started feeling rested again last Friday. It's a great relief to have something in the tank again.

Lizzy is dressed as Katniss Everdeen from the Hunger Games today - it's dress up day at school. I did the Katniss braid this morning. She made the bow and arrows herself. Hopefully she wins some chocolate! [Update: she did win the competition. Go Lizzy!]

Ben, like me, is coming off the back of 4 exhausting weeks. We thought last week might be quieter, but the stress of doing NAPLAN with a migraine put paid to that idea! He went to the footy on Sunday, headache and all, and is paying for it with a migraine now. It was worth it. Life has to include some fun.

Thomas and Andy are also dressed up today for Education Week. Thomas is Obi-Wan Kenobi, and Andy is Harry with his bucket full of dinosaurs.

As you can see, we go in for home-made costumes at our house. This is partly due to a mother who is too disorganised to buy them. Occasionally it leads to embarrassingly bad looks - like a very sad-looking clown one year, while all the other kids had shiny rainbow afros - but mostly it's fun (and a lot of hard work).

our week

I thought I might start giving you a little picture of our lives each week. (Okay, so probably not every week.) I'm hoping this will:

- be a mini-prayer letter for those of you who support and pray for us
- fill in those of you who are just interested in how we're going
- be an aide-mémoire and a bit of fun!

So here goes! This week,

I thought I had to have my tooth out, but it turns out I don't. For the time being. Seems the problems it would create are as many as the problems it would solve. Which is kind of cheering - and kind of not, as I still have problems with my tooth. And my knees. But that's another story.

Steve is busy with talk-writing. Again. It's that time of year. He's also preaching at a wedding tomorrow. Always a bit scary-making.

Lizzy was on the radio today - for real! - for her media class. She talked about spiders in her bedroom, finding a mouse on her bathroom floor, and her brothers clinking their teeth on their spoons at dinner time. Not sure I will ever show my face in public again.

Ben is in the middle of a migraine. He made it to 2 days school this week. Would have been 3, but the athletics carnival was on *sigh*. Still, we are making steady progress, and he did get to go to work with Dad.

Thomas is 3/4 of the way through a big pile of books for his Premiers' Reading Challenge.  "Just finish one, Thomas, so I can write it down!" - that's me.

Andy keeps begging me to buy star fruit. It's good to see the boy who survives on rice and tomato sauce actually wanting to try something new.

an update on how we're going

So how is Ben, I hear you ask (some of you literally)? And how am I?

Well, Tuesday - two weeks ago - was a turning-point, both in what was happening inside me (more about that another day) and with Ben. I think that's why I felt ready to publish a cry of hopelessness, which waited in the wings for weeks.

At that point Ben had been sick for over a month with constant headaches (it's not the first time: last year, he missed both a term and a month of school). Some days it was a migraine, so severe that he could only lie in a darkened room; other days, a headache far worse than what you or I might call a "bad headache". He stayed home from school and bore it with silent resignation.

Not easy to watch when you're a mother.

Every night I'd lie awake and pray, over and over, "Please heal him, Lord. Please let him be better in the morning." Every morning I'd wake up and think, "Maybe this morning he'll be better" - then I'd look in his eyes and see the shadow of a headache. Every day I'd sink a little deeper into discouragement.

Until that Tuesday, when he woke with a worse migraine than usual, and I rang his paediatrician and said, in essence, "We've had enough. Do something!" And she sent us to the hospital and all my Facebook friends prayed and we found ourselves in the emergency department (that's it in the picture above). And I sat in a chair in a little room and watched a drip running into Ben's arm and enjoyed the silence (rest! peace! It's a little sad, but I have a soft spot for hospitals).

While we were there, Ben was interrogated and examined by no less than 3 doctors. We saw one of the top paediatric neurologists - something that wasn't supposed to happen, Ben's chart didn't ask for it, but someone (providentially!) stuffed up along the line - and Ben got a new diagnosis and a new medication.

So what's his diagnosis? Chronic daily headaches (you can google it) as well as migraines.

Hearing that your child has a chronic condition isn't easy. I've shed many tears of shock and grief during the last two weeks. But it's also a relief. Why? How can it be comforting to discover your son is chronically ill?

Because we now have an explanation for why Ben's headaches haven't gone away. We know what to expect. We know what to do. I don't feel so helpless. I don't wake up every morning wondering if his headache has gone away in the night (although we will keep praying that it does) only to have my hopes dashed.

We know that progress will probably be slow. We know what Ben needs: a clear structure to his days, as much school as possible, good stress management, and daily exercise. We don't wake up wondering if he should go to school: we just help him to lead as normal a life as possible.

Every morning he gets his uniform on and I pack him into the car (no more time spent second-guessing his condition and wondering if he's well enough). Every morning my husband walks our younger boys to school (no more trying to do it all by myself). Most lunchtimes I get a call from the school asking me to pick him up, and he comes home quiet and pale.

And yes, he's in pain. And yes, it's hard for him to concentrate. And yes, he usually can't last the day. But he makes it through the first four hours of school, and he loves learning, and he has good friends and amazing teachers, and the year 7 coordinator and his mentor give him constant, attentive care. I am so thankful for these things.

Our paediatrician called us "A family in crisis", and she's right. But we're also pulling together, perhaps more than we ever have. My husband takes Ben swimming. I take him for walks. We pray and talk and, even, laugh. I'm so grateful for a husband who puts his needs aside to care for us at the end of every long day.

Now that I know what to expect, I also know what I need to get through this: the support of my family, my neighbour, my friends. Rest, exercise, an emptier timetable. Plenty of Bible and prayer. And the joy of having people like you say to me, "I'm thinking of you. How can I help? How can I pray?" That means the world to me.

a cry of hopelessness

What I've written here is not all that can be said about suffering: far from it. But I've published it, somewhat hesitantly, because I think suffering will drive all of us to this point sooner or later.

I sit there stony-faced, staring out the windscreen, driving in automatic, lips pressed together. I’ve had enough. I don’t want it any more: this struggle and these doubts and these unanswered prayers. I’ve had enough. It’s been a long week – a long year! – and there’s nothing left. I’ve had enough.

My 12-year-old son sits next to me. He’s not used to this grim silence, but I don’t have it in me to make conversation. He glances at me, and I can feel the question in his gaze. Finally, in a small voice, he asks me, “Why are you sad, Mummy? You look so sad. I don’t like it when you’re sad.”

Guilt rises to the surface and overflows. I apologise. I tell him it’s not his fault (it’s not), other things besides his circumstances are making me sad (they are), he didn’t cause this (he didn’t). But part of me doesn’t care. Part of me feels like hitting out. I’ve had enough.

We’re on the way to school to pick up some homework sheets. He’s missed nearly a week of school. Four weeks into secondary school, and already his year is disrupted. It’s a particularly bad migraine this time, and there’s no predicting how long his headaches will last.1 A day? A week? A month? A term? We’ve seen them all.

Over three years he’s been sick now, and counting. Over three years I’ve prayed. Prayed and watched. Prayed and hoped. Prayed and given up hope. Prayed and seen whole weeks of his life go past, given over to pain. Prayed and felt the sick discouragement creep in, quicker each time, when I see him ill – again.

I’ve tried to convince myself I can see a purpose to all this. Sometimes I can. When he’s well I can. When I see his courage and patience and trust, sometimes I can. But then he gets sick and his childhood slips away and it’s hard to hold on to hope. Doubt nibbles at the edges of my faith: What is God doing? Does he care? Is he even real?

You tell me (“you” being the voice of a dozen books and talks) to cry out to God, to bring my questions and confusion to him.2 God’s word tells me this. I tell myself this. But sometimes I don’t want to pray. I don’t want to tell God how I feel. I’m sick of saying the words. Sometimes there are no words. Sometimes I’ve had enough.

There are not always neat answers. Maybe there will be this time, maybe there won’t. Job never had an answer – or, at least, not one that was revealed to him. The writer of Psalm 88 had no answers, and he wrote the only Psalm that is utterly despairing, without a hint of hope.

How grateful I am that God included Psalm 88 in the Bible! There are others that teach me how to fight for hope when I am discouraged (e.g. Psalm 13, 42, 130), but this psalm tells me that sometimes it is okay just to cry out. At least the psalmist knows who to cry out to. His lament is the measure of his faith:

O Lord, God of my salvation; I cry out day and night before you… O Lord, why do you cast my soul away? Why do you hide your face from me? (Psalm 88:1, 14)

I might not have hope. Sometimes all I have is a handful of ashes, the crumbled remnants of my faith. But I do have words. I have God’s own words. He doesn’t pretend this is okay. He doesn’t pretend it makes sense. He puts the words of the psalmist in my mouth, and invites me to speak them.

And when I can’t speak – when my mouth won’t shape the words – I know that God’s Son and Spirit speak for me (Rom 8:26-27, 34). I know that once, on a cross, there was One who made the psalms of lament his own, so that, one day, we will no longer have to speak them (Psalm 22:1-2). I know that he is still my hope, even when I can’t see it.

There are times when all I can do is cry out.

There are times when I can’t cry out, but I know Someone is crying out for me.

Lord, give me the strength to at least cry out.


1. Our son suffers from migraines and Chronic Daily Headaches – which means he gets debilitating headaches regularly, sometimes for weeks at a time. It's over two weeks since I wrote this, and the headaches are continuing, but we've had some new medical advice and are realising that we will have to start managing this as a chronic condition.
2. I wrote about some of these talks here.


This post first appeared at The Briefing.

that moment when...

It's my first day at university, and I'm at an orientation event for a Christian group. I sit in a plastic chair listening to a bespectacled guy speaking on the topic "Good people make God vomit", which intrigues me more than a little. One year later, I give up my medical course and start an arts degree. I've found my vocation: I want to work with uni students, to teach young women about Jesus. Twenty-five years later, kids growing up, I walk back into uni to lead a girls' Bible study, and the past ripples through my mind. I love this as much as ever.

That moment when the world spins...

At that very first meeting, up the back of the room, I notice this guy. He's sitting frog-like, cross-legged on a table, brown legs clad in 80's-style brightly patterned shorts. As girls do, I register: yep, he's cute. His hair is short, his eyes blue. He laughs, head thrown back, and his laughter echoes across the room. Four years later, and we're a cliché: the cautious early days, the Christian uni romance, the all-too-long engagement. We're married, setting up home in a tiny flat filled with the noise of passing trains. Twenty-five years on, and our home is bigger, bursting at the scenes, and our marriage so much more than it used to be.

That moment when the world spins on its axis...

A few weeks into uni, I notice this girl at our Christian group. She has long, dark hair, and there's something about her. She has a quiet presence and a listening ear. She's thoughtful and reflective. She's funny. In my usual deliberate way, I decide I'd like to be friends with her. I sit nearby. We chat. The years pass, and another friend joins us to pray. Together, we live through it all: the free-and-easy uni days, marriage and children, suffering. We uncurl dozens of curly topics. We share and discuss hundreds of books. We weep and laugh and pray. Twenty-five years later, it's hard to imagine travelling this journey alone.

That moment when the world spins on its axis, and everything shifts around you...

I've been at uni for a year or so, and I'm chock-full of doubts. Do I believe what my parents told me? Is Christianity real? I delve into books and beg God for help and ask questions of anyone willing to listen. Piece by piece, I build the intellectual scaffolding that will support my adult faith, but it's not enough. One day, I open the gospel of Mark. I try to read like I've never read this before. The guy on the page speaks and dies and rises. He won't let me off the hook and he fills every corner of longing and his love can't be denied. There will still be doubts, but life without him is unimaginable.

That moment when the world spins on its axis, and everything shifts around you, and life...

My long uni days nearly over, I get the news we've been waiting for: I'm pregnant. On my way to tell my husband, walking the straight path by the cemetery, I'm floating, feet treading air. And my daughter is born and three sons come later and it's everything we hoped for and harder than I ever knew. It's sleepless nights and sacrifice. It's dreams laid aside and dreams fulfilled, noise till you can't bear it and chaos over the edge of patience. It's repetitive labour and a thousand sparkling memories. It's a small hand in mine and a child's ardent kisses and a teenager who's become a friend.

That moment when the world spins on its axis, and everything shifts around you, and life will never be the same again.


This was written in response to Meredith's Prompted to write.

home again

Home again! Here we are, back in Melbourne after a 7-week trip up the East coast of Australia, driving over 7000 kms from Melbourne to Cairns and back again.

We pulled a camper-trailer (one of those things that folds out into a tent) behind a 4-wheel drive, stayed with friends and camped, did lots of driving and saw lots of scenery, and visited some amazingly beautiful places. It was great to get physically and mentally away from everything for a couple of months.

Best of all was spending so much time together as a family. It was difficult at times - family arguments are embarrassing when you're only a canvas-wall away from other campers! - but I think we know each other better and appreciate one another more, which is especially helpful with our older children so close to becoming teenagers.

If you're interested, our itinerary looked like this:

Lakes Entrance (1 night of very windy camping)
Eden (2 nights of windy, cold camping at lovely Twofold Bay)
Canberra (3 nights in a house; we loved Canberra, especially the War Memorial, where we could have spent a whole day)
Sydney (4 nights staying with some very dear friends; highlights: Botany Bay, the ferry from Circular Key to Manly, and the view across the grand old Rocks to the Harbour Bridge and Opera House at sunset)
Narromine (2 nights at my aunt and uncle's cotton and wheat farm near Dubbo, chasing kangaroos in the ute and learning how cotton grows)
Armidale (where I was born - 1 night amongst the old houses and older trees)
Brunswick Heads (8 nights at my aunt's house in one of my favourite childhood holiday spots; we swam in the river and at the white sand beach, visited the theme parks, and watched dolphins surf the sunset waves at the most westerly point in Australia near Byron Bay lighthouse)
Rainbow Beach (4 nights camping - that's the rainbow cliffs in the photo above; we took a ferry to Fraser Island, the largest sand island in the world, where we saw wild dingoes scarily close, and did some hilarious track and glorious beach 4-wheel driving)
The Caves (1 night; the only rain we saw for a month, and some interesting caves)
Airlie Beach (3 nights; peaceful moments swimming in the lagoon, looking up at palm trees and across to the boats in the bay and the Whitsunday islands)
Cairns (7 nights and the best time of all; we rode across the mountains in a gondala, swam with a giant turtle at the Great Barrier Reef, and camped with our backs to the rainforest, with bush turkeys underfoot and butterflies overhead)
Magnetic Island (5 nights off the coast of Townsville; a magical place where we swam in the quiet bays, fed the rock wallabies and rainbow lorikeets, and did a little bushwalking)

At which point my husband Steve got sick and we hurried home, stopping for a repeat visit to some very rainy theme parks and a few hours in Canberra before turning into our driveway at 2 o'clock during a cold, dark Melbourne night.

We're all sick now, so you can pray for us. But after all that camping, mountains of unpacking, and a few out-of-body days readjusting to ordinary life, it's good to be back in the comfort and routines of home.

the next 7 weeks or so...

Hi, everyone! Just letting you know that Steve and I have just embarked on 7 weeks of long-service leave as a family, and, as I anticipated earlier this year, I won't be blogging during this time.

This is a wonderful opportunity for us, as Steve has been working hard in full-time ministry for 12 years now - and I've been working hard alongside him, as I support his ministry and help raise 4 kids. The last few months, as you might have guessed from some things I've said, have been very busy for me, as I've worked during Steve's weeks off. So this will be a chance to spend restful time together.

Then it's back to everyday life, blogging (yes, I will go on with those series - I'm enjoying them too much to stop!), a Sunday School series on Hebrews, and some writing adventures that you'll share in, God willing. I'll tell you about them when the time comes.

So you know when I start blogging again, you might like to subscribe to in all honesty, either by email or online (or you can contact me and I'll let you know when I'm back). Not to increase my reading numbers :) - really, that doesn't matter - but because you'll get my next post in your inbox in a couple of months, and we can keep going where we left off.

God bless. I'll leave you with a verse that God used to encourage me recently:

All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be (Psalm 139:16)

Amen.

image is by zen from flickr

A Year in the Valley: book review

Blue smoke sifting across the valley, a high blue sky, and a fluffy wombat sleeping stomach upward among the lavender...

I'm enjoying reading Jackie French's A Year in the Valley. I discovered Jackie when hunting through the Premier's Reading Challenge list for books for my 12-year-old daughter to read. I liked the look of the titles (the list for years 7-8 is excellent), borrowed some from the library, and found in Jackie a great children's author (I especially liked They Came On Viking Ships, one of her historical novels for older children).

A Year in the Valley is Jackie's diary of a year in Araluen, New South Wales. It's a story of wombats adopted and peaches relished and skies observed. It's the story of a place, and the people who shape it and who are shaped by it. It brims with life: bums damp on logs, creeks brown with wombat poo, randy echidnas. There's no over-arching story: just a ramble with Jackie through her days and her home.

One of the reasons I like Jackie's A Year in the Valley is that it's essence of my mum-in-law. Both Jackie and my mum-in-law live in the Australian bush and grow their own fruit, veges and herbs. Their lives revolve around the seasons. They watch the rain gauge, mindful of the threat of floods, drought and bushfire. They keep chooks, ducks and geese. They excel in herb lore, cooking and making preserves. They delight in using the imperfect offerings of the garden which taste so much better than 'perfect' products from the supermarket: sun-warmed berries, poo-spotted eggs, blemished fruit, misshapen tomatoes, old-fashioned varieties of cucumber, caterpillar-nibbled greens.

Every few pages there's a recipe, for everything from peach fool to heart's-ease handcream. I have to admit I probably won't make any of the recipes (no home-grown peaches here, for one thing - although I do have a soft spot for soup, so I might attempt the carrot broth) but I loved reading them - and I'm not usually a cook-book kind of girl. The recipes are so intricately and intimately described that reading them is almost as good as eating the results.

If you want to read a book that is unpretentious and homey and good - a book with language so rich that you can taste it, so earthy that you can feel the soil under your hands - a book that is perfect for holiday reading, but also perfect for escaping the daily grind - if you want to read a book like that, you'll love this one.

changing churches

Six months ago, we left our church and helped to start another church. It's not something I could tell you about at the time, but it's made life pretty tough for me this year. It's good to be able to finally fill you in! Here's something I wrote about the transition.

A church is a family is a family is a family.

I realised the implications of this (I'm a slow learner) when I read Simon Flinder's article "When it’s time to go" in The Briefing. He says leaving a church should be hard: it's like leaving a family. It's not something to be done lightly or easily.

Sometimes, leaving a church is unavoidable. That's where we've found ourselves this year: between churches (for reasons I won't go into here - but, let it be said, not because our old church was a bad one), and now starting (or re-starting) a new church family. We began with a small group of people we know well, but we left many familiar faces behind. Some I'll see in my Bible study until the end of the year; others I may not see again for a very long time.

So what did I feel? Shock. Heart-ache. Grief that still pulls at me. Fear. Doubt. Anxiety about what the future holds. Uncertainty. Homelessness. A deep longing for familiarity and stability.

One of the hardest things was being between churches. It felt exciting at first - such a relief not to have to lead Sunday School or feel responsible for people! - but quickly lost its novelty. After 4 weeks of going to other people's churches, I woke up one Sunday morning and knew I couldn't do it anymore. I sat up the very back of my friend's church and cried (very embarrassing!), longing for a church family I could call my own, a place to love and serve and belong.

A few months ago, our new Bible talk began (we weren't yet calling it a church) as twenty people met in our living room. There were no frills - no songs, no welcome team, no stained glass - just a bunch of God’s people sitting on the chairs and floor of our home. Our home – what a privilege! In all the chaos of cleaning, cooking, setting up chairs and clearing away the mess, there was great joy. The joy of being back with our church family. The joy of hearing our own pastor bring God's word to us. The joy of homecoming.

Our minister put it perfectly: no matter how small and simple the gathering, when God's people gather around God's word, something amazing happens.

Since then, there have been ups and downs. We now have a name and a place to meet. We're on the way to getting a logo and a leadership team. We're growing in numbers, and there's a real buzz about the place as people become Christians and are established in their faith. It's taken me a while (did I mention I don't cope well with change?) but I'm starting to feel at home, as if, yes, this is my family.

I know the excitement will fade. The day will come when I'll feel like grumbling about the work to be done, when the glow of enthusiasm gives way to tired familiarity, when it seems we can't go on. On that day, I hope I won't forget to look around me and thank God for the immense privilege of being part of this part of God's family on earth.

image is from stock.xchng