Waiting for Morning

On a recent whim, I bought the entire Chronicles of Narnia collection in one volume from a thrift store. I then proceeded to read it. Actually, I stayed up way too late for too many nights and devoured it. I’d seen the three Narnia movies, but I hadn’t had my nose in any of the novels since my third-grade teacher read a few of them aloud in class, so many of them were completely new to me.

As I finished one novel and started the next, I felt a little sad each time because at the end of each novel, with the exception of The Horse and His Boy, the children from our world who are brought to Narnia have to leave. After participating in a great adventure, making new friends, growing in wisdom and understanding about themselves and the world around them, and walking side by side with Aslan the lion, the children have to say good-bye to Narnia and take up their ordinary lives again. The children actually handle this reality pretty well; I, on the other hand, felt a heaviness on me each time it happened and was tempted to chuck the whole book in the trash.

It’s like the feeling I get when I have to leave what my mother used to call a “mountaintop experience”—an empty sort of ache that comes from the realization that once a moment has passed you can never get it back again. I remember back in college when I volunteered as a camp counselor for a week each summer, after I went back home I’d write mournful poetry in my journal and lament the fact that all I had left of my week were memories and a few photos. Leaving China after living and working there for two years caused a similar ache that lasted for months and still pops up occasionally because I knew I would likely never see again this side of heaven many of the people I’d come to love. I feel an ache even now when we have to come back to the city after spending time up in northern Wisconsin near Lake Superior, a place where I feel more at peace than anywhere else on this earth. Just a few weekends ago I got choked up when I had to leave my grandma’s house after a visit. We had so much fun together as she taught me to sew. She’s 93 years old; I don’t know how many visits we have left. The older I get the more I realize the value of special moments and want to hang on to them as long as I can.

When I got to the last book in the Naria series, The Last Battle, I approached the end with caution, my heart beating faster with every page as I silently longed for the children to get to stay in Narnia. Please, Mr. Lewis, let it end well! Mr. Lewis did not disappoint; in fact, he caught me by complete surprise. If you haven’t read the book, be warned that I’m going to give some of it away.

It was a rollercoaster, this last book. Through the scheming of Shift, the evil ape, and the Calormenes, Narnia is destroyed, and nearly all the children who had been to Narnia from its beginning, though some of them were now quite old, find themselves together, walking with Aslan deeper and deeper into a world that is strangely familiar and yet different—better—than the Narnia they had known. As they walk, they grow lighter in spirit and find that no matter how far they run, they never get tired, nor are they able to feel afraid. Along the way old friends from their adventures greet them, and they experience more joy in these reunions that they ever knew was possible.

And then they ask the question that had been on their minds (and mine!) the whole time: Would they get to stay this time. Aslan explains that they are in the new Narnia, the real Narnia, Narnia as it should have always been, and that this time, because they had all been killed in a train crash, they never again have to leave. “The dream is ended,” he says. “This is the morning.”

At this point in the book, I was sobbing into my pillow from both relief and a strange sort of euphoria. Something about C. S. Lewis’s depiction of eternity resonated with me so deeply that my whole perspective changed.

I’ve known since childhood God’s promise of heaven, but to my younger self, the thought of standing around in a white robe singing praise all day didn’t sound too exciting. As I grew older, the idea of seeing my grandparents or other loved ones again in heaven became more and more appealing, but I wanted to get a bit more out of life on this earth before going down that particular road. Now, though, things are different. Now I’ve known loss that has wounded me and left scars. Now I know I’ll never be able to think away the hollow spot inside me that grows a bit bigger every time I had to say good-bye. Now I feel so deeply the discouragement of a broken world. 

By the grace of God, I’m never without hope; I’m just waiting for the morning.

I know it might sound morbid to say I can’t wait to get to heaven, because unless Jesus returns first, death is a certainty. But going to heaven is not about dying; it’s about living! It’s about using every breath and gift I’ve been given right now to live deliberately—to hug a stranger who’s hurting, speak the truth boldly and with love, give away things I want to hold onto, and pray constantly. It’s about remembering that God didn’t put me on this earth to settle in comfortably and make a good life for myself until he calls me home; he put me here to serve and glorify him, no matter the difficulty or the cost.

As God’s own daughter, I know the best is yet to come. This wonderful knowledge gives me the courage to face my fears and follow God’s lead, even though doing so might push me beyond my comfort zone. It also gives me a new perspective on the happy times in life. I don’t need to hang onto people I love with a white-knuckled grip anymore because I’m afraid I’ll lose them. Of course I’ll lose them—that’s part of life in the shadowlands: everyone dies. So I take advantage of the time we have together, apologize and forgive, and choose to be patient, loving, and unselfish (and pray for a lot of help in those areas!). When God blesses me with mountaintop moments, I accept them with thanksgiving, enjoy them, and then let them go. I realize now that no matter how hard I try, I can’t keep them forever, and that’s okay!

Even though the children loved their time in Narnia, it was only when they experienced life in the new Narnia, Narnia as it should have been, that they knew what it was like to really live. When this temporary life is over and my life in heaven begins, I’ll know joy, peace, hope, and love in ways I’ve only caught glimpses of here on earth. Not to mention, I'll get to attend the best reunion ever! Even my happiest moments in this life can’t compare to the joy of heaven. Can you imagine?

Narnia may be a fantasy, but God’s heaven is not. Morning is coming. Praise God!

The Story That Was Hard to Tell

I need to tell the story that has in many ways defined the past year of my life. My story. It nags at me. The minute my mind slows down, it runs through my head like annoying song lyrics. I’ve avoided telling it because thinking about it too much hurts like a fist in my stomach. But this is a story I need to write if I want to get to the next chapter of my life, and today the time is right. I’m sitting on a wooden swing next to Lake Superior with no distractions or responsibilities. The sound of the water is soothing, and the sun is warm but not hot. I’m ready for a new tune.

It was on April 22, 2011, Good Friday, that I had my last conversation with my mom. She was in the hospital after having emergency surgery on an infection in her foot a week before. It had been a long road for her with more than a month of foot pain and no diagnosis. The doctors said she’d recover, even though whether she’d be able to keep her foot was up in the air, and, of course, she’d needed surgery to correct the malfunctioning heart valve.

That Good Friday she wasn’t herself, and I didn’t like it. There was an emotional disconnect that I can’t explain—like she didn’t know what it meant that I was her daughter, that all the confidences and laughter we’d shared and arguments we’d had were hidden away in a part of her mind she couldn’t access any more. We were acquaintances, she and I. My little nephew asked me to take her a stuffed bunny for him, and she talked to it like a child would. When I told her it was from Kaleb, she didn’t seem to care.

Then she told me she had conspired with my grandma to make sure Kev and I had Easter baskets, and she and my grandma had compiled a grocery list so there would be food in the house for our weekend visit, including pulp free orange juice—the only kind I drink. They’d talked about what we would have for Easter dinner. What a curious thing the human brain is.

I helped her eat her supper; she couldn’t really remember how to hold her spoon. I wanted it to be over, this Good Friday visit. I wanted to go away and come back the next day, when she’d be better. She could only get better. She was dozing off when we left; I don’t think I said “I love you.” I was too selfish. It was all about how I felt, not about how she felt, and this now makes me ashamed. I was naïve to think there would be a tomorrow, but I’m not that naïve anymore. We’re not guaranteed unlimited amounts of time. Love covers over a multitude of wrongs.

After church that night, my dad, grandma, Kev, and I went to the grocery store to get the things on the list my mom and grandma had made. When we saw the hot cross buns, we picked some up to take to my mom the next day, as she looked forward to them every year.  Surely the doctor wouldn’t mind if she had one. The uneasy feeling in my stomach kept me up that night.

The next morning, Kev and I went to the hospital. My dad had talked to my mom on the phone, and she was having a bath. She hadn’t slept well but the bath was helping her feel better.  We got off the elevator and saw my aunt sitting in the lobby. She’d walked it on my mom gasping for breath, unable to find her call button. When the nurses asked my mom her name, she couldn’t say. They’d taken her to the ICU and sedated her so they could insert a breathing tube. They used words like “blood clot,” but nobody really knew. It would be days before “mini strokes” and “kidney failure” became a diagnosis. The nurse who’d cared for her that morning was shocked. “Only minutes before, she was telling me all about her granddaughter,” the nurse said. It doesn’t surprise me that my mom’s last conversation on this earth would involve her grandchildren. I think part of the reason she hung on so long was because of them, but who can really say.

Phone calls were made. My brother got in his car and drove, and my sister and nephew booked a flight for the next day. They ended up staying for a month, going home for my nephew’s kindergarten graduation, and then coming back again for another month. In the weeks ahead, I drove back and forth from Minnesota to Illinois on the weekends, but my sister was there every day through the whole thing. She has her own story to tell.

Easter Sunday I cried through “I Know That My Redeemer Lives.” That afternoon at the hospital we urged my mom to wake up. We watched every movement, looking for signs of recognition, pleading with her to give us some clue that she was in there.  The nurses told us to give it time, but they knew she should have been come out of sedation by then. For the first time in my recent memory, I saw my dad cry. We prayed she would recover—hundreds of people prayed with us. “Family of believers” took on new meaning for us. A lot of people loved my mom.

But she never really woke up. She would open her eyes but couldn’t focus on anything. The breathing tube scared her. The infectious disease doctor monitored the blood cultures; the cardiologist told us she was too weak for surgery remove the infectious growth from her heart valve; the nephrologist said her kidneys were taking a beating; the neurologist said the infection broke off from her heart valve and caused mini strokes all over her brain. When they decided to take out the breathing tube, no one knew if she could breathe on her own. We said good-bye and committed her to Jesus, but God gave us more time. She will die of kidney failure on a few days, the doctors told us.

We started planning a funeral; my dad didn’t want to wait until the last minute. He knew just who he would call—the funeral director he’d worked with many times as a pastor, a kind and compassionate man who’d lost his own 18-year-old son and believed with his whole heart in the resurrection. My sister and I picked out funeral clothes for my mom. “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” I said. “Try not to think about it,” my sister replied. We decided on the dress she would have worn for Easter.

Hanging on to the hope that God is stronger than brain injuries and kidney failure, we continued to pray for a miracle. “If you’re going to take her, Lord,” I begged, “please just let her wake up so I can talk to her one last time.” She would have no moment of clarity on her death bed aside from mouthing three or four words of her favorite song as my dad sang to her, “Surely it is God who saves me. I will trust in him and not be afraid.”

On June 10, after being discharged from the hospital and spending a few weeks in a nursing home, my mom died. By then we were ready. By then her death was a blessing. But I still had things to say to her. I suppose I always will. I thought by now, almost a year after her death, I wouldn’t miss her so much. I’m finding it doesn’t work that way, though. I’ll always miss her—we all will.

Her funeral was beautiful. It really was. Our family grew by hundreds that day. No one is shy about hugging at funerals. We felt loved.

Maybe the hardest part of my story was the fact that I lost the mom I knew before she even died. I think the mini strokes started before she’d even been admitted to the hospital. The doctors blamed her confusion and altered personality on the antibiotics and stress her body was under, but they didn’t know her. Even in that, though, God blessed me with a special moment. There was one day when I called her in the morning, not long after her foot surgery. She was tired. I said, “Hi mom; it’s Keri.” She said, “My Keri.” For the rest of my life I will hang on to the memory of the sound of her voice when she said that. At least at that moment, my mom knew me.

I can’t talk to my mom anymore, but I love hearing my aunt and grandma tell stories about my mom’s childhood. There’s a new appreciation for one another in my family. I love the way my relationship with my dad is deepening. It used to be when I called, it was usually to talk to my mom. Now I call to talk to my dad, and it’s nice. He also has a story to tell, and I hope one day he’ll write it down. I love that my siblings and I have common memories and that there’s no danger of my mom being forgotten. My nephew Kaleb remembers his grandma, as do my stepchildren. But my niece was only three and my nephew only a baby when she died. It will be fun to share stories with them about their grandma as they get older. I love spending time with my mom’s friends when they just call to chat or invite me for tea. Maintaining some sort of connection to my mom is important to me, and God’s blessed me with ways to do that.

Grief used to be a burden. It frustrated me that I was not in control of my emotions—that I would at unexpected times cave under the weight of how much I missed my mom. I realize now that grieving is more than just a process to get through and leave behind; the loss I’ve experienced has shaped who I am in beautiful ways. Grief is necessary, but it doesn’t have to be a constant companion. If I’m sad, I need to let the sadness in for a short visit but not invite it to move in. If I feel the tears coming, I need to cry and then blow my nose and embrace the gift that each day is. It’s time to take off the mourning clothes and focus on using my gifts, cherishing my family and friends, loving others like Jesus does, and following where my Savior leads.

That’s my story. It’s not over, though. The next chapter is only just beginning.

Beauty in Strange Places

It’s easy enough for me to find beauty in nature. The way the snow sticks to the bare tree branches and then when the sun shines drips off in glittering gems. The way I can hear the power of a waterfall before I can see it. The way the scent of lilacs reminds me of spring. Poets seeking inspiration in nature don’t need to look too far. It’s easy enough to find beauty in man-made things too. Stately century-old mansions that reflect the ingenuity of a bygone generation. Paintings that capture the reflection of the human spirit. Songs that cut to the very soul and leave listeners groping for a tissue.

I think I’m the type of person who tries to recognize and appreciate beauty and even create some of my own from time to time, but I wasn’t prepared for the beauty I discovered one morning while riding the bus to work in downtown Minneapolis. There are a several lovely old buildings in downtown Minneapolis, but they’re overshadowed by concrete and steel and glass. Some skyscrapers could be classified as interesting or even impressive from a structural standpoint, but I’d certainly never call them beautiful…on their own. But when the sun rose that morning, the whole city changed. Hundreds of windows reflected pink and purple, and when the sun hit the city just right, steel turned to silver. The beams of light encompassed the city in an almost supernatural glow, and from a distance, Minneapolis, for a few minutes, became the dazzling Atlantis. But by the time I arrived downtown, the magic was gone. The sun was higher in the sky, and the city was drab and cold once more.

I love being surprised by beauty, especially when it transforms the bleakest of circumstances into something to wonder at.

I often think experiencing loss and its repeated aftershocks that sometimes bombard a person like rapid gunfire and other times just sort of linger in the background is the worst part of being human. Having to feel so much all the time is exhausting. Grief might diminish with time, but there’s still an empty place at the table, and nothing can change that.

But maybe one of the best parts of being human is being able to experience beauty in all shapes and forms, even in strange places—even as a result of loss. Empathy for the pain of others, renewed joy in relationships, an appreciation for what hasn’t been lost—these are beautiful things that perhaps can’t be known in their fullest capacity by someone who does not know loss.

It seems like a contradiction to me, the intermingling of loss and beauty, like flowers blooming on a battlefield or a rainbow arching over the ruins left behind by a tornado. It makes me think of Job, reeling from the loss of everything he held dear and tormented by open sores all over his body perhaps declaring boldly or, more likely, croaking out through parched lips, the beautiful words, “I know that my Redeemer lives, and He shall one day stand upon the earth.”  

Hanau, Germany

We visited a town in Germany that had at its center the remains of a bombed-out church. It would have been practical for the people in the town to just tear the whole church down, but someone saw the beauty in its mangled skeleton and rebuilt part of it while leaving another part as is, a reminder of the past. The people of that town did not seek to eliminate all traces of the terrible loss they experienced during the Second World War. What good would that have done? They weren’t ashamed of their wounds and scars encompassed in the shell of an old church, a profoundly beautiful reminder of their resilience and courage.

Maybe the people of that town knew what I’ve only recently come to realize: It would be a shame to waste loss—to experience it without seeing all the unexpected beauty brought about as a result. And it’s not the fleeting beauty of a sunrise over a city either. Rather, it’s a changed attitude…a thankful heart…an open hand…a quiet peace…a humble surrender…a bold testimony.

When it’s touched by the finger of the Creator, even the most heartbreaking loss can produce something beautiful. All we have to do is open our eyes and look.