by jphilo | Apr 14, 2010 | Family
Looking back on the past week is like peering into a kaleidoscope, one lovely image melting into another before I have time to process them.
A walk on a spring evening beside a West Virginia river is replaced by a conference room. The psychiatrists and therapists cry and blow their noses as they listen to the story of my infant son’s surgeries and the legacy of trauma it created. Those people fade away, and I am eating pizza with family gathered for my son and almost daughter-in-law’s wedding. The next few days are a blur of more family arriving, watching my sister arrange flowers, using her kitchen to fix meals for out-of-town guests, decorating the hall for the reception, and going out to supper after the rehearsal.
The pictures in the kaleidoscope of my mind tumble and dissolve. But one picture never changes. The love on the faces of my son and his bride during the wedding ceremony never wavers. His eyes are soft and wet with tears. She smiles at him with an unfaltering gaze.
I see their faces while I walk this spring morning – in every leaf full of the promise, in every flower bud plump with beauty. A glorious sunrise greets me at the top of our hill, and in its glow I see two lovely faces. The kaleidoscope stops tumbling. For a moment, I can not breathe for the joy pressing upon my heart. I am home.
And so, I know, are my son and his new wife.
by jphilo | Apr 6, 2010 | Out and About
I’m beginning to doubt my wisdom in accepting an East Coast speaking engagement three days before our son and almost daughter-in-law’s wedding. I wouldn’t have considered it if the venue and topic had been less important. But how could I say no to sharing the truth about early medical trauma with doctors and other medical professionals? I couldn’t say no, which means this week is a busy one . And, oh boy, getting ready for two trips in one is mind boggling.
Things were pretty calm – speech ready, clothes picked out, wedding presents bought, books shipped – until last week when our future daughter-in-law emailed. “Could you bring two coolers,” she asked, “and some board games to put on the tables at the reception so guests have something to do after the ceremony while the photographer takes pictures?”
“Sure,” I said. When the games were cleverly packed in the cooler, I remembered the Christmas lights we bought for the daughter’s wedding later this summer and packed them, too, just in case. Hiram put the coolers in the trunk, and I dusted off my hands. “All packed, except for my suitcase and rolling briefcase.”
Then I remembered the wedding presents – ours and Mom’s – so I wrapped them and put them on the table, so as not to forget them. Next, I thought of the packages that came for Anne this week, the ones she wanted me to give her after the wedding. They went on the table, too. I dusted my hands. “All ready, except for the suitcases and the briefcase.”
On Easter Sunday afternoon, the son called. “Could you bring props for the photo booth?” he asked. “We need things for the guests to wear when their pictures are taken. Just get stuff from our old costume boxes,” he suggested. “Be sure to put in the wrap-around-the-neck gorilla hands.”
By the time I raided the kids’ costume box, my stash of disguises, and the junk drawer in our nightstand, two boxes were filled with hats, clown, pig and elephant noses, scarves, shawls, kazoos, doo-rags, aprons, parasols, old glasses, and who knows what else. I put the boxes on the table beside the other stuff. Monday afternoon, just before the rain started, Hiram and I carried everything to the car. When it was stowed in the car, I dusted my hands. “All packed,” I said, “except for my suitcase and the rolling briefcase.”
Problem is, there’s not much room left for either one. So I guess I’ll be traveling light. Think anyone will notice I’m wearing my swimsuit to the conference and the wedding?
by jphilo | Dec 14, 2008 | Out and About
A winter moon, bright and full, shown above us as we left the monastery early yesterday morning. It escorted us down the mountain, along steep and winding roads, as the headlights of the car illuminated the heavy, snow-covered branches bending over us.
The moon followed us to Interstate 64 , past refineries with belching smokestacks and into the rolling, white-fenced pastures of Kentucky. For two hours, the moon hovered above us, until the sun rose, pink and quiet behind us.
“What is this like for my son,” I wondered as the moon faded and the sun gains strength, “Driving away from one life and toward the next? What must he be thinking? How can he do this?” We drove all day, and he gave no indication of qualms or second thoughts, and we arrived home at nine o’clock last night.
This morning, I was three steps outside the door when I stopped to take this picture. The moon, the tiniest bit smaller than it was yesterday, hung above the trees along our driveway in the rich blue morning sky. It had followed us from West Virginia to Iowa. I basked in this assurance that some things will stay the same, no matter where my child goes: the sun will rise and set, the moon will wax and wane, God’s sovereign hand upon him, and my love and prayers for his new life.
Some day, when he’s settled in an apartment, a framed copy of this photograph will be my housewarming gift. When he asks me why I called it “Faithfulness,” I’ll remind him of the moon that followed us from West Virginia to Iowa and of the sovereign God who created it.
by jphilo | Dec 12, 2008 | Family
A white landscape, completely different from yesterday’s gray gloom, greeted us this morning when we went to pack the car. Allen says it’s West Virginia snow: it won’t stay around long, but will be treacherous while it’s here. Hopefully the snow will be true to form and disappear before we start driving late this afternoon.
The therapists say Allen’s response to treatment has been true to form. When I picked him up for lunch Thursday, his Wednesday gloom was gone. He talked non-stop while I drove and was upbeat when I picked him up at the end of the day. When he walked into our motel room after supper, he turned to me and said, “Finally, I have peace. The internal noise I’ve heard all my life is gone, and I know how to control it when it returns.”
For the past two weeks a string of miracles, bright and hopeful as Christmas lights in December, led to this moment. For years, Hiram and I asked God to heal Allen’s heart of the medical traumas he experienced. His words said the prayer had been answered, though it will take a long time for him to recover completely. Then another miracle occurred. I didn’t cry. Instead, I hugged my son for a very long time. And he hugged me back.
Today Allen finishes treatment. I join him and the therapists from three o’clock to four-thirty to talk about follow up counseling and other things. We’ll drive as far as the monastery tonight so he can tell Father Seraphim and the other monks about his week. We’ll drive to Iowa tomorrow (Saturday) in an attempt to beat Sunday’s predicted storm.
We need a few more prayers to get us home. First, pray that we find a therapist to do follow up treatment in either Iowa or Minnesota. Pray for us while we travel and dodge winter storms. Pray for Allen during the holiday as he rests at our house and adjusts to life as a recovered post traumatic stress syndrome sufferer. Pray for him as he explores his options and embarks upon a new, unexpected future.
Thanks for every note and email, every phone call, and every prayer offered on our family’s behalf in the last few weeks. We are so grateful for your part in what God has orchestrated.
by jphilo | Dec 11, 2008 | Out and About
Today’s weather is depressing. “This is what I don’t like about West Virginia winters,” Allen said as I drove him to the Intensive Trauma Therapy Institute today. “Most days are soggy, chilly, and dark.”
Yesterday was dreary, too, and the weather didn’t help Allen’s struggle with “the Wednesdays,” a phrase coined at the Trauma Institute to describe the predictable midweek downturn most patients experience.
When I picked him up at 4:30 yesterday, we did all we could to banish the Wednesdays. The weather and traffic conspired against us, but we persevered. First, we ate an early supper at Panera. (You’ll be pleased to know I didn’t spill a thing!) Then we threaded our way through the most bizarrely laid out parking lots and frontage roads we’ve ever seen, right into rush hour traffic.
After a fruitless trip to Blockbuster Video to rent silly comedies (we were too cheap to pay $10 bucks for two DVDs), we spent ten minutes trying to cross the street to get to a Kroger’s Market so Allen could pick up some hair ties. We found the ties and a DVD rental kiosk (kinda like Red Box) where we scored big time – Get Smart and Stranger than Fiction for $2!
A rush hour accident snarled traffic, and as we inched along, I looked Allen straight in the eye. “I’ve never been in a traffic jam with you before. This could be a defining moment in your new life.” That declaration set us both giggling, so we were primed and dangerous by the time we arrived at the motel and slid Get Smart into the computer.
The movies and your prayers crushed the Wednesdays completely. This morning, Allen was a bit more cheerful. He teased me about my tendency to over-plan and joked about the dark colors that comprise his present wardrobe. There was confidence in his step and hope on his face as he entered the Institute to face another day of memories.
The weather says “Wednesday” this morning – depressing, wet and cold, dark and gloomy. But the calendar says it’s Thursday, and God says there’s sunshine after the rain. Someday, my son and I will see it. Then, we’ll laugh.
