Control

I sometimes refer to myself as a reformed control freak.  I think a better term would be "recovering" control freak.  Just like alcoholism, I think once a control freak, always a control freak.  No matter how much we learn, how many books we read, how much praying we do, some part of our brain will always revert to control freakism if we don't ride herd on it.

I started realizing how little control I really had just before I sobered up.  My life had spiraled completely out of control and there was very little I could do about any of it.  So I kind of gave up.  An amazing thing happened.  God took care of me.  He provided me with a place to sleep, food to eat, friends to support me, and anything else I could ask for.  I wasn't aiming very high.  Sometimes it was Ramen noodles for days on end.  But I had no idea where anything was going to come from and, miraculously, it all came to me.

This was the time when I was squatting in a hundred year old barn-turned-cabin in downtown Bastrop.  It was a tough time, but also a really happy one.  One of the first times in my life that I felt really in touch with God and truly free.  Bastrop, if you've never been, is beautiful and rustic once you get downtown and, though I didn't have money for gas, I could walk just about anywhere.  I remember walking down to the river one evening, laying down to look up at the stars, and being so happy I sang a little song to myself.  Crazy?  Perhaps.  But I was living with a kind of child-like simplicity that was indescribably freeing.  I think of these as my "cabin days."

Once I got into a recovery program I started learning nifty little phrases like "Let Go and Let God."  Maybe a little corny but definitely useful.  And I was doing a fairly good job at doing just that.  Then along came Eddie  and any remaining illusions of control flew out the window.

During Eddie's life, I learned how to maintain a control-free lifestyle.  After his death, I enjoyed a short grace period of remaining blissfully out of control.  Then slowly, surely, fungus-like, my need to control started creeping back over me.  I had healthy babies now and I could control certain aspects of their lives, right?  Through "helpful suggestions" (a.k.a nagging) I could somewhat control my husbands choices...right?  It was stealthy and I did not notice it for a long time, but, undeniably, the control freak was back.

I started noticing sometime over the past year.  I started longing for those cabin days, began believing that just because I have more responsibilities now doesn't necessarily mean I can't have the same mind-set as I had back then.  It was harder to get there though.  I couldn't just snap my fingers and go back to really, truly believing that I didn't have to worry about anything at all.  That God would provide for my family and protect us even if I just laid back and let the tide carry me for a little while.

I began praying that God would take me back to the cabin (mentally not physically).  That I live in blissful dependence on him, whether in plenty or in want.  Have I mentioned that God answers prayers?  My husband got laid off.  (Remember:  you never know how He is going to answer them.)  Oddly, I was immediately excited.  I knew from experience that as soon as everything falls apart, as soon as God shakes your snowglobe, that He then starts showing up in big ways, doing amazing things, and changing your head and your heart.  So I was almost giddy that we were jobless.

There were definitely times during this two month layoff that I lost my serenity for a little while.  They were, however, short-lived.  And God did show up.  He showed up in friends arriving with grocery bags full of food.  In cash donations, both anonymous and handed to us with loving smiles.  In me getting a job offer out of the blue.  In tanks of gas lasting longer than they've ever lasted before and items going on sale just as we needed them.  And, finally, a couple of weeks ago, in my husband getting a call to go back to work.  We survived.

Aside from praying and humbly letting people know the truth about our situation, I didn't do anything to get any of this.  I didn't rush off trying to fix the situation in my own strength; I let go and let God. I relaxed and felt joy.  There even might have been a few moments of public singing.  In my opinion, we would all do a little better if we were all just a little more like Buddy the Elf.

So although I'm still a work in progress, I am living a life of very little control again and it feels really good.  If I don't have my cell phone with me at all times, it's really okay.  If I run out of laundry detergent, my clothes can be dirty a little while longer.  Today my children mixed up their Play-Doh colors and, after a deep breath, I didn't have to correct them.  Life is good...and God is even better.

Wisdom and Waves

If I've learned nothing else through my faith journey, I've learned this:  God answers prayers.  Sometimes dramatically, always consistently, He hears our prayers and answers them in wonderful, practical ways.  There was a time in there that I had gotten out of the habit of asking for things.  Not like "Please God, let me win the lottery" kinds of prayers.  God knows I'm better off NOT winning the lottery and therefore I don't even bother asking.  Rather practical, everyday prayers that most likely to fit into His plan and His will for my life.  Things like favor, blessings, energy, peace, joy, happiness and wisdom.

Let me pause for a moment on that last one.  Did you know that God will always give you wisdom if you ask for it?  Not nine times out of ten, ten times out of ten.  How do I know this?  Because it is in the Bible.  James 1:5 tells us:  "But if any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask God, who gives to all generously and without reproach, and it will be given to him."  It doesn't get clearer than that.  I spend so much useless time fretting over what I should do in any given situation.  How I should handle Baby Girl's latest meltdown?  Should I accept or decline an invitation or opportunity?  The list could go on and on.  Until recently, though, I had forgotten that, no matter what the circumstance or decision, I could give myself a time out, ask God for wisdom, and patiently wait for an answer.

This has never failed me.  NEVER.  The problem is when I doubt the answer and do it my own way anyway. Or when I fail to hit that pause button and act on impulse or emotion without waiting for that Holy Spirit nudging or that still small voice.  Then I get myself in trouble.  The book of James speaks to this too.  It says, "But when he asks, he must believe and not doubt, because he who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind."  Isn't that a great image for what we are like when we stress and don't trust?  We say to ourselves, "I should do this...but if I do this, then this will probably happen and then I won't get this other thing.  So, maybe I should do that.  But if I do that..."

Sound familiar?  It's pretty much been the modus operandi for me on any given day with any given set of circumstances for the majority of my life.  But we don't have to live like that.  God says we don't and I believe Him.

I hate it when James 1:6 is taken out of context, though.  Here we are talking about praying for wisdom.  For God to impart His wisdom to our hearts, to tell us the direction in which we should go or the words we should say.  Nowhere in the Bible does it say that we can make God do everything our way.  He always, always, always answers our prayers, but we have to accept that sometimes the answer is no.  It does not mean we shouldn't ask, just that we should be prepared for the answer.  This is a fine point but an important one.  We attended a church briefly where the general belief was that if Eddie continued to be sick, if we did not receive a radical, bodily healing, that it was from a lack of faith on our part.  It was from being a wave "tossed by the wind."

I believed with every fiber of my being that God could heal Eddie of every illness, every affliction...everything. That God could give him a full and happy adult life.  And God could have, but that was not His will.  My prayer, always, was for the healing, but it was with thanksgiving for the time I had already been given with my son and surrender to the ultimate will of God.  So when Eddie died (really the ultimate healing), I was bereft, but not destroyed.  My faith remained unshakeable, because I know my God.  And He is nothing but love.  So I could accept and go on with my life.

There is nothing wrong with asking.  Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane, right before He knew He was going to be tortured, humiliated, and hung on a cross to die, prayed and asked God the Father to change the plan. He asked that there be another way.  That the cup would pass from Him.  But He added "thy will be done."  He accepted the will of God and that the horrible path ahead of Him was also the perfect path, the one that led to victory, not only for Him, but for every single one of us.

So tonight I'm praying for wisdom.  For God to sort through the desires of my heart and whisper to me which of them are within the scope of His will for my life and which of them I need to put aside.  Then I'm going to ask and I'm going to receive.  I'm going to knock and doors are going to be opened for me.  I'm seeking and I can't wait to see what I'm going to find.

Captain Jack

I like Renaissance festivals.  I went to Scarborough Faire for the first time in eighth grade.  It was a field trip and while many of my compatriots were more interested in the "wenches" with their rather immodest attire (I hung out with almost all guys back then) I was into the drama of it all.  I soooo wanted to don a bustier myself and start calling people "m'lord" and "m'lday."  I envied the players, even the ones wearing velvet in hundred degree weather.  They got to perform...all.day.long.

As I got older I did manage to get in on the fun.  My sisters and I invested in some awesome costumes and, while we sometimes still went in jeans and tanks, we often were belly dancers or ladies in waiting.  It was so much fun.  To pretend for a day that you belonged to a different era.  To be someone other than yourself and get a break from reality, if only for an afternoon.  To play.

In May of 2007, I took my little man Ed to Scarborough Faire.  It was a colossally good day.  Although I didn't deck him out in full Ren Faire garb for practical reasons, I knew my little drama king would be all kinds of irritated if everyone got to play dress-up but him.  So we had a Captain Jack Sparrow costume that was leagues too big but luckily Eddie's head was a couple sizes later than your average toddler's and the scarf/wig could be modified to fit.  The results were hilarious and Eddie was more than happy to entertain.  We scored him a canopied Dragon Wagon and proceeded to have one of the best days ever.

  
Looking at these pictures, it is still hard for me to believe he only had a few months left to live.  And although I had been to Scarborough dozens of times before he was born, I have not made it back.  Next year, I am planning on taking Baby Boy and Baby Girl.  They will have too much fun being a pirate and a princess not to indulge them and I think I'm up for it.  I might even let Baby Boy don the Captain Jack hat, but I doubt it.  There are some things that should not be repeated, that were so good and so perfect that they should be allowed to stand as they are.  Kind of like smashing a glass into the fireplace after celebrating a big moment, I think the Captain Jack headdress is retired.

Needle in a Haystack

It's been an exhausting day.  I woke up in good spirits, ate a healthy breakfast, and enjoyed my cup of joe.  Scarcely had the caffeine hit however, when I received a fateful call from my better half.  This is his first week back to work after a two month layoff (hip, hip, hooray!).  He called to let me know that the office needed his social security card and could I please find it?  There was a long, pregnant pause.  I promised I'd start looking.

Now, I know some of you are blissfully organized people.  God bless your sweet little type-A hearts.  I, on the other hand, am not.  My closet is full of bags of stuff.  Tax returns, pay stubs, grocery receipts, gift cards all living in harmony in tote bags.  There is no rhyme or reason.  Just...stuff.  Occasionally you run across a folder or two, evidence of an ill-fated attempt at organization at some point in my distant past, but there is no guarantee that its contents are uniform.  Might be children's artwork...and an insurance claim.  Seriously, it's a mess.

So when Phillip asked me to find his social security card, it was not with confidence that I checked the three places I deemed it most likely to be.  Fail.  Three hours later, after scouring through every single bag, every bin, every junk drawer and every stack of random paper on every dresser...epic fail.  And in the meantime my children had been responsible for entertaining themselves so the rest of the house was a disaster of toys, books, and fruit snacks.  I begrudgingly admitted defeat.

Now, one moral to the story is:  be careful what you pray for.  I recently felt an alien desire to become an organized person.  After all, if God can make me a morning person, He can do anything.  I think it has a lot to do with starting back to work in the fall.  Even though it is only part-time, I want to have an executable plan of attack as I take on the two year olds at Mother's Day Out, not scrambling to try to find what I did with my coloring sheets, order forms, activity plans, etc.  So when I did an inventory of my intentions and desires last week, I listed among them:  a clean, organized home.

My home is not dirty.  The dishes are always done, the floors swept, the bathrooms presentable.  No, it's clutter that gets me down.  I am a borderline hoarder and since I always think I'll get to things later, I just set them to the side.  When the piles start getting embarrassingly high, I transfer them to a tote bag.  I transfer those to my closet.  It gets to where you should not open the closet door without a hard hat.  So now that I have emptied all of the contents of my hidden clutter into my bedroom, I have a choice.  I can get organized or live in chaos.  Since that would undoubtedly be bad for my Feng Shui and I'm doing so well with stress management right now, I'm biting the bullet.  I've already moved an entire kitchen trashbag worth of stuff to the recycling bin.  I'm feeling pretty liberated, but also a little tired.

I found all kinds of interesting stuff.  I found a Christmas newsletter from a family I don't remember meeting.  I found pay-stubs and other "important" paperwork dating back to 2007.  I found Eddie's toothbrush.  Then I realized why I had let my clutter problem get out of hand.  Because every time I get motivated and start going through the closet or those boxes of junk in the garage, I hit something that stops my heart for a beat.  Something as small as a toothbrush or a bill from home health.  A "Certificate of Bravery" from the hospital.  A sock.  And usually that is the end of it.  I stuff it all back in the bag or the box, cram it back into its space, have a good cry, and decide to deal with it later.

Sometimes we don't even realize the stuff in our hearts that needs to be cleaned out.  We put it in a closet, shove it to the back, close the door and get on with our lives.  God sees those things though and He wants to heal them.  He wants me to be organized, not because cleanliness is next to godliness, which is not Scripture, by the way.  Instead because He knows having all that junk piled up, even hidden from view, stresses me out.  In the same way, He doesn't want me to shove Eddie's toothbrush back into the bin from which it came, throw it back up on the closet shelf, and distract myself until I forget about it.  No, He wants me to take a moment to heal.  To offer myself up to God as a living sacrifice, to lift up my heartache and accept Him as my Healer.  So I took a moment, held the toothbrush, and cried.  I remembered Eddie sitting with his feet in the sink, the water running over his tiny toes, while I brushed his teeth.  He loved to brush his teeth.  That's why I still had the toothbrush.  Because when it came time to throw it away after he had died, I couldn't.  It's weird the things that you just can't part with.  I did today though.  I thought of him, I told him I loved him, and I let go of the toothbrush.

I'm on my way to getting organized.  I'm cleaning the junk out of my closest, out of my garage, and out of my heart.  I'm going to find the needles in the haystack.  Maybe not the social security cards, which is no big deal, really.  We'll just order new ones.  But instead I'm going to ferret out the painful, hidden places where I haven't let God come in.  I don't know what or where they are, but He does.  It's going to hurt.  I'm expecting a few pin-pricks, a few drops of blood.  But I'm strong and courageous and God is with me.  So wish me luck.  I'm going back in.

Oh, Happy Day!

I woke up happy this morning.  If you have been following my blog, you know that is this something of a coup.  I opened my eyes at 6:00, before either of my kids had stirred, and though I did continue to relax and enjoy my bed for another 30 minutes or so, I got up cheerfully and somewhat energetically.  I made a pot of some of the fantastic coffee we picked up at the Rockwall Farmer's Market last Saturday.  (If you live in my neighborhood and are a coffee person, check out the FreshLife folks over there...fresh,organic, fair trade goodness.)  Holy cow!  I'm a morning person!  I'm telling you, our God is a God of miracles.

So far it seems the greatest thing about being a morning person is that you get some "me" time.  I can't remember the last time I didn't do my morning devotional to the accompaniment of the "Yo, Gabba, Gabba" or "Dora the Explorer" theme songs.  Mornings are normally my kids TV time so that Mommy can drink her coffee, read her Bible, and thereby not pinch their heads off.  I was able to eat my breakfast mindfully, savoring the food and the quiet.  I watered the plants in my backyard and it was under 100 degrees outside.  It was very nearly, almost pleasant out there.

Of course, they got up, but, almost like they sensed the change in the air, they didn't ask for the TV to be turned on.  They started the morning reading books with my grandmother and now then running around the house playing Spiderman and Batgirl.  They seemed really happy too.

I love old-fashioned Christian music.  Our lullabies growing up were old hymns like "Victory in Jesus" and "Love Lifted Me."  Being a preacher's kid, we had hymnals around the house and I spent my childhood going through them and belting out the ones I knew or playing them on my recorder.  (Wow.  That must have been annoying...)  Anyway, one of the best recordings of any good ol' gospel song is "Oh Happy Day" by The Edwin Hawkins Singers.  It was featured in the movie "Secretariat" and, yes, it made me cry.  There is also a contemporary Christian song called simply "Happy Day" by Fee and, while I used to dislike contemporary Christian music, it's growing on me and this song, among others, are now on iPod's Top 25 Most Played list.

The truth, and the basic idea of either song, is that really every day is a happy day because we are forgiven.  Through the sacrifice of Jesus Christ, we are reconciled to God and can enjoy not only an eternity in heaven but also peace, hope, and joy here on earth.  Faced with that reality, it seems like it would be hard to be unhappy.  But we are, aren't we?  It's not normal to wake up like Cinderella in her tower, singing a song of praise along with the little birdies despite her desperate life circumstances.  In general, we accept it as fact that we are going to wake up on most mornings sleepy and already a little stressed at best.  On more mornings than I can count, I have awakened downright miserable, the simple act of getting out of bed seeming to be more than I can bear.  I accepted that as my "normal."

I don't think that this is God's normal.  I think it is His will for us all to wake up as I did this morning, happy and excited to face a new day full of glory and possibilities.  Why wouldn't we?  If we lived in conscious awareness of the truth we would.  The truth is that we are unconditionally loved, that we are completely forgiven of every bad thing we have ever done, will do or even just thought about doing.  The truth is that we don't have to stress; we have a companion and a guide  to lead us through our everyday lives (every day) if we will just listen, trust our hearts for His wisdom, and obey.  It should be weird to wake up sad and grumpy.  I know some of you just scoffed, but that is because we all accept the lie that it is normal and possibly mandatory to be stressed out and incomplete.  If we are believers in Christ, however, we are made complete in Him.  Any yearning in our hearts can be satisfied by God if we will seek Him.  Our needs will be met, our prayers answered.  That is really good news and it is the Truth.  So I'm going to cling to these truths, I am going to claim them and to meditate on them, every hour of every day.  And, I guarantee you, I'm going to have a happy day.

Balancing Act

I am a bit of an extremist.  I don't know if it goes hand in hand with the whole addictive personality thing or if it's just the way God wired me, but I tend to have an all or nothing approach to life.  I'm either not exercising at all (like now) or running five miles a day.  My fridge is either full of highly processed, fatty, sugary fare or it's a super-food fest...everything in sight is green or orange, organic or whole-grain.  I used to be something of a fashionista and now we're all lucky if I've shaved my legs.  Sad but true.

At the time I am writing this, I am in the midst of a pendulum swing.  It's going in a good direction.  I've been eating better lately.  I went to the Farmer's Market for the first time in a long time last Saturday.  I went to a talk on nutrition hosted by my kids' pediatrician and got motivated about veggies.  I am reading "French Women Don't Get Fat" by Mireille Guiliano and am getting a little hyped up about finally shedding the last of my baby weight.  It's an excellent, extremely readable and entertaining non-diet diet book for those of you interested in something along those lines.  I am starting to feel the desire to get moving again in an exercise-y kind of way and determining that running around after my preschoolers just isn't going to cut it.

All of that being said, I am going to shoot for balance this time.  Not only is is apparently the French way (and I am nothing if not a Francophile) but I'm pretty sure it's the right way too.  I have already virtually cut refined sugar out of my diet (hooray!) so the piece of pie I indulged in at a friend's house last weekend seemed like what it was:  a tasty and indulgent treat.  I refuse to have a fridge full of aspartame (y'all know that stuff is poison, right?) but I don't need any Kool-Aid in there either.  I'm going to give myself permission to buy good food.  Really good food.

Because I have been lazy lately.  I've been using poverty as an excuse.  I read an article the other day that said the Southern poor are top-ranking when it comes to obesity.  I thought, "Well, duh!"  Fattening food is cheap.  If you are unemployed and trying to feed a family, it seems to make a lot more sense to get the chicken nuggets that are breaded with trans-fat and unidentifiable preservative stuff.  They cost about $6 for a month's worth and they will, indeed, last that long (f not until next summer).  The good for you, all natural, breaded chicken nuggets that are able to list all of their ingredients in plain English are sitting right next to their fattening friends in the freezer case.  They, however, cost $6 for one meal's worth.  When you are poor, and I have spent the majority of my married life living barely above or just below that line, you don't think you have a choice.

Despite which people judge you if you buy the good stuff.  Once when we were on food stamps I stopped at Whole Foods to grab myself lunch.  I bought a chef-prepared salad.  It was around five dollars and some change.  When I whipped out my Lone Star card, the man behind me in line gave a spontaneous lecture on how food stamps should not be accepted in "stores like this."  Seriously?  So if you have hit a rough patch,  experience a lay off, etc you should not even be allowed to shop in places that offer a variety of healthy, organic food.  No health for you!  Get your poor butt to WalMart where you belong!  And while I think most people would not feel comfortable actually voicing their opinions as he did, I imagine the majority of those in line felt the same way.  Conversely, if I had been "where I belonged" buying a nice preservative and sodium stocked Hormel microwaveable meal, also five dollars and some change, nobody would have said a word.  In our country, health is for the privileged.  Let the masses eat (Little Debbie) cake!

It has occurred to me that despite the fact that there is some truth to all of this, it is also an excuse.  Because I don't really need to buy frozen chicken nuggets of either variety.  I could buy some chicken breasts, eggs, and bread crumbs and make my own.  Per unit it is probably the same price as the cheap nuggets and nutritionally it is probably better than the expensive ones.  It know it's going to taste better.  And, seriously, it's not that labor intensive.  My kids aren't asking for a souffle for lunch... and they wouldn't eat one even if I made it.  Lately for breakfast I have been scrambling myself some eggs with spinach, mushrooms, and feta cheese.  None of those are expensive ingredients and, I've got to tell you, it beats the heck out of Honey Nut Cheerios.

So I'm on a mission and I invite any of you to join me.  I'm going to be a foodie on a budget.  I'm going to start cooking.  Really cooking.  Real food.  And while I may not be able to afford all the grass-fed, organic stuff I can eat, I can afford fresh green beans and artisanal bread.  If I don't buy a Marie Callender's pie, I can afford Greek yogurt.  I'm going to take my own motherly advice and "make good choices."  I'm going to be both healthy and happy.  C'est magnifique!

How Eddie Died (The Sweet Escape)

Okay, so I know those of you who follow the blog regularly and don't know the story have probably been curious about this particular topic.  I am feeling brave this evening, the kids are napping, and I have had a Chai tea and an L-Theanine.  So here it goes...

In May of 2007, Phillip and I decided we could no longer afford the duplex we were living in so we moved out to a trailer his mother and dad own in Red Rock, Tx.  Red Rock is about thirty miles southeast of Austin and a mile north of the Middle of Frickin' Nowhere.  It was where Phillip lived when we met and I swore to myself I would never, never, never live there.  But, there we were.

The day we moved in, I set one foot outside of the car and a butterfly landed on it.  He sat there for a moment, slowly opening and closing his wings, and, I don't know why, but suddenly I knew.  With a deep-down, uncanny certainty that this was to be Eddie's last stop.  The site where he would shed the chrysalis of this life and fly away from me to the arms of the Lord.  I didn't share this knowledge with his dad.  Oogie-boogie stuff makes Phillip a little nervous for one thing and for another I did not want to rob him of any hope and joy for the coming time we had with our little man, however long it would be.

As the summer progressed, Eddie's liver disease worsened.  The TPN (intravenous nutrition) was necessary to sustain him, but it was killing his liver.  Soon his liver stopped being able to process it altogether.  Although he was getting enough calories pumped through him to be downright chubby, he was steadily losing weight.  His eyes and skin were growing more and more yellow.  The food he was eating was helping a little with the liver and nutrition stuff, but not nearly enough.  Still, these were happy days.  He was a normal twenty month old in every other way:  learning new words, learning to use crayons rather than eat them, dancing and playing.

Let me digress a moment to explain what I mean by "dancing."  He was mobility-impaired...all of the abdominal surgeries and issues had kept him from ever crawling much less walking.  But like his parents, Eddie loved music and he would wave his little hands and clap.  In our bathroom there was a vanity along one wall and a huge mirror above it.  One of his favorite songs in those days was Gwen Stefani's "The Sweet Escape."  It has a really catchy little "woo hoo, wee hoo" at the beginning and throughout and Eddie really got into it.   I would hold him up on that vanity, supporting his little hips, and he would sway back and forth and wave his "jazz hands," laughing and smiling at himself in the mirror.  It is one of my favorite memories.

In the first week of August, Eddie began to have fevers.  It had all the earmarks of a central line infection.  We faced a decision.  His last line replacement surgery had resulted in Eddie wanting to quit altogether.  The point of his central line was to deliver the TPN.  The TPN wasn't really working anymore, except to accelerate his liver disease.  Either Eddie could make it on the nutrition he ate alone or he couldn't.  The inevitable moment had come.  We scheduled a surgery to have his central line removed.

When we were admitted and Eddie had to put on a hospital anklet, he screamed like it had burned him.  It made me feel glad that this was, really, the last time he would have to be in a hospital.  His surgery was quick and easy and we were able to take him home immediately.  Everyone was so loving and supportive of our decision.  Our hospice doctor made sure we had oxygen support and pain medications and we went home.

Phillip and I were still praying for the radical miracle.  I still had faith for it, but, just as with the sinking certainty I had felt with the butterfly encounter when we arrived at our house, I felt that God's answer this time was "no."  For a couple of days, it seemed like things were going well.  Eddie was eating and interacting normally.  But things changed on Thursday night and by Friday morning it was pretty clear that the end was near.

That morning I still prayed for miraculous, radical healing.  Desperately, fervently, I prayed.  As the day progressed, though, and Eddie continued to decline, my prayer changed.  I gave God two options.  He could, as I had begged Him, radically heal my twenty-two month old son.  This option came with lots of promises.  Eddie and I would be on every television program telling our story and giving praise to God.  This was Option A and the desperate desire of my heart.  If that wasn’t God’s will, however, I helpfully supplied Option B.  If He was going to take my son home, He needed to go ahead and do it.  Now.  Not this slow, steady decline.  It was far too painful, both to Eddie and to me.  So, now God had it.  My acceptable two options:  a Lazarus-style miracle or instant death.

God wasn’t listening to me.  Eddie lost his sight, his eyes becoming soft and dry.  He stopped eating and drinking.  The hospice nurse came to check on him.  I asked her how long this could last.  Death was a funny thing, she said.  She could leave and immediately have to come back to declare him dead or this could last for days.  The word “days” resounded in my heart like a shotgun blast.  I could sit here at our bedside and be forced to watch, helplessly, as my child wasted away for days.

By this time, I had run out of words to pray.  In my desperation, I still reached out in faith.  I remembered that when Pope John Paul II prayed, he simply came into the presence of God and said one word:  “Yes.”  This became my prayer as well.  The nurse left around eleven p.m. and as I sat next to my tiny toddler, my heart breaking, I internally prostrated myself before God with that word on my lips.  “Yes.”  Your will be done, even in this.  Immediately, my agony was accompanied by a quiet peace.  The pain did not leave me but I knew that Christ was sitting right there with me as we endured this together.

At two-thirty Saturday morning on August 11th, 2007, I took a moment to be alone with God.  I washed the few dishes in the sink, talking to God.   “Thank you for Option C," I said.  "I don’t understand it.  I don’t like it.  But I know you love me and you love Eddie even more than I do.  So whatever this is, it’s for our good.  So, thank you and I love you.”

I walked back into the bedroom, looked at Eddie, and knew that he was gone.  In those few moments, his spirit had gone home.  I wanted the first words I said to be words of faith.  God’s peace enveloped me and enabled me, even with a shattered heart, to say, “Naked came I out of the womb and naked go I thither.  The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.  Thanks be to God.”

There is no moment like the moment your child dies.  Nothing more heartbreaking, nothing more surreal.  But God was with me.  He was listening to every single one of my prayers.  The shortest verse in the Bible is John 11:35.  It states simply:  "Jesus wept."  Even though He was about to raise Lazarus from the dead (and He knew it), when he encountered Mary's grief, He cried with her.  I think He did this so that we would know that at these moments, He weeps with us as well.  We are never alone in our grief.  Not in the moment that my son left this earth and not while I sit here, weeping, and write about it.  The Lords sustains me...and weeps with me.

Phillip and I called hospice.  We lovingly and reverently washed our baby's body and changed his clothes.  We placed him in his crib and covered him with a blanket.  It was impossible, but we did it.  We loved him and we honored him, both in life and in death.  When our hospice nurse arrived, her eyes were tear-stained but she smiled and said, "Our boy is free and he is flying."

She didn't even know about the butterfly on my foot back in May or that I had spent most of the day rocking Eddie and singing "I'll Fly Away."  She did know the truth, though.  That as hard as it was for all of us, Eddie was free.  He was running into the arms of the Lord.  Running!  Like a normal nearly two year old.  His stomach didn't hurt anymore.  He would never shed another tear.  He was perfect, whole, and home.

It was nearly dawn by the time all of the administrative stuff had been taken care of.  The van from the funeral home pulled away from our house just as the sun was breaking over the horizon.  It was a beautiful morning and a cool breeze was blowing.  Phillip and I sat down in the lawn chairs in our front yard and watched the sunrise.  We didn't say anything.  Really, when you've just been through what we had been through, there isn't a lot to say.  A butterfly landed on my arm, opened its wings a couple of times, and flew away.  There was so much ahead of us:  phone calls, funeral preparations, a new baby, and a lifetime of coping with grief and the loss of our first-born son.  But in that moment, I just watched that little butterfly fly away and felt peace in the assurance that my little boy was with his Savior.  That Eddie had found his own sweet escape, from all the pain, all the struggling, all the sickness.  That he was happy, laughing and joyfully showing Jesus how well he could dance.