Soul Deep

Some times it takes a while for things to sink in. Last Sunday, a student at college, after hearing about Ron's recent illnesses and continuing hospitalization, says this to me: "You must really love him." I am busy at the moment--I am always busy--so I tuck the comment away for later mulling. Like many tiny seeds, it settles in and begins to grow.

When I, at the knowledgeable age of 20, married Ron almost 40 years ago, I suspected that his love for me was greater than my love for him. It worried me, what I saw as an imbalance, so I did everything I could to be the best wife possible. I saw love, lo those many years ago, as a finite quality. You had only so much to give and you weren't getting anymore. The births of my three children showed me that love could be all-encompassing. So much was my love for my children, I feared I would have none left for my husband.

I need not have worried. What I did not know at the beginning of our marriage, I began to discover after the first twenty years.

Love grows. It grows deep.

It is not, I hasten to say, the love advertised in sappy Hallmark cards or in Harlequin romance novels. Real love, deep love, love meant to last a lifetime, grows through trials and triumphs, joys and sorrows, gains and losses. The birth of our first son, Dennis, was a gain. The loss of our second child was not. And so it went on, tallies being put into a ledger sheet of negatives and positives, more or less evening out. If not the stuff of fairy tale endings, it was still a good life. I was content.

Chronic depression first came to live with us in 1995, putting our marriage vows to the test. Ron's personality changed as mood swings took over. I struggled, at times, to recognize in him the man I had married. I thought about leaving him--more than once--but I still hoped and prayed we would find our way out of the maze. During his calm periods, there was enough left of Ron to convince me that he still dwelled  inside. I stayed. We managed. But as more and more of my husband's self was given over to his fight against unseen forces, I found myself growing in strength, and courage, and faith.

More positives to the ledger.

People--well-meaning, I am sure--asked me why I stayed. My answer was, I thought, a reasonable one. I stayed because my marriage vows had meant something to me. I stayed out of duty and commitment. I assumed, without really examining it, that it was also out of love.

We were already pretty heavy on the negative side of the balance sheet when the infamous red pickup truck struck and all but killed Ron. We'd survived--by the skin of our teeth, I might add--a lengthy hospitalization at Friends' the summer before and I was hoping for a little calm in my way too hectic life. Fast forward over the last 15 years to many hospitalizations and surgeries and we arrive at last Sunday and my student's words, still working their way into my brain.

"You must really love him."

My 20 year old self, wearing the white veil and saying "I do" couldn't  possibly have known this, but life and love are not a balance sheet. Love, when allowed, takes root and grows. It starts with that tiny seed--the quickened pulse, the slightly dizzy feeling when near the loved one--and it takes root in our soul. It is watered by both tears and joys. It becomes a part of you. It became a part of me.

Acquaintances, both old and new, always express astonishment at what our family has been through and particularly at how I have managed to hold so many things together and still maintain a positive attitude. Yesterday, on  the way home from visiting Ron in his current hospital, I asked my daughter why this is. Do people think I've lost my own marbles because I continue to do this? Have I , indeed, gone around the bend myself?


She smiled at me. "They think, Mom," she said, "that you are the most amazing woman they have ever met. They think that they couldn't do what you have done." She hugged me. "And you don't even know how amazing you are."

I cannot claim to always be amazing, because it is hard to have a husband who has been so ill and continues to require much care. But Ron has become so much a part of my life and my spirit, that the word "love" does not come close to expressing what I feel. It is, I hope, what God intended love to be when He saw that lonely Adam needed a help-mate in the Garden of Eden. My choice to continue with Ron also means I make the choice to continue growing and allowing the love of both my husband and God to take root in me. I recognize that others might not be able to do what I have done. I do not judge. I do what I need to do and, in same ways, I do it for me as much as for Ron. Love has been planted in my soul.


A while back, an acquaintance of mine said that she would like to "be me when she grew up." I reminded her that my life was far from easy. "I know," she said wistfully. "It's not your life I admire. It's the grace with which you live it."

I quit keeping track of the balance sheet long ago.  A life cannot be measured by positives and negatives. While years ago, I considered myself to be content with life, I now know that I have come to a better state. Despite being mostly tired and sometimes discouraged and often upbeat, I have joy that does not depend upon outward trappings.

Soul deep joy. Soul deep love.

So, does anyone else want to be me when they grow up?

To my daughter: How to be incredible

It is one of our last days driving home from the city together; in less than two weeks, Bonnie will marry Jared and begin her own commute from his apartment in Springfield. She is chattering on about the wedding, and her students, and things she is worried about. I am half-listening because sometimes it is just best to let her spin instead of trying to make sense of it all. I am still trying to reach the MICU nursing station at Hahnemann, where my husband is receiving ketamine infusion treatments. But then my daughter says something that makes me put my cell phone away.

"I don't think I can do it," she says. I am on high alert now. Do what? What part of the dialogue
 have I missed? What can't she do? Marry Jared? Teach special needs students? Finish her degree?

Casually, I try to pick up the thread. "You never know until you try," I say.

She shakes her head, her ponytail moving from side to side. Her freckles stand out from her pale face. "I just don't think I can do what you have done. What you do."

I want to laugh with relief. "Not everyone needs to get a doctorate, " I say. "Or teach college."

"Not that," she says. "What you do with Dad. How you take care of him and all of us. How you have for years. Frankly," and she shakes the ponytail again, "I don't know how you do it. You are the strongest woman I know, but I don't think I could ever be that strong."

It is hard to know how to respond. Certainly, in the last fourteen years, much has been required of me. It is not easy--and never has been--to take care of Ron's physical needs, work to support us all, and provide for the kids as well. I work too many hours and have too little rest, but I somehow manage to be there for each of my family members. I am pleased that my daughter recognizes what I have done. But have I set the bar impossibly high?

"I didn't know I could do it," I remind her quietly. "When Dad was first injured, when everything first fell onto me, I was certain I would crack in two. But God gave me strength I didn't know I had."

I hear the tears in her voice. "I love Jared so much," she says, "that I do not think I could stand to see him injured or in pain."

Immediately, I am transported back to March 1, 2000, and the recovery room at Crozer Hospital where Ron lay after the surgery, so still and gray he might have been carved from marble. I reached out to touch him, but there were tubes and monitors everywhere. My knees buckled and Pastor Lou grabbed my arm. "You can do this," he said. And I did. I found a spot by my husband's left shoulder and touched it lightly, then bent and kissed his dry lips. We were told that Ron would be hospitalized for several weeks, but would likely make a full recovery.

Fourteen years and twenty-six surgeries later, and I am still leaning on Lou's words: You can do this.

I clear my throat. "I don't do it alone," I say. "God gives me what I need."

She looks at me for a moment, then turns her eyes back to the road. "See," she says, "you and I look alike and talk alike. But I think I'm more like Dad in some ways. I don't know that I could trust God to get me through what you've had to do. I think I would crumble."

"I thought I would, too," I say. "I still do, sometimes. And I am not saying it is easy, Bonnie. I am saying that with God all things are possible." I try to remind her of her own strength that has seen her through heartache and loss, of the love she shares with Jared that will strengthen them both. But she remains unconvinced. Our conversation moves onto other things and eventually we are home and she is heading off to meet her fiance. She kisses me first. "I love you so much," she says. "You are an incredible woman."

I watch her drive away, a wave of emotions hitting me with scenes and sounds from the last few years. As I walk into the house, I become convinced of this: she will be strong enough for whatever life brings her way. She herself needs to know this.

So, this is for her, my beautiful daughter, light of my life. I may be the strongest woman she knows, but she is the strongest one I know.

Dearest Bonnie,

Your strength does not come from your freckles or your blue eyes or your wonderful laugh. These are things that attracted Jared to you, but what he fell in love with was much, much deeper. It is your faith and your trust that makes you the woman that you are, the woman he wants as his wife. He, with a disabled father, knows as well as anyone that life has no guarantees. The only thing we can count on is God and our love for each other.

I pray that you never need to experience the ongoing illness of your husband. I pray that he will continue to be strong and healthy, but I cannot promise you that it will be that way. We live in a world in which accidents--such as red pickup trucks running red lights--happen. People we love get hurt.

I have no doubt at all that God will equip you with whatever you need, whenever you need it. I believe it because I have seen it. I have seen you take over as Allen's mother when Dad was first injured, making sure that he had supper and did his homework. I have had you by my side throughout many of Dad's surgeries. I have seen you share your deep faith in God with those who came to inspect our knitting and crocheting as we sat in many waiting rooms. I have seen you through the heartache of loss of a dream and a home and a job. I have seen you turn to God to help you rebuild your life and allow yourself to love again.

I know you better than anyone else does. I knew you before you took your first breath. And I know, without any doubt at all, that you are strong and capable. I know that your love for both God and Jared will allow you to do things you do not think you can do. I know that you will face the unknown future holding tightly to your husband and your faith.


I wish--oh, how I wish!--that I could promise you light and roses and all good things. I wish I could protect your from the evils of the world. I wish I could wrap you in a hand-knitted cocoon of the softest yarn and keep you always safe. But one does not grow in a cocoon and one does not get to experience all the joy that God has for us. 

And here is the secret to being strong, dear daughter. Even in the midst of chaos and tragedy, even as I struggle to help your father with yet another hospitalization, yet another recovery, I have joy in my heart because I do what is right, because I honor my marriage vows, because I continue to trust and believe in God. When we give ourselves in marriage, it is for better and for worse, in sickness and in health. It is a promise that is difficult to keep. While I am sometimes physically exhausted by all that is expected of me, it is always well with my soul.

It will be well with yours as well.

Always and forever, to the moon and back,

Mom

It Matters Whom You Marry: Before and After

My daughter is planning her wedding. She and her fiance want a very simple affair with less than a hundred people. They are not concerned with the flowers or the music or the food at the reception. They are concerned with making sure their marriage will honor God. This is what they put their energies into as they move towards June 28, the day they will become husband and wife.

My daughter's happiness spills out of her and I rejoice that she, who has seen so much hurt in her young life, still has the capacity to love someone as much as she loves Jared. I thank God for that. But I also take a little credit. Somehow, in the midst of a home life where their father has been hospitalized more times than not, my children still believe in everlasting love and Christian marriage. What a miracle! How has this come to be?

This morning I saw a blog on Facebook entitled "It Matters Whom You Marry." The intent of the blog was to give advice to young Christian girls on how to choose their future husband. And as I read through the five suggestions given by the author, God revealed the answer to my question to me. The reason my children can all still open themselves up to loving another is this: I chose the right man. And, equally as important, he chose the right woman.

Since Ron's car accident in 2000, our lives have been divided into "Before" and "After." Our marriage is  no different. So to well-meaning doctors and acquaintances who ask me, "Why do you stay with him?" I respond with my own list of five.

1. IT WILL IMPACT YOU SPIRITUALLY.
Ron and I began attending church together shortly after we started dating. In the year before our wedding, we read through the Bible together using a couples' devotional. I had come from a Catholic background and Ron had been raised in the Baptist church. We built up one another's faith. We took on ministries in our church right away and started every meal with a blessing. When we had children, we dedicated each into God's family and made sure they were fed spiritually. Sunday School, Church, Evening Services, and Wednesday night prayer meetings were our weekly routine.

In the after time, there are Sundays when Ron cannot get to church. I go without him when I feel that I can leave him, letting others at church know that he is thinking of them. The accident has altered Ron in many ways, but it has not altered his care towards others. He calls those that are hurting or sick and tries to cheer them up. Does it impact me spiritually? Definitely. Ron's illnesses bring me closer to God. I have spent many, many hours praying in hospital rooms and trusting Ron's very life in the hands of the Great Physician. There has never been a time in the After that I have not been able to ultimately say, "God can handle this."


2. IT WILL IMPACT YOU EMOTIONALLY.
In the Before time, Ron was a kind person who was not afraid to show his own emotions. If I cried, he held me close and handed me his handkerchief. He never once accused me of being a cry-baby or a weak woman! He did all he could to keep me balanced. I tend to take on too much in my life, and Ron always tried to get me to set priorities and keep myself safe in all ways.

Ron is still the same kind person, even though his own emotions are often out of whack. I do not cry much in these After days, simply because my life is too full and time is precious. I would rather pray than cry. But the first 20 years of our marriage gave me the groundwork I needed to become a wife and a mother. My emotions now channel into my writing, which Ron whole-heartedly encourages.

3. IT WILL IMPACT YOUR PHYSICALLY.
Ron worked hard to support us. When we married, he was making little more than a hundred dollars a week and I was going to school. Money was tight. Money has always been tight. Material things did not matter that much to us. We always had a warm, safe house and food to eat. We had enough to share with others in more need than us. Ron worked a second job from time to time when the kids were small. If a child needed shoes, he did without. He even welcomed the series of "Lost Boys" into our home, fellows who would stay with us for a while seeking some stability. It certainly impacted his wallet, but I never heard him complain.

Ron is no longer able to work. I work two jobs now to support us and provide for Ron's medical needs. I try not to complain, although I do get tired from time to time. He is the first one to suggest I take a day off or sit and rest for a while. It is advice I do not always take. But because I know the bulk of our support depends on me, I take care of myself. I watch my weight, exercise, take vitamins, and try to get enough sleep. If he is snoring too loudly, he will move to the couch so I can sleep.

4. IT WILL IMPACT YOU MENTALLY.
Yes. And yes. Ron told me early on in our dating days that he had a bit of a temper. It was never, ever directed towards me or the kids. I desperately wanted to finish my bachelor's degree, and Ron helped me make that happen. The fact that he did not have a college degree himself did not impact the decision to encourage me.


I now not only have a bachelor's degree, I have a master's and a doctorate. Mentally, it is sometimes challenging to handle all of Ron's medical and psychological issues. But I am grateful that I was prepared to support us with my advanced degrees, and that my ability to understand medical issues has helped me to panic less when a surgery looms. I have sometimes wondered if I would have all the education I do if Ron had not become ill.

5. IT WILL IMPACT YOU RELATIONALLY.
I have a small, but close, family. I also have really good friends. Ron supported the time I spent with my family and friends and made sure we divided holidays up evenly. I will admit I have lost some friends in the After time. There are those who just do not understand that my time is very limited. There are others who do not "get" while I am still with Ron. I do not need those people.

The friends I hold dear now are the tried and true friends, those who have seen me through crisis after crisis after crisis. Even if I do not see them as often as I would like, I know that they uphold us in love and prayer. I maintain a close relationship with each of our three children as well. In the After time, they have adjusted to a different sort of Dad. But they have adjusted. Ron continues to support my friendships. I have a standing monthly dinner date with a close friend. Only the end of the world would make me miss it. Ron would not suggest it.

If you want to read the original article that prompted by thoughts on this snowy day, here is the link.
http://thechristianpundit.org/2012/08/15/it/

I'd like to leave you with just one more thought. Marriage is about hope. As Emily Dickenson noted, it is the thing with feathers and can quickly fly away. But choosing the right person to marry makes Hope cling to the branch despite the storm. Hope does not promise it will be easy. My marriage of 37 years --yikes!--has not always been easy. Ron's illnesses were not something I could have predicted when we said our marriage vows.

 For better or worse.

I meant it.