Darker Pieces of a Joyful Life

At 12:15 a.m. on December 21, 2010, it felt like a wind of joy blew over my heart. My birthday! Joy? On my birthday?


That night, the longest of the year, often brings with it an involuntary longing to pull into my shell like a crusty turtle and emotionally absorb the many challenges that have unfolded in our family story.

My perspective of holiday celebrations was forever changed the day my 34-year-old husband was diagnosed with colon cancer; we got that call the week of Thanksgiving, 1986. John's 8-week post-operative hospital stay was punctuated with frightening nearly-worst-case scenario situations, like systemic septic poisoning and a blood clot that passed through his heart. Our boys, then twelve and nine years old, opened their presents in the hospital waiting room that year.

My husband, John, loved Christmas so much, and we had a few good ones before the cancer recurred and he died in 1992, just forty years old.
I made a conscious decision the week of his funeral to remember the funniest possible part of every life event after his death. That turned out to be really smart, because life has had it's rough places.

Here's one example: after my own breast cancer diagnosis and mastectomy in 1995, I found myself in a hospital waiting room dressed in one of those lovely gowns, waiting for a heart stress-test, my clothes neatly piled on my lap. When the nurse called my name she reached out and grabbed my stack of clothes...not realizing that I hadn't yet purchased a special undergarment with a pocket for my new prosthetic boob. Those things bounce. I choose to laugh at the memory that proves it.


Many great gifts have come into our lives--two daughter-in-laws! two grandchildren!--but still, it's often been really challenging. I've worked hard to live in peace, and been militant about gratitude, no matter what. But even so, that wind of joy on my last birthday surprised me a lot. 

When the phone rang at 5:30 that morning, I thought my son who lives in Dallas had remembered my birthday, and was leaving me a birthday greeting. The phone stopped ringing before I woke up enough to grab it, but when I listened to the message, it wasn't such a happy surprise. Lee was calling to say that he was in the hospital and the neurosurgeon had just informed him that his brain was bleeding.

By 10:30 p.m. that night, my younger son, Phil, and I had arrived at the hospital in Dallas, and were looking at a six-inch scar across Lee's head. The ICU nurse woke him so he could tell us about the 6-day blinding headache that finally forced him to the hospital for a long, risky surgery. The surgeon sewed up a bleeding aneurysm that led to a stroke.

It's such a miracle. Lee has all his physical and mental capacities intact. But the healing will take months; he has no work benefits, and I know how difficult this is for my daughter-in-law, too. And I care, I care so much. 

The thing is, it's surprisingly hard for me, too, and somehow that has to be alright. I'll write funny stories again, but right now it feels like someone pulled a scab off a deep wound of hard memories, a wound that needs to bleed awhile every day so the next layer of healing can be complete. My fingers can type, my eyes can cry, but often there are just no words willing to come out of my mouth.

I'm dealing almost nightly with layers of grief, surrounded by altars of wet Kleenex tissues. It's all real. But this is also true: the birthday wind of joy was real, too. It's a good thing God is brilliant, because I can't make sense out of this yet, but He doesn't need me to. Somehow, somewhere deep inside I know. 

On December 21, 2010, our family entered the best time of our lives, a time of "exceedingly, abundantly above all we could ever ask or think".

Tonight, I'm crying: not fighting it, just letting myself breath big gulps of grace, a word that means "God understands.". I'm may not always feel it right now, but I'm very thankful for miracles, Kleenex, my new job, my family, our friends, the Cooking Channel, chocolate, super-soft blankets...and my Comforter.