A Not So Gentle Irony

Abby is getting better. The immediate crisis is over. Time to sleep. Time to eat. Time to think. I ponder the observations of my friend Anne.

I look around at the new universe we inhabit. High hospital crib, surrounded by poles and machines and gadgets, from which follow tubes and wires connected to a wee, precious body. On the other side, "our" side, a collection of mylar balloons has begun to congregate. Pictures and cards have begun to fill up the doors of the cupboard that holds all our early possessions, at least in this universe. The fold away cot is folded away right now, and the large green lounge chair has been rolled into place to give Gramma a chance to put her feet up for a bit. At least until the next request for water, or a tummy rub, or something to eat, or the movie stops.

This is our world. This is my work.....right now. The other work in my other world has come to a screeching halt....for me. Not for all the wonderful, gifted people keeping the machine moving. The work, the ministry, continues well and strong. But for me, who I am and what I do.....I am not there.

It takes a lot to get me to stop working.

And just now, anyone who knows me well, has snorted. Or let out a scarastic, "Nnnnno." And they are well justified. It's true. The combination of my workaholic tendencies with my sense of calling or drivenness or whatever it it is that makes some of us so confoundedly devoted to what we do, makes it really, really hard for me to sit down and not do what I do.

So when, last Sunday evening, the doctors in K-W were saying Abby needed to be transferred to London, and given Kristyn's current status as a functioning single parent, there was no question in anyone's mind that I was coming along.

So I did. I'm here. And it takes me away from my work. And Abby, sic or well is very much "a lot" in my life. So in a matter of an hour of being told we'd be transferred, I was packed and had sent off the first of several download e-mails to our very gracious and competent Elders and Staff, and other volunteers, making sure that all I normally would have been doing this week got done by someone else.

Which is ironic. Because they're doing it.

Back home at Highview, as I said, gifted staff and volunteers are, among other things, very efficiently percolating along towards the beginning of a band new series called "Together We Can". It's a four week exploration of the imperatives of community; the absolute necessity for us to work together in order to accomplish the mission God has given us. Teams are, as we speak, pulling together to make sure we learn how and why we need to submit to each other and empower each other and forgive each other and heal each other.

And there's the irony. It's what I'm having to do, right now. Even though, when this series was first mapped out way back last May, I had expected I would be in the thick of things, I'm not. Instead I have been reassigned to the side of a hospital bed. And guess what I'm learning? Guess what I'm being required to do?

Submit to the whole thing, to those who have taken my responsibilities from me for now, to not being present in the portable, to not being there on Sunday morning. Submit to what God is doing in and through my family, in and through my heart.

Allow myself to receive the love and help, the empowerment from others who are bringing food and sundry items and their familiar wonderful faces to the hospital, a whole city away. Let others empower each other to accomplish the tasks of this weekend, and the weekends that lie ahead.

Forgive whoever is annoying me at the moment, all the tedious, difficult things I'm trying to work through, some still waiting when I get home, some overwhelming and huge that have been in my face in an obnoxious way for the past 9 months or so.

And heal. Be part of Abby's healing. But more, to continue to let this circumstance be part of God's work in my broken soul. To let His Spirit guide my thoughts, my choices, my actions towards healing in me.

Ironic. I'm not a part of it, but I'm totally living it. I'm not there to execute all the well laid plans, or interface with the people I love and am called to serve. I'm not there to teach or listen or check things off lists, to lead meetings or send memos, or comfort or cheer on or reign in, or any of the things I normally do to make sure we as a church keep moving forward.

But I'm here, in this hospital universe of tubes and sick babies, living it all.

Throughout the past 9 months, when the first wave of horror hit our family, and then throughout as other, different but awful events have continued to hiss at us, threaten us, people keep asking. "How do you do it?"

I don't. Not by myself. I can't. Not by myself. I can't face the life I'm living right now alone. I need you.

I'm not sure how long I'll be off "work", but I guess in a way I'm not "off" anything at all. I'm certainly not away from your love, that is clear. I'm not away from your support, that's for sure. And I'm not away from all that God wants to keep on showing me, doing in me, leading me towards.

Highview, I love you. It's been an over the top crazy year, hasn't it? Good thing we have dedicated Elders, compassionate and gifted people, and a very big, very powerful God.

Thank you all. I am humbled by your grace, and this chance to know for sure that Together We Can make our way through anything that comes against us.