Blessed Because He is With Us

Snow girl

Addie had another clean culture last month: normal respiratory flora and normal vitamin levels. We're all happy she's had such good luck. And I do call it luck, not blessings or hard work paying off.  I don't know why saying "We're blessed" bugs me so much.  I know that all good things come from God. I also know that some Christians have terrible problems. The ending of Hebrews 11 (verses 32-40) tells of those who had miracle lives and those who "did not receive what was promised." After all, Christ Himself said that the heavenly Father, "makes his sun rise on the bad and the good, and causes the rain to fall on the just and the unjust." God does not bless Addie more than Rees (who has had more trouble with his health) and I do not work harder at taking care of her than I did Rees.

Our chapel

I've knelt in our hospital's chapel after a CF clinic visit with a kid and given thanks together; and I've knelt in there alone, having signed over a kid upstairs for an admission. Tears both times, the crucifix and tabernacle before me a physical reminder of life's true love and pain.  I turn to God in good luck and in bad luck through this journey from womb to earth and beyond. We all get through on our own trajectory and Eternal Love surrounds us whatever the lab reports read. That surrounding by God is his blessing.

I don't think to be blessed by God means health and prosperity. I think it means that we are watched by our Creator throughout this valley of the shadow of death (And aren't we CF families living with a shadow of death?) where we fear no evil because he is there to comfort us. We are blessed, then. When the cultures come back badly, we are blessed; and when they come back clear, we are blessed. He is with us.



So serious

. I did a little digging on the word Blessed and found that it is used in the Scriptures several ways.

*To praise God: Bless the Lord oh my soul.

*As a desire for goodness: Blessed are you among women.

*For sanctification: He took bread and blessed it.

*As a gift: Children are a blessing.

I did not look these up to be an annoying know-it-all, though! I needed to make sense of things.  And my studies blessed me (haha, yes).

Cute purse, baby, large coffee.

A friend of mine lost her son last month and a friend of hers wrote about the question of blessings for some and not others (Why Us and Not Her?). We're all trying to make sense of things, aren't we? I wonder if I bristle at reports of health blessings because of the reminder that some are not blessed that way and the unfairness of it all exhausts me. It is still a good word, however, because it brings our focus back to God, so I need to not bristle (Help, Holy Spirit!).

The sun has returned to Alaska!

I do hope and pray for all of us in this fight, that we rest in the blessing of God's presence in good luck and in bad luck.

Love, Allison

A Familiar Sadness

Morningtime neb with the mouthpiece

Something happened last night that hasn't happened in many years: Addie fell asleep in my arms breathing TOBI and I was overwhelmed with sadness. I recognized it of course, but had not felt it for a long time. Watching her peaceful face covered in a plastic mask while smoky medication swirled around her stirred up an old panic of hopelessness. She was sleeping safely in my arms, but not really safe. She doesn't know.

With Rees, who is an adult, I fight fear (because I'm so happy he's OK but afraid of the years) and occasional anger (because I wish he would sleep more, exercise more, and do his flutter valve more!).

I have hardened myself over these 22 years and simply do not allow sadness to wash over me. I imagine I'm seen as cold by friends when I'm not as supportive in their sadnesses as I should be. I usually think of ways to be better afterward, when it's too late. I'm sorry about that. Love. Hardness. Sadness. Me.



Another night with the fish mask

Since TOBI is administered twice a day for 28 days, Ken has hooked her up many evenings and read books while she breathed it in. He also told me one night that he felt a long-buried sadness. I wonder if his sharing that made a tiny unconscious chink in my armor and my emotions grabbed the chance to flood my heart when she fell asleep on me. I know it's good to feel the feelings sometimes (I'm not that cold!).


So that's it, dear friends. This is just a sharing of Something That Happened to an old CF mom with another little one. We're in this together. We must allow the feelings, recognize them, own them -- then get up and grab a book or DVD for clapping and TOBI or make lunch before playing outside or get out a new puzzle to work on while in the hospital. We've got today to love and be loved!

Stopping by Hallways on a Messy Afternoon

An actual picture from Sunday morning

Whose shoes these are I think I know.
Their minds are lost in childhood though;
They will not hear me calling names
Or care that I pick up and go.

My little dogs must think it queer
To see me stand and wipe a tear
Between the door and dirty hall
This messy season of the year.

They frown and give their heads a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the din
That happy children playing make.

This house is cluttered, small and sweet
But I have promises to keep ~
And miles to love before I sleep
And miles to love before I sleep.


(My apologies and affection to Robert Frost!)
Love, Allison

Lessons from the Mud Run

We did the ACMHS Mud Run a few weeks ago according to our new family status ~ without Rees and John (Still having a hard time with that.). Ken ran the kids' 2K with Ian, Luke, and Joseph, then the adult 5K with Clare.

I just walked around with Addie and plied her with hot dogs and water cups, which were probably for the runners but she's cute so the grilling guys gave her whatever she asked for.

I witnessed an incident that had a profound effect on me. I've written before that homeless people scare me: I'm wary of their looks, their smell, their stories, their choices, their mental health. I'm certain one will grab me or ask me for something or breathe on me. I avert my eyes and hope they will just get a job, take a shower, or buy an apple for goodness' sake. Well, I got Addie a drink, popped her up on some sort of cement table, and noticed two homeless men lounging at the other end with hot dogs. Indignation welled up. They are not part of this; they just drifted over because they smelled the grill. I busied myself getting out her enzymes when one of them spoke to me (Oh no). "Pretty soon, you won't be able to lift her so easily," he grinned, proudly exposing his blackened teeth. I tried very hard to focus on his eyes through the grime and didn't notice any leering creepiness, so I took a breath and answered, "Yeah, I hate to think of that." He bobbed his head and poked his friend in the arm while the two of them cackled cheerfully. I moved the two of us away, pretending that I wanted my own cup of water.

Then, one of ACMHS staff, a lady I recognized from the company picnic but couldn't remember her name, approached the men and I heard her say, "You guys enjoying the day? How're you doing? We're raising money for supplies for our community mental health." They chatted some more (which I couldn't completely hear because remember, I'd moved away) and she meandered off to mingle with others. She did not shoo the men away or confiscate their hot dogs. The exchange was pleasant. I sniffed.

Then of course it hit me that I was being a jerk. Again. There was no need for rudeness. Look what I have. Mercy. Kindness. Food. Drink. Family. Love. Humanity. They deserve it, too.

I wish I could have gone back and asked that man if he had children, if he was enjoying the nice weather and tasty lunch. I wish I was as cool and friendly as Ken's coworker. Next time.

Love, Allison

The Mom's Hour

My routine has been the same for years: babies, toddlers, teenagers, homeschool, homemaking. Rinse and repeat. With seven children, there’s always someone, or several, in all those age brackets. Two kids have cystic fibrosis, so there are extra health chores daily and two-week hospitalizations occasionally that add to the mix. I have always been honored to be known as my husband’s wife and my children’s mother; it is not a loss of my identity but a flowering of it. So when feelings of discontent began whispering to me in my forty-fifth year, I was shaken and embarrassed. I wondered if I should get a job, complete a degree, or send the kids off to school. Am I boring? Am I useless? Am I fulfilled? I made a list of the pros and cons for each possibility and could not live with any of the cons. How to transform myself?

I spent a morning alone at a local cafe to relax and think, with an attractive, expensive cup of coffee and a delicious, tiny slice of biscotti. I decided to take baby

steps; or more accurately, one baby step: in the middle of the day, every single Howell at home was going to be silent for one hour. The small ones could rest and the older ones could read or draw. Separately was the key. I told them they were going to be alone with themselves. I promised myself not to clean or cook or help with lessons, but to simply be with me. I would use that hour to nap, read a book, learn to crochet, write a letter, or relearn how to play the piano -- something to stretch my mind and heart.



I'm pretty sure I see a positive boon for myself and our entire household order. It is both exciting and grounding. My next plan is to sign up for one college class online. We are getting used to Mom’s Hour and I am confident that some of those hours will be perfect for working through an anthropology or literature course.

 

I did not have to give up or reinvent what defines me --my home and family-- in order to fulfill something new welling up within me. A bit of balance is coming with one baby step, one hour, one day at a time. I look forward to my next year, one Mom’s Hour at a time.


Now to start filling out forms ...
Love, Allison



 

Yucky, Lucky

Addie makes adorable speech mistakes. Yesterday, she was walking around, pointing at various items and places, declaring, "Dat lucky." From the crusty bean pot on the stove to the messy space in front of the heater to her own diaper that missed the trash bag to the candy wrappers left over from the gingerbread house (She seems to be kind of a neat-nick). Took me a minute to realize that what she really meant, of course, was, "yucky."

Then I was tired and stretched out on the couch with her. Then I was feeling all anecdotal and spiritual and thought that those things really are lucky for us:


We're lucky to have a huge crock pot of beans to keep us full and healthy;

We're lucky to have space for stuff to get strewn about and messed;

We're lucky to have enzymes to help her digest her food and keep her plumbing in order.

We're lucky to have extra money for something as frivolous and marvelous as a candy-coated gingerbread house.

Have a yucky, lucky week, friends!
Love, Allison