Hi Dixiejax
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Tuesday, October 27, 2015
from
Hiya dixiejax
http://diablemedia.com/nest.php?radio=1c0b7qpb2g9wrdkftu
Samuel and Daniele Jackson
shdbjackson@yahoo.com
http://diablemedia.com/nest.php?radio=1c0b7qpb2g9wrdkftu
Samuel and Daniele Jackson
shdbjackson@yahoo.com
Friday, December 11, 2009
DixieJax update
(Disclaimer: We haven't written in a while, but we do write around here. A lot. So be warned: this one will take you a while!)
Dear family and friends,
I (Daniele) started composing this email/blogpost months ago. Months. I spent countless sleepless hours writing (so what else is new?) the message many of you have waited to hear. The subject was to have been "A year and twelve weeks." Because that's what tomorrow would have marked. A year since December 12, 2008, the day we lost Eliza. And twelve weeks: the gestational age of Luke and Eliza's little-sister-or-brother-to-be.
The subject was to have been that...but it isn't. As some of you know, a few weeks ago, I had a miscarriage.
This would have been a hard season anyhow, remembering and reliving as we have been the last weeks and days and hours of Eliza's life. But--and I can speak only for myself here--to add losing this baby, this little already-and-not-yet person, to the heap of grief we're still very much laboring under has felt like too much.
Mercifully, Luke didn't know about the pregnancy, and thus has not had to know about the miscarriage. He has had enough in his short life to wrestle with; I'm grateful he hasn't had to add this next impossible-to-understand bit to his load. He's young enough that we were able to keep him suitably distracted--with the help of sweet friends, as always--through the physical challenges of the d+c and the following recovery so that he thought nothing other than that I wasn't feeling well for a couple of days, those days quickly and happily followed by grandparent fun as it was almost Thanksgiving. It's not been that unusual throughout his life, after all, for me to spend whatever chunks of time I could snatch to rest doing so, exhausted and sleep-deprived as I was for most of Eliza's lifetime and wrestling as I have been with grief and then early pregnancy since then. So he didn't even question finding me checked out for a couple of days recently. Mercifully.
For me, it's hard to separate the grief of this miscarriage from the still-very-fresh grief of losing Eliza. No doubt, miscarriages are very common; statistics show that at least 1/5 of all pregnancies end this way. I know the statistics. In many ways, then, this latest loss is one many of you can share in, having gone through it yourselves at one time or another. But I'm sure the experience is different for everyone, and I daresay it is significantly different for us. If nothing else, the death of a child, which this miscarriage very much is in somehow intangible ways, is something very concrete and real for us. We have literally held death in our arms; we have watched our baby die. It's hard not to imagine, then, this little one in similar ways. And that has been very painful.
Sam has been reading through our old emails/blogposts from Eliza's life recently, and he was surprised by the constant positive, hopeful tone of our messages. He even commented that, having read through the story again, he understands now how folks were taken aback at the seriousness of Eliza's condition, hopeful as our communication always was. It strikes me that the tone of this message thus far contrasts starkly with that history.
It is, indeed, a difficult season for us.
But it is good to know we are not alone. I am comforted by the words of the psalmist, "How long, O Lord? How long?" I do not cry out alone. All this trouble is but a breath, and the promise of what is to come after this breath is worth waiting for. It is worth waiting for. It must be. After all, if we didn't have suffering and pain in this life, what would convince us to long for the next?
Meanwhile, although I promised more than one person at Eliza's funeral that the dixiejax blog would continue, we haven't followed through on that promise. I have, however, continued to write my way through this grief journey (and the rest of life, too), although admittedly without Sam's wise input. If you're curious, it's here: http://abitmoreofme.blogspot.com. (Perhaps for those of you whom we had fooled with our co-written dixiejax emails, you'll now be able to distinguish each of our contributions once you've read Daniele-sans-Sam!) I mention that blog only because most of what I feel would be appropriate to include here is already there: my gratitude as I reflect on what you all have meant to my family these past four years, my thoughts on our family's life without Eliza, my hopes and dreams and fears for the future. No matter what doubts I may face, there is one thing that has never been in question, and that is that our family has been tremendously, amazingly well loved. We have felt that love--your love--weekly, daily, hourly this past year, and we are so grateful. You have loved us thoroughly and well and endlessly and creatively, and we have noticed. We are blessed by you, and we know it.
As for what tomorrow holds for us, as many have asked, it is as of the writing of this email unclear. One thing is sure: we will be visiting/having breakfast with Santa, as tomorrow is the day he's scheduled to arrive in a nearby neighborhood tradition. Even that visit will feel heavy, as last year's visit was the morning after Eliza died; Sam was at the cemetery picking out a gravesite as Luke and I greeted Santa. Surreal.
Meanwhile, Thursday held a sweet celebration of Eliza's "heavenly birthday" in Luke's class, during which Luke talked a little bit about Eliza and shared some pictures. Here's what he had to say about his sister: "Eliza was special because she had a very sick brain. She was special because she was very good at being held. I helped my mom give Eliza her bath. I was called the soaper-man. I was at my friend's house when Eliza was dying. I came home to give her a kiss. Then they took her body away in a van." This celebration, surrounded by his friends and beloved teachers, was a precious gift to Luke and to our family. We continue to be amazed at the family-away-from family that Sam and Luke's school is to us, and we are so grateful.
A cemetery visit tomorrow? Perhaps. We have yet to watch the video of Eliza's funeral, which we may do tomorrow, too. We will likely spend a good chunk of time sorting through Eliza's boxes (and boxes and boxes; she was very well-dressed!) of clothes, choosing items to be used in a memory quilt to be created by Sam's mom and aunt. Tomorrow is significant, no doubt, and will be a heavy and hard day for us. But I do wonder--and only time will tell, so remind me to tell you later!--whether this day will be any more difficult than the rest of this season has been and will continue to be.
A year. A year is a long time, in many ways: one sixth of Luke's little life, and more like one third of his memorable life. It's an eternity to him. A year of Eliza's life seemed forever, predicted as she was to not even survive that long, and exhausted as we were by her days and her long, long nights. I confess, though, that a year--as long as it feels sometimes--feels like nothing compared to the years and years and years I will likely have before I'll see my baby girl--and her baby brother or sister for the first time--again. Life feels long; the days feel eternally long. And I dread to rush through the moments that make up these eternally long days; I covet slow, sweet moments to savor with Luke, who seems all too quickly to be rushing toward the person that he will be: a delightful person, I predict (as his mama ought!), but too old and too big (now only one foot four inches shorter than I am, and catching up daily, as he likes to remind me). This dreadfully long year has rushed by and surprised me at its ending already. Which makes sense to me only in my understanding and trust that even time will be redeemed someday. How long, O Lord? How long?
On a lighter note (yes, finally!), many of you know of my affinity for that classic film of the season, A Charlie Brown Christmas. If you missed your chance to see it on television this year, or if you just need one more dose of Linus, never fear: it's been a long time since I've sent out Christmas cards, but Luke and I had a little project in mind one afternoon...perhaps we've created a new dixiejax virtual Christmas card tradition:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NTgWgKj9Xz8
(Now that you've had your youtube break--deep breath--here's Sam:)
And he told this parable to those who had forgotten to wait.
There was a young couple, barely seniors in high school, who dreamed of a daughter every bit as smart as they assured themselves they were. She would turn heads with her looks, her grace, her athleticism, her intelligence; she would be the complete package. Even then they knew her name: Eliza. Ten years later, they eagerly awaited the time of their daughter’s birth. They ogled the blurry ultrasound pictures with glee. They marveled at God’s creative work, his sustenance of the precious vulnerable life of this tiny ever-growing beauty stored up in her mother’s womb. They toyed with other names: Cecily? Anastasia? Caroline? No. She was always Eliza. The due date neared, only two weeks of anticipation left. But what was this? A contraction? This early? No, surely it was the Moe’s burrito. A faithful friend sat close through dinner, stopwatch in hand—“Was that another one?” By midnight, the couple was hospital-bound. At last, at last, we are going to meet our little girl. So many years of suspense down to just a handful of hours.
January 29, 2006. She emerges early in the morning, like so many others that day, shocked by the cold sterility of an uncomfortable world, nurturing memories of a haven lost and longed-for. She is whisked away. The new home of her mother’s arms waits empty. Trouble breathing, they casually explain. The surprised but not-yet concerned father follows. The minutes stretch into hours, the hours through the morning into the afternoon, into the night. No sweet fulfillment of a decade’s worth of waiting. Short visits, attempts to nurse, monitors and quizzical white-coats abounding. What is that fist-clenching and arm-rattling? What a strange little pirate-face she’s making—take a picture! But why does her oxygen drop with these inscrutable signs? Oh, we must stay here for another day? Another night? Life-flight to Duke? Expect at least another week in the hospital? Tears flow. The dreamed-of daughter locked in a plexi-glass box, torn away with our hearts. Still no reason why. Only suspicions, only a need for more assessment, only desperate souls crying out, “My eyes are not lifted up too high; I do not concern myself with matters too great or things too wonderful for me. But I have stilled and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother is my soul within me” (Psalm 131). “Because your love is better than life, my lips will glorify you” (Psalm 63).
April 9. 69 days later. Eliza is home. The first time it has ever been our family home. She comes with machines for supplying and monitoring oxygen, she comes with round-the-clock medications, she comes with inconsolable screaming, she comes with minor ailments as-yet undiagnosed, she comes with one major nameless underlying disease. A disease that has robbed her of any body control, of any hope of hugging, cooing, eating, drinking, seeing, rolling, kicking, kissing, laughing, smiling (so they say), of anything voluntary. She comes to cheering family and friends, whose abundance of volitional charity far surpasses the grief of all Eliza’s incapacity. Indeed, all that Eliza cannot do serves simply to enhance and beautify what she can: she can receive. She can be held, she can be caressed, she can be adored and admired; and her silence can call us into a reverent silence of our own, filled with marvel and wonder and longing. How long, O LORD?
January 29, 2007. Longer than they predicted. One year. Never was there an infant’s birthday party like this. A gym-full of true Family, loved ones near and far united in celebration and retrospection. Raising an Ebenezer: Thus far has the LORD helped us. But that day also passes. The daily and nightly toil does not. What should these new months have brought to our little girl? New cravings for dress-up, in frilly skirts and socks; new adventures in hair-dos, with butterfly barrettes and ribbons; new dolls, with storybook names and invented personalities; new admiration for big brother, with new conflicts and blossoming friendship. No new month would bring this to Eliza. No hope for even the transient joys that our frail humanity offers. No expectation of even an hour’s rest from seizures that no medication can solve. Nothing. Nothing that can be seen with these mortal eyes. My peace I give to you; I do not give as the world gives. How long, O LORD?
December 12, 2008. Teach us to number our days: one thousand forty-eight. There seems to be an ominous rattle in her breathing. The chest x-ray shows a dark area that might be a spot of pneumonia. As always, it’s hard to say. Hmmm. Yes. It does seem to be trending toward pneumonia. It may be a matter of days or of weeks. A fervent night of conjoined prayer. What will become of us without her? How short, O LORD! We cannot breathe without her breath. I’ll just run into school to check in—turn around. Her breathing is slowing. You better come back. Come back. I’m kneeling over her crib now. She is calm. The morphine stills her. 9:15. She exhales. No. Her mother wails, grabs her desperately-awaited, her presciently-longed for baby girl. Her Eliza. Her father sighs tearfully. He has read the eulogy over his daughter, the last Scripture her mortal ears would receive: "If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are to be pitied more than all men. But Christ has indeed been raised from the dead, the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep" (1 Corinthians 15:19-20). And she sleeps. She really sleeps. For the first time. She is at rest.
6Man is a mere phantom as he goes to and fro: He bustles about, but only in vain; he heaps up wealth, not knowing who will get it. 7And now, Lord, for what do I wait? My hope is in thee. (Psalm 39)
Of all the gifts we have received through Eliza, the one I celebrate most in this season is a spur toward hope, implanted deep within my soul. I have seen hell at far too close a range. I earnestly await the coming King, who was a baby; the lion, who is a lamb.
The simple are killed by their turning away, and the complacency of fools destroys them. (Proverbs 1:32)
I am rescued from this destructive complacency, from pernicious contentment with a broken world. Things are not as they should be, and I will not pretend that they are. I am a foreigner here; the kingdom of which I am a citizen is coming, and I will hasten its coming with my own loyalty to its king. Hell does not happen suddenly. Hell is but the culmination of a daily enthroning of a false monarch, a ruler who has power only to deceive, to proclaim that life is found where only death dwells. I have seen death. No undertaker can warm its cold fingers. I hate it. I want nothing to do with it in any of its forms.
Will you reject it also? Or will you partner with the enemy? Will you hate all that masquerades as light: from the demeaning sarcasm that our culture would substitute for joy, to the rampant pornography that our culture would deem beauty; from the materialism that smirks beneath language of provision and blessing, to the lethargy that cloaks itself in messages of cheap grace and sham love? With God as my helper, I will hate these things with the same hatred that Eliza’s death evokes in me, a pure hatred bursting from a true Love of the rightful King of Kings and Lord of Lords.
And yet, such is the love of our God, that he mourns over the city whose leaders are at that moment preparing to betray him, crying: “How often would I have gathered your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you would not.” And this door remains open to each of us at this moment. Will we blind ourselves with the comforts of this world? (For, though hollow, they are many and mightily deceptive). Or will we choose death to such instantly-gratifying pleasures and life to the eternally-sweet rewards that require waiting? God has made this easy for me. He has sweetened his kingdom for me by placing Eliza in it. The all-surpassing joy of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord dwells more fully in me because of my eternal fellowship with her in him. That’s where she is.
That’s the parable of Eliza, and it’s my story. What’s yours? The God of the universe has made his move: he has made a way, in the death and resurrection of Jesus, for you to know him, to receive his love. He calls you to repent of your allegiance to darkness and to enter his kingdom of light, longing for its full arrival. We make bad trades: we prefer passing pleasure to eternal delight. But God also has an exchange department. He gives beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness. He has made his move. It’s your turn.
If you do not believe, why not? You have not come to unbelief through irresistible logic. Your heart has led you there. You wager your eternal soul on a weak hand: the habitual preference for your own way of seeing and doing things. Wager on something more sure, the Truth that is Jesus Christ. It will take no greater leap of faith than you are currently making.
I am not sure, when all is said and done, that there is any greater hindrance to faith than our difficulty in grasping the love of God. The sheer magnitude of it is too much for our finite minds. The reception of such love cannot be achieved by any number of hours of quiet time or so many volumes of fair speech. I am in love now. And I can say that with all humility because it has nothing to do with my own efforts. I got Eliza. Why did I get to have Eliza? It’s a mystery, more mysterious than Eliza’s disease. Why did I get to have my heart so filled up with love for this precious child that I can never be the same? I don’t know. But I do know that the Love that now floods my existence, though it flows so personally and intimately, is such a broad stream that any may come and play in it. To play in his love means to evict all rivals and distractions, to enthrone the rightful king of love, and to pour out the love that he pours into you.
If you do believe, why are you hovering on the brink of his love? Do you trust that he loves you with an everlasting love, that he demands and craves an exclusive relationship with you, that he has called you to serve him alone, loving him with all your heart, soul, strength, and mind, and your neighbor as yourself? If so, take captive every moment to the Love of Christ flowing to you, in you, and through you. Immerse yourself in His Word; pray for the Spirit to guide you in his paths; unite—even when it’s uncomfortable, especially when it’s uncomfortable—with those who call on the Lord from a pure heart. And Love. Bind it all together with Love.
Long ago, my dad taught me that a parable is an earthly story with a heavenly meaning. Eliza’s story is surely a parable. Oh, beloved, hear and respond. How your true Father longs for you to know him. The coming of the eternal King tarries in hopeful anticipation of your response.
Much, much love to you all,
dixiejax
Dear family and friends,
I (Daniele) started composing this email/blogpost months ago. Months. I spent countless sleepless hours writing (so what else is new?) the message many of you have waited to hear. The subject was to have been "A year and twelve weeks." Because that's what tomorrow would have marked. A year since December 12, 2008, the day we lost Eliza. And twelve weeks: the gestational age of Luke and Eliza's little-sister-or-brother-to-be.
The subject was to have been that...but it isn't. As some of you know, a few weeks ago, I had a miscarriage.
This would have been a hard season anyhow, remembering and reliving as we have been the last weeks and days and hours of Eliza's life. But--and I can speak only for myself here--to add losing this baby, this little already-and-not-yet person, to the heap of grief we're still very much laboring under has felt like too much.
Mercifully, Luke didn't know about the pregnancy, and thus has not had to know about the miscarriage. He has had enough in his short life to wrestle with; I'm grateful he hasn't had to add this next impossible-to-understand bit to his load. He's young enough that we were able to keep him suitably distracted--with the help of sweet friends, as always--through the physical challenges of the d+c and the following recovery so that he thought nothing other than that I wasn't feeling well for a couple of days, those days quickly and happily followed by grandparent fun as it was almost Thanksgiving. It's not been that unusual throughout his life, after all, for me to spend whatever chunks of time I could snatch to rest doing so, exhausted and sleep-deprived as I was for most of Eliza's lifetime and wrestling as I have been with grief and then early pregnancy since then. So he didn't even question finding me checked out for a couple of days recently. Mercifully.
For me, it's hard to separate the grief of this miscarriage from the still-very-fresh grief of losing Eliza. No doubt, miscarriages are very common; statistics show that at least 1/5 of all pregnancies end this way. I know the statistics. In many ways, then, this latest loss is one many of you can share in, having gone through it yourselves at one time or another. But I'm sure the experience is different for everyone, and I daresay it is significantly different for us. If nothing else, the death of a child, which this miscarriage very much is in somehow intangible ways, is something very concrete and real for us. We have literally held death in our arms; we have watched our baby die. It's hard not to imagine, then, this little one in similar ways. And that has been very painful.
Sam has been reading through our old emails/blogposts from Eliza's life recently, and he was surprised by the constant positive, hopeful tone of our messages. He even commented that, having read through the story again, he understands now how folks were taken aback at the seriousness of Eliza's condition, hopeful as our communication always was. It strikes me that the tone of this message thus far contrasts starkly with that history.
It is, indeed, a difficult season for us.
But it is good to know we are not alone. I am comforted by the words of the psalmist, "How long, O Lord? How long?" I do not cry out alone. All this trouble is but a breath, and the promise of what is to come after this breath is worth waiting for. It is worth waiting for. It must be. After all, if we didn't have suffering and pain in this life, what would convince us to long for the next?
Meanwhile, although I promised more than one person at Eliza's funeral that the dixiejax blog would continue, we haven't followed through on that promise. I have, however, continued to write my way through this grief journey (and the rest of life, too), although admittedly without Sam's wise input. If you're curious, it's here: http://abitmoreofme.blogspot.com. (Perhaps for those of you whom we had fooled with our co-written dixiejax emails, you'll now be able to distinguish each of our contributions once you've read Daniele-sans-Sam!) I mention that blog only because most of what I feel would be appropriate to include here is already there: my gratitude as I reflect on what you all have meant to my family these past four years, my thoughts on our family's life without Eliza, my hopes and dreams and fears for the future. No matter what doubts I may face, there is one thing that has never been in question, and that is that our family has been tremendously, amazingly well loved. We have felt that love--your love--weekly, daily, hourly this past year, and we are so grateful. You have loved us thoroughly and well and endlessly and creatively, and we have noticed. We are blessed by you, and we know it.
As for what tomorrow holds for us, as many have asked, it is as of the writing of this email unclear. One thing is sure: we will be visiting/having breakfast with Santa, as tomorrow is the day he's scheduled to arrive in a nearby neighborhood tradition. Even that visit will feel heavy, as last year's visit was the morning after Eliza died; Sam was at the cemetery picking out a gravesite as Luke and I greeted Santa. Surreal.
Meanwhile, Thursday held a sweet celebration of Eliza's "heavenly birthday" in Luke's class, during which Luke talked a little bit about Eliza and shared some pictures. Here's what he had to say about his sister: "Eliza was special because she had a very sick brain. She was special because she was very good at being held. I helped my mom give Eliza her bath. I was called the soaper-man. I was at my friend's house when Eliza was dying. I came home to give her a kiss. Then they took her body away in a van." This celebration, surrounded by his friends and beloved teachers, was a precious gift to Luke and to our family. We continue to be amazed at the family-away-from family that Sam and Luke's school is to us, and we are so grateful.
A cemetery visit tomorrow? Perhaps. We have yet to watch the video of Eliza's funeral, which we may do tomorrow, too. We will likely spend a good chunk of time sorting through Eliza's boxes (and boxes and boxes; she was very well-dressed!) of clothes, choosing items to be used in a memory quilt to be created by Sam's mom and aunt. Tomorrow is significant, no doubt, and will be a heavy and hard day for us. But I do wonder--and only time will tell, so remind me to tell you later!--whether this day will be any more difficult than the rest of this season has been and will continue to be.
A year. A year is a long time, in many ways: one sixth of Luke's little life, and more like one third of his memorable life. It's an eternity to him. A year of Eliza's life seemed forever, predicted as she was to not even survive that long, and exhausted as we were by her days and her long, long nights. I confess, though, that a year--as long as it feels sometimes--feels like nothing compared to the years and years and years I will likely have before I'll see my baby girl--and her baby brother or sister for the first time--again. Life feels long; the days feel eternally long. And I dread to rush through the moments that make up these eternally long days; I covet slow, sweet moments to savor with Luke, who seems all too quickly to be rushing toward the person that he will be: a delightful person, I predict (as his mama ought!), but too old and too big (now only one foot four inches shorter than I am, and catching up daily, as he likes to remind me). This dreadfully long year has rushed by and surprised me at its ending already. Which makes sense to me only in my understanding and trust that even time will be redeemed someday. How long, O Lord? How long?
On a lighter note (yes, finally!), many of you know of my affinity for that classic film of the season, A Charlie Brown Christmas. If you missed your chance to see it on television this year, or if you just need one more dose of Linus, never fear: it's been a long time since I've sent out Christmas cards, but Luke and I had a little project in mind one afternoon...perhaps we've created a new dixiejax virtual Christmas card tradition:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NTgWgKj9Xz8
(Now that you've had your youtube break--deep breath--here's Sam:)
And he told this parable to those who had forgotten to wait.
There was a young couple, barely seniors in high school, who dreamed of a daughter every bit as smart as they assured themselves they were. She would turn heads with her looks, her grace, her athleticism, her intelligence; she would be the complete package. Even then they knew her name: Eliza. Ten years later, they eagerly awaited the time of their daughter’s birth. They ogled the blurry ultrasound pictures with glee. They marveled at God’s creative work, his sustenance of the precious vulnerable life of this tiny ever-growing beauty stored up in her mother’s womb. They toyed with other names: Cecily? Anastasia? Caroline? No. She was always Eliza. The due date neared, only two weeks of anticipation left. But what was this? A contraction? This early? No, surely it was the Moe’s burrito. A faithful friend sat close through dinner, stopwatch in hand—“Was that another one?” By midnight, the couple was hospital-bound. At last, at last, we are going to meet our little girl. So many years of suspense down to just a handful of hours.
January 29, 2006. She emerges early in the morning, like so many others that day, shocked by the cold sterility of an uncomfortable world, nurturing memories of a haven lost and longed-for. She is whisked away. The new home of her mother’s arms waits empty. Trouble breathing, they casually explain. The surprised but not-yet concerned father follows. The minutes stretch into hours, the hours through the morning into the afternoon, into the night. No sweet fulfillment of a decade’s worth of waiting. Short visits, attempts to nurse, monitors and quizzical white-coats abounding. What is that fist-clenching and arm-rattling? What a strange little pirate-face she’s making—take a picture! But why does her oxygen drop with these inscrutable signs? Oh, we must stay here for another day? Another night? Life-flight to Duke? Expect at least another week in the hospital? Tears flow. The dreamed-of daughter locked in a plexi-glass box, torn away with our hearts. Still no reason why. Only suspicions, only a need for more assessment, only desperate souls crying out, “My eyes are not lifted up too high; I do not concern myself with matters too great or things too wonderful for me. But I have stilled and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother is my soul within me” (Psalm 131). “Because your love is better than life, my lips will glorify you” (Psalm 63).
April 9. 69 days later. Eliza is home. The first time it has ever been our family home. She comes with machines for supplying and monitoring oxygen, she comes with round-the-clock medications, she comes with inconsolable screaming, she comes with minor ailments as-yet undiagnosed, she comes with one major nameless underlying disease. A disease that has robbed her of any body control, of any hope of hugging, cooing, eating, drinking, seeing, rolling, kicking, kissing, laughing, smiling (so they say), of anything voluntary. She comes to cheering family and friends, whose abundance of volitional charity far surpasses the grief of all Eliza’s incapacity. Indeed, all that Eliza cannot do serves simply to enhance and beautify what she can: she can receive. She can be held, she can be caressed, she can be adored and admired; and her silence can call us into a reverent silence of our own, filled with marvel and wonder and longing. How long, O LORD?
January 29, 2007. Longer than they predicted. One year. Never was there an infant’s birthday party like this. A gym-full of true Family, loved ones near and far united in celebration and retrospection. Raising an Ebenezer: Thus far has the LORD helped us. But that day also passes. The daily and nightly toil does not. What should these new months have brought to our little girl? New cravings for dress-up, in frilly skirts and socks; new adventures in hair-dos, with butterfly barrettes and ribbons; new dolls, with storybook names and invented personalities; new admiration for big brother, with new conflicts and blossoming friendship. No new month would bring this to Eliza. No hope for even the transient joys that our frail humanity offers. No expectation of even an hour’s rest from seizures that no medication can solve. Nothing. Nothing that can be seen with these mortal eyes. My peace I give to you; I do not give as the world gives. How long, O LORD?
December 12, 2008. Teach us to number our days: one thousand forty-eight. There seems to be an ominous rattle in her breathing. The chest x-ray shows a dark area that might be a spot of pneumonia. As always, it’s hard to say. Hmmm. Yes. It does seem to be trending toward pneumonia. It may be a matter of days or of weeks. A fervent night of conjoined prayer. What will become of us without her? How short, O LORD! We cannot breathe without her breath. I’ll just run into school to check in—turn around. Her breathing is slowing. You better come back. Come back. I’m kneeling over her crib now. She is calm. The morphine stills her. 9:15. She exhales. No. Her mother wails, grabs her desperately-awaited, her presciently-longed for baby girl. Her Eliza. Her father sighs tearfully. He has read the eulogy over his daughter, the last Scripture her mortal ears would receive: "If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are to be pitied more than all men. But Christ has indeed been raised from the dead, the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep" (1 Corinthians 15:19-20). And she sleeps. She really sleeps. For the first time. She is at rest.
6Man is a mere phantom as he goes to and fro: He bustles about, but only in vain; he heaps up wealth, not knowing who will get it. 7And now, Lord, for what do I wait? My hope is in thee. (Psalm 39)
Of all the gifts we have received through Eliza, the one I celebrate most in this season is a spur toward hope, implanted deep within my soul. I have seen hell at far too close a range. I earnestly await the coming King, who was a baby; the lion, who is a lamb.
The simple are killed by their turning away, and the complacency of fools destroys them. (Proverbs 1:32)
I am rescued from this destructive complacency, from pernicious contentment with a broken world. Things are not as they should be, and I will not pretend that they are. I am a foreigner here; the kingdom of which I am a citizen is coming, and I will hasten its coming with my own loyalty to its king. Hell does not happen suddenly. Hell is but the culmination of a daily enthroning of a false monarch, a ruler who has power only to deceive, to proclaim that life is found where only death dwells. I have seen death. No undertaker can warm its cold fingers. I hate it. I want nothing to do with it in any of its forms.
Will you reject it also? Or will you partner with the enemy? Will you hate all that masquerades as light: from the demeaning sarcasm that our culture would substitute for joy, to the rampant pornography that our culture would deem beauty; from the materialism that smirks beneath language of provision and blessing, to the lethargy that cloaks itself in messages of cheap grace and sham love? With God as my helper, I will hate these things with the same hatred that Eliza’s death evokes in me, a pure hatred bursting from a true Love of the rightful King of Kings and Lord of Lords.
And yet, such is the love of our God, that he mourns over the city whose leaders are at that moment preparing to betray him, crying: “How often would I have gathered your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you would not.” And this door remains open to each of us at this moment. Will we blind ourselves with the comforts of this world? (For, though hollow, they are many and mightily deceptive). Or will we choose death to such instantly-gratifying pleasures and life to the eternally-sweet rewards that require waiting? God has made this easy for me. He has sweetened his kingdom for me by placing Eliza in it. The all-surpassing joy of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord dwells more fully in me because of my eternal fellowship with her in him. That’s where she is.
That’s the parable of Eliza, and it’s my story. What’s yours? The God of the universe has made his move: he has made a way, in the death and resurrection of Jesus, for you to know him, to receive his love. He calls you to repent of your allegiance to darkness and to enter his kingdom of light, longing for its full arrival. We make bad trades: we prefer passing pleasure to eternal delight. But God also has an exchange department. He gives beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness. He has made his move. It’s your turn.
If you do not believe, why not? You have not come to unbelief through irresistible logic. Your heart has led you there. You wager your eternal soul on a weak hand: the habitual preference for your own way of seeing and doing things. Wager on something more sure, the Truth that is Jesus Christ. It will take no greater leap of faith than you are currently making.
I am not sure, when all is said and done, that there is any greater hindrance to faith than our difficulty in grasping the love of God. The sheer magnitude of it is too much for our finite minds. The reception of such love cannot be achieved by any number of hours of quiet time or so many volumes of fair speech. I am in love now. And I can say that with all humility because it has nothing to do with my own efforts. I got Eliza. Why did I get to have Eliza? It’s a mystery, more mysterious than Eliza’s disease. Why did I get to have my heart so filled up with love for this precious child that I can never be the same? I don’t know. But I do know that the Love that now floods my existence, though it flows so personally and intimately, is such a broad stream that any may come and play in it. To play in his love means to evict all rivals and distractions, to enthrone the rightful king of love, and to pour out the love that he pours into you.
If you do believe, why are you hovering on the brink of his love? Do you trust that he loves you with an everlasting love, that he demands and craves an exclusive relationship with you, that he has called you to serve him alone, loving him with all your heart, soul, strength, and mind, and your neighbor as yourself? If so, take captive every moment to the Love of Christ flowing to you, in you, and through you. Immerse yourself in His Word; pray for the Spirit to guide you in his paths; unite—even when it’s uncomfortable, especially when it’s uncomfortable—with those who call on the Lord from a pure heart. And Love. Bind it all together with Love.
Long ago, my dad taught me that a parable is an earthly story with a heavenly meaning. Eliza’s story is surely a parable. Oh, beloved, hear and respond. How your true Father longs for you to know him. The coming of the eternal King tarries in hopeful anticipation of your response.
Much, much love to you all,
dixiejax
Saturday, April 11, 2009
One other thing...
It's not the usual newsy DixieJax stuff, but some folks who have read this other thing thought it might be worth sharing. If you're curious, click here.
Love,
Daniele
Love,
Daniele
Thursday, April 09, 2009
DixieJax FAQ
Dear family and friends,
It's been a while. We're still here...and still grateful for your continued support, love, and prayers. It's been almost four months since Eliza died; sometimes, that feels like forever, and, other times, it feels like no time at all.
Today, April 9, marks the three-year anniversary of Eliza's homecoming from the hospital. It was Palm Sunday that year. Today has always felt a little more like Eliza's birthday than January 29 does. It was today, three years ago, that WE got our baby. Up until April 9, Eliza felt like she belonged to the hospital, to the doctors, to the nurses...but three years ago today, she was ours.
Over the past four months (and, indeed, three years), many of you have asked questions that we've never had the time/space/opportunity to answer. Here's my (Daniele's) attempt to answer some of those. (I can only answer for myself, though, so look for Sam's two cents at the end!)
*How are you?
This is the hardest question for me to answer, and, of course, the most frequently asked. Hard because 1) I'm never really sure how honestly to answer, 2) I'm asked it in so many places where an honest conversation is impossible, and 3) the answer can change hour to hour, day to day. Some days are harder than others; some days are fairly smooth. I'm far from back to normal, which anyone who knows me will know is exceedingly frustrating to me. I don't do still/patient/uncertain very well. Some days I'm maniacally busy, full of energy, restless; others I'd rather just crawl into bed or the nearest hole. The busy days feel more "normal" for me, as that's my usual state anyhow, but the exhausted days feel more honest somehow. Grief is tiring, so many people tell me. I don't know why, but I do know that it's true.
That said, I certainly am more physically rested than I've been in a long, long time. Generally, sleep hasn't been a problem. When Eliza first died, I was suddenly made very aware of the sleep deprivation we had endured for so long: I could hardly keep from sleeping. Since I've caught up on some long-needed rest, sleep has sometimes been more difficult, but for the most part, I'm grateful to have been granted good rest.
Our pastor, in his Palm Sunday sermon this past weekend, described the day as one that mixes rejoicing and weeping. The King is coming, but He's coming to die. A friend yesterday talked about the Saturday of Easter weekend as an in-between place: between the crucifixion on Friday and the resurrection on Sunday, the already and not-yet. Those places best approach a description of where I live nowadays. Weeping and rejoicing. Somewhere in between.
*How is Luke?
Luke is doing what he "should" be. At first, as I think we reported, he had lots of questions, lots of concerns, all of which he vocalized (as he is wont to do with everything, as many of you well know) or drew or shared in some other way. More recently, we've seen some separation anxiety and some worries, all of which our beloved pediatrician assures us are predictable and normal reactions. As his mother, I've struggled with his neediness--particulary his need for me, of course--when I feel that I'm at my least available to provide the emotional support he needs. But I'm trying to rest more in the arms of my Father these days and thus feel more equipped to let Luke rest in mine. If I can be still and trusting, then Luke can be still and trusting, too. As in all things, I know I can teach him best by example how to grieve; I'm trying to do that honestly and faithfully.
Meanwhile, his school has been wonderfully consistent and supportive of Luke and of our family. He is glad to go every day, and his teachers are great to share with me how he's doing, situations in which he mentions Eliza, etc. He'll be in kindergarten at Sam's school next year, and we're so grateful that he'll be surrounded by "family" every day while he's there. It's more important to us now than ever that he be in a place where he feels loved, safe, and secure; what a blessing, then, that he can be at Trinity, taught and cared for and loved by people who know us and him so well, with Dad right next door in the upper school building. Praise God.
*How is your marriage?
Everyone has read the statistics about couples with disabled kids, couples who lose children. We've never shied away from sharing the personal, so here goes...
We're doing well. We tend to be good in a crisis. At working--being--together, I mean. When Eliza was first born, we were best for each other at the hardest, scariest times. I'll admit that it's hard for me when we find ourselves in different places in the grieving process; I'm not good at not being able to "fix" things for Sam, and when he's sad, I can't fix it. But we're leaning on each other and talking to each other and sharing the things we're doing differently. God is good. That's not to say there haven't been hard--really hard--days, and we know there will be more. But we're clinging to each other and to God. And that's Good, and that's all we can do.
*Will you have more kids?
This is the question that few ask, and those who do admit reticence in doing so; I suspect many more want to ask but fear hurting us in asking. The answer is yes, God willing, yes. It has always been yes. Luke is a wonderful big brother, Sam an amazing father, and I love being a mother, so our family certainly has a future. As you can imagine, it's a difficult conversation in many ways, the details of which we'll keep to ourselves at this point, but don't worry; you'll be among the first (thousand) to know!
*How are you using your time?
I haven't figured out what "normal" looks like just yet. I'm still doing all the things I was doing before Eliza died (minus, of course, the very significant number of doctor appointments and medical details): back and forth to school and playdates; children's ministry, women's ministry, and pastoral care at church; getting together with friends; spending too much time reading gluttonously or writing. I've struggled with inefficiency lately, feeling like I just can't get things done or don't have the motivation to. That's not my style, and I don't like it. Especially after having backed off my church commitments for a little while, part of me is ready to jump back on the horse, but part would rather just take a nap. I'm assured over and over that this is "normal," and I'm recently more resigned to just hanging on for the ride. Frustrating--especially to feel like I'm letting people down--but unavoidable, I'm realizing.
I'm reminded frequently of when, probably a month or so after Eliza was born, I realized I would forevermore be the mother of a dying child or a deceased one. Life would never "return to normal," whatever the medical outcomes. Life never went back to pre-Eliza normal after she was born, nor will it go back to with-Eliza normal now that she's gone. I'm trying to give up the battle for control and give in to just being led. God gave the Israelites just enough manna in the desert for each day; thus far, He has gotten me through each day one at a time, and I'm grateful for each of those days. Matthew 6:34 says, "Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own." If I can do that without feeling like I've let people down each day, each week, then I feel like I've been successful.
*What has been most helpful?
Lots of people have asked me this, both for us and for future reference; that is, what can we do to help others who go through similar situations? I can only speak for myself, but perhaps some of what I can share will help others.
Honestly and first of all, there's not much anyone can do. My daughter is gone, and no one can fix that. I think that's the first thing anyone who wants to help in a situation like this must realize. It's not up to us, and we can't do it.
That said, many people did help in many amazing ways. Initially (and even now), help that I didn't have to participate in at all was the best support. Really practical stuff. A friend--THE friend who cared for us and took care of EVERYTHING--calling to say, "So and so is going to the grocery store; what's on your list?" Not, "Do you need anything?" or "What can I do to help?" but, "Tell me if you need toilet paper or toothpaste or milk." Meals, of course, arriving when I could hardly think of eating or feeding everyone else who was in my house. Prayers, of course. A few dear, sweet, brave friends who just sat with me--in my living room or on the phone or elsewhere--while I cried...and still will. People who cleaned my house, gave my kitchen and dining room a makeover: I've shared what a blessing these things were before, and most of all because it wasn't up to me. I'm grateful to have so many talented, gifted, clever, amazingly generous
people in my life.
As I mentioned earlier, open-ended questions like, "How are you?" or, "What can we do?" have proven the most challenging for me. They're asked in the purest spirit of care and love, of course, but they're impossible to answer. I don't know how I am or what you can do.
What has simplified these exchanges in many cases has been when people have asked much more specific questions, ones I can answer comfortably in public, be it at the grocery store or in the hubbub after church or at the park. "Are you getting some sleep?", "How is Luke?", or, "Is school going okay for Sam?" are sweet expressions of love and care and are also manageable and answerable for me. As for me, I know that these are the questions I'll be asking in the future when I'm on the other side of the equation.
*When will you write a book?
So many people have asked this, that I've started thinking it's time for an answer. My answer has always been, "When we get to the end of the story." Obviously, we're not there yet, nor do we expect to ever be. And we have no idea where to even start or what it's a book about. But stay tuned; again, you'll be among the first (thousand) to know!
*Who/What is DixieJax?
We've had some of the most creative interpretations of this. No, she's not an aunt/grandma ghost writer; no, it's not my nickname (I love this one! My Yankee family shudders at the thought). Sam is one of twelve children, as most of you know, so there are many Jackson sub-families. Each one has picked up a clever nickname, several of which are based on geography. As the only Jacksons (so far!) to have landed this far south, we've gained the moniker "dixie". That's really all there is to it!
But you can call me Dixie if you want.
*What has been the hardest part of losing Eliza?
For me, it's been a physical withdrawal. I remember being shocked at the physical need I felt to hold Eliza those first few days of her life when we were not allowed to at all. Over the course of her life, too, our only real connection with her was physical, as we were unable to communicate with her much beyond that. Initially, then, after Eliza died, the withdrawal of that contact that had so dominated the last almost three years of my life was shocking again. I miss the feel of her. There's a physical emptiness that accompanies the emotional emptiness that is unique to losing someone like Eliza; not many people spend almost three years holding someone most of the day and night every day and every night. It's a shock I couldn't have expected.
*How do you imagine Eliza now?
I can't. And I struggle to every day. Read _The Great Divorce_ by C.S. Lewis. Sometimes I fancy that. Read _The Shack_ by William P. Young. Sometimes I try that on. But mostly I just trust that she is In Christ. And that is Good. Ever so much better than here. And someday, I'll know what that means. Romans 6:4 promises that "We were therefore buried with him through baptism into death in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life." Though I miss her terribly, I thank God that Eliza is free in that new life. I thank Him that she is with Him, and I can't wait to see my girl. Is she running, dancing, laughing, singing? I doubt it. I expect something so much better than that. It feels like a long, long time to wait...but I know it is Good.
The (long-awaited?) two cents from Sam: I was at the cemetery last Saturday. I ran my fingers along the creases in the cruel, cold stone. These same fingers that used to run tenderly down her cheek. I wiped away the dirt and grass threatening to obscure the grave-marker. Oh, to brush back those sweet, mischievous locks that hid her shining eyes just once more. I felt a violent grief there. I was not expecting it. Doubt attacked: was not Eliza just feet below my knees, securely sealed in that too-small casket? There I was, knocking on the tomb's door. I guess I just want to find some empty grave-clothes. In the meantime, it is so good to love and be held by a God who knows--who knows from experience.
Some of you may know the song "Sing to Jesus", which contains this verse: "Come you weary, and he will give you rest; come you who mourn, lay on his breast." Two thousand years ago, Jesus met a grieving sister's despair with these words: "I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live...Do you believe this?" She responded, "Yes, Lord; I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, who is coming into the world." I miss Eliza. I hate death and all its cousins. Come, Lord Jesus.
May your Easter be full of truth and love.
With love,
The DixieJax
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Eliza's birthday
Dear family and friends,
(Daniele here, with no impossible promises of a short message today):
(Daniele here, with no impossible promises of a short message today):
I have a lot of half-written emails in my head, partially composed when I'm too thought-full to sleep but too tired to get up and actually write. They'll all get written eventually, I think; for today, I give you three distinct pieces, in no way connected, really.
The first piece is about Eliza's birthday. It's today, January 29. She would have turned three today. What to do with Eliza's birthday has always been a bit of a muddle for us; you'll likely remember her first birthday party, attended by more people than our wedding and requiring a gymnasium to host it. Her second birthday was quiet, at home with some friends and neighbors, and she slept through most of it, anyhow. Birthdays for kids, really, are about celebrating and treating the child...and Eliza was never really able to receive gifts or treats. So those celebrations were for us, and I always met them with mixed emotions.
But now what? Eliza's birthday was fast approaching--and so close on the heels of her death--and we knew it wasn't a day we could just forget, but we weren't much in the mood to celebrate, either. For several weeks now, we've scratched our heads about how to make this day meaningful, both for us and for Luke. A friend encouraged me to think of something that could become a tradition. He reminded me that we're not likely to have a party and cake every year for the rest of our lives on Eliza's birthday, so it would be good to think of a tradition that we could continue each year. Great idea, but what?
A reverse birthday. That's the great idea. And I can't take any credit for it; it came from a blog I've read for quite some time now (and recommend you read, too: http://cfhusband.blogspot.com/). In honor of their micro-preemie's first birthday, this family brought gifts to the current residents of the Intensive Care Nursery at Duke, where their daughter spent several months. Brilliant.
So this afternoon, when Sam came home from school, we stopped at the cemetery to see Eliza's grave marker that was installed today and then headed up to Duke. We had baskets filled with small gifts, one for the parents and babies and one for the nurses. We brought things that, based on our experience, we thought would be helpful for the folks in the ICN: for the parents, baby valentine socks and t-shirts, disposable cameras (we always kept one in Eliza's bed, in case we missed an "important" bath or other big moment), and tissues (I could NEVER find a tissue when I needed one, which was often!); for the nurses, gel insoles (they stand for so many hours) and hair ties; and in both baskets, easily-portable snacks, drinks, and chocolates. Each basket included a note explaining a bit of our story and the reason for the gifts: we have been given so much--both in Eliza herself and through all of you who have supported us--and we're so eager to give back, even in a small way.
As you can imagine, returning to the ICN--and visiting with some of our favorite nurses and our friend-from-day-one neonatologist while we were there--was a very emotional visit. Of course, our first visit to the cemetery since Eliza's burial wasn't easy, either. Luke was pretty restless, clearly unsure of what to do with it all and eager to get on to the pizza and cake (with three candles, at his insistence) that awaited him after these "chores" were complete. It was emotional, challenging, draining, but something we're glad to have done. Maybe by her birthday next year we'll be ready to do it again...
And on to the second half-written email. This one is about what I know about God: He cares about the details.
The Tuesday night before Eliza died, Sam and I did not sleep. Sleepless nights were not that unusual during Eliza's life, certainly, but that Tuesday night, Eliza did sleep. In fact, by then she had reached a point of sleeping quite a lot. But Sam and I did not. We stayed up all night and planned her funeral. Mind you, we did not yet know that this illness would in fact be her last; but it was serious enough to merit a conversation, that much was clear.
Now, the reality of Eliza's almost-three years was that we had discussed what her funeral might look like with some frequency; Eliza had many "close calls," and conversations about her death were never far from our minds. And never once had we agreed on one bit of what her funeral should look like. So when we entered that conversation that Tuesday night, I expected fireworks and frustration. But we agreed on every detail. Our conversation was filled with, "Good idea"s and "What do you think of"s and "How about this"es, and not one argument ensued. And in the course of that conversation, for the first time in a while, I became very frightened.
As I explained to Sam, it suddenly occurred to me that, unlike the other times when Eliza had had "close calls," this time, all seemed prepared. You may remember the stories from her other serious illnesses: we were in Syracuse, or our beloved pediatrician was out of the country, or our friend-from-day-one neonatologist was out of reach, or Eliza's grandparents or godparents hadn't seen her in so long, and on and on. Each time, we had thought, "This can't happen now! What about so-and-so or whatnot?" But this time, for the first time, all the ducks were in a row. Hospice was back on call, and was ready to help when we needed them; all our favorite people were in the loop and available; we were home; we were ready. And now we agreed on every detail of the funeral.
I was scared.
It appeared, for the first time, that God had indeed put all the pieces in place to call Eliza Home.
Now, I don't claim to know what "needed" to be in place for Eliza to die. But I do believe that God's plan for Eliza included small mercies for us, as well. And I believe that He revealed a small bit of that plan to me--to us--that night, as He showed us that all the ducks were, indeed, in a row. God cares about the details.
And I flashed back to all the times throughout Eliza's life when I knew only God could have ordered the details as He did. Many of those details are recorded in old blogposts, so I won't repeat them here, but there's one I'm not sure I have ever shared.
Visiting Eliza in the ICN at Duke those first ten weeks of her life required parking in a parking garage (incidentally, returning to that parking garage today was another very challenging moment). Most days, Sam and I would drive laps around that garage, sometimes for fifteen or even thirty minutes, looking for a parking spot. I grew to hate that winding search...but I learned to fear the rare occasion when we pulled in that garage and found a parking space right away even more. Because, you see, each time that happened, we inevitably found, as we entered the hospital, that we had in fact needed to be there right away. There was always some crisis just brewing, some impossible-to-track-down-specialist just poking his or her head in, some medication change that we needed to question. And on those particular days, if we had driven around and around searching for a parking spot, we wouldn't have made it into the hospital in time. God cares about the details.
And in fact, after that Tuesday night, when we saw all the details and had a hint--just a small nudge--at God's plan, after that night, more details "fell into place." I had no idea how complicated it would be to get the morphine our hospice nurse recommended we have on hand--just in case--the night before Eliza died. It was a near-miracle requiring much work on the part of our pediatrician and a front-porch prescription hand-off followed by a rainy dash to the hospital pharmacy just before it closed to fill a prescription somehow found by a medical-missions friend of our pediatrician...I still don't quite know how it happened. But I do know that God knew we would in fact need that prescription that night, and He made sure we got it. God cares about the details.
There are so many more bits of the story like this, where God had it all worked out long before we even thought to try. But why do I care so much now that God took care of all those details?
Because if He did, if He ordered all those details, then He is in charge of the details of my life, too. What a comfort that He knew--even planned--that emotional meltdown I had as I drove by myself in the car the other day; that He prepared those snow days last week that so eased my transition to sending the boys back to school and being home alone; that He knows each child and each family to whom I have shipped all of Eliza's equipment and medical supplies this week. Psalm 56:8 says, "You have taken account of my wanderings; put my tears in your bottle. Are they not in your book?" God cares about the details.
The third half-written email has something to do with Jesus' mother Mary. If you attend our church and you read this year's Advent devotional, you may have read the reflection I wrote about Mary. I wrote it months before Advent, and I don't know how it ended up the selection for just a few days after Eliza died (actually, I do know: God is in charge of the details!). If you haven't read it, take a minute and go here to read it: http://mommytrenches.blogspot.com/2008/11/in-anticipation.html
Since Eliza died, I've spent some more time thinking about Mary. I've been thinking about what it is like to know God had a plan and a purpose for your child's life. To have lived to watch your child suffer and die. And to know that God has a plan for that suffering, that death, to know that He had redeemed it even as He ordained it.
Let me pause to assure you that it is hardly my intention to compare Eliza's life to Jesus' or, for that matter, mine to Mary's. There is no comparison between God incarnate and a sick little girl.
But still.
It's another instance where I think I might understand just one small bit of what Mary experienced. After all, she carried her Child, nurtured her Child, raised her Child, taught her Child, loved her Child...and lost her Child. He had to suffer and die...and be taken from her. But He was never hers, really, was He? Nor was Eliza mine.
Mary knew from the beginning that hers was no ordinary Son. I, too, knew from early on that Eliza was not an ordinary baby and that she wouldn't be "ours" for long. But for neither Mary nor me did this fact change how we loved our children. And I believe that Mary grieved her loss deeply, even as she knew that God's plan for her Son--His Son--was perfect and right and Good. That truth notwithstanding, she had lost her Child, had seen Him suffer and die.
I believe I understand just a little bit better how she felt on Good Friday.
I know God had a plan for Eliza's life. I know--have heard from so many of you--how He has used her story to touch so many lives. But that doesn't change the essential fact that I have lost my daughter. And I grieve that loss deeply. Even as I trust God's plan, trust that He has every detail under control, I mourn what these few small details mean for me.
So maybe these three disconnected emails really aren't all that disconnected after all. God cares about the details: the details of Eliza's birthday, her life, and the lives of those at the ICN today; the details of my life, my grief, and my still-unclear tomorrows; the details of His plan for Eliza, for me, and for our family.
(And from Sam):
I've just read Daniele's words, as you have, and I feel deep gratitude for the softness of Daniele's heart--a softness that is the result of the firm but gentle massaging of a loving Father. I have only two brief thoughts to add.
One is about suffering and grief. "On the night that he was betrayed, Jesus took bread and, when he had given thanks, broke it, and said, 'This is my body which is for you.'" I have found that the experience of suffering and grief drives one self-ward with terrific intensity. It amazes me that Jesus, on the very night that he was betrayed, sat with the people who would betray him and emptied himself to the point of 1) giving thanks to the God who had ordained his ordeal and 2) offering himself completely (the metaphor of food consumption could not be more explicit) to his traitorous friends. I can only think: what wondrous confidence, that sprung up into such faithful obedience. What love there is in the Trinity!
The other is about resurrection. I'm glad that there's so much fear and running and falling down in the accounts of Jesus' resurrection. It makes so much sense to me now. Now that I know death, now that I have held the one whose heartbeat made my heart beat--held her still and ever colder in my arms--now I understand why resurrection is a chaotic confusing make-your-head-spin kind of thing. I can't wait. Come, Lord Jesus.
With love,
the DixieJax
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Funeral video and sermon link
Dear family and friends,
Thanks to the diligent work of several good friends, the video of Eliza's funeral is finally online! In fact, two friends managed to complete the challenge (and it was a challenge!) of uploading it at the same time, so there are two different places to access it. Hopefully, one will work for you.
http://gallery.me.com/gregmyers#100000
http://vimeo.com/2744382
Please feel free to share this with anyone who might be interested. I'll post it on the blog, too.
Also, although it was not part of the funeral, our associate pastor and dear friend's sermon in church the day before may as well have been. It was a powerful message of hope and had much to say about Eliza. We'd love for you to listen to it and hope it will move you as it did us. The audio recording is online.
http://allsaints-chd.org/sermons/WhatareWeWaitingFor.mp3
We're headed out of town for a long family fun weekend (Google "Great Wolf Lodge" if you're curious about what we'll be up to) so will be out of touch for a few days. We covet your prayers for a fun, refreshing trip--especially for Luke--and for our continued adjustment to "real life" when we get back.
We love you and continue to be so grateful for you!
Daniele (for the dixiejax)
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