NEVER ONCE

I knew the words were true, when I first heard the words to Matt Redman's song, "Never Once."

Because I know, that we have never once walked alone.

"Standing on this mountaintop

Looking just how far we've come

Knowing that for every step

You were with us.

Kneeling on this battleground

Seeing just how much You've done

Knowing every victory

Was Your power in us.

Scars and struggles on the way

But with joy our hearts can say

Yes, our hearts can say.

Never once did we ever walk alone

Never once did you leave us on our own

You are faithful, God You are faithful.

December 7-2003 - December 7, 2012

"Scars and struggles on the way

But with joy our hearts can say

Never once did we ever walk alone.

Carried by Your constant grace

Held within Your perfect peace

Never once, no, we never walked alone."

Yes today, nine years later, we are carried by His constant grace and held within His perfect peace.

There are struggles every day, but we have joy when we remember.

When we remember that we have never walked alone.

BUT I MISS HIM

"But I miss him."

"I miss Ethan."


That's what I say, in between the moments of giving thanks for him.

In between the moments of thanking God for those beautiful blue-green eyes.

In between the moments of thanking God for his beautiful, wide, contagious smile.

I say "but I miss him" when I'm laughing at one of his has-to-take-me-a-minute-to-get-it comments.

Some nights as I leave his room, after telling him how blessed I am to be his mother, and that he is the bravest person I know, and how proud I am that he is my son, I walk down the hall and I hear myself whisper to God "but I miss him."

I say "but I miss him" when I now reach down to wrap my arms around his neck in a hug, instead of reaching up, on my toes.


I miss Ethan.


And yet I could not be more thankful for him.

I know that it probably doesn't make any sense.

I've learned during the last nine years how much life doesn't make sense.


How can one cry until they laugh and laugh until they cry?

How can a mom stand strong and determined and dutiful beside the bed of her dying child, and then be broken down into a heap of weakness when a black Labrador Retriever comes running toward her in the hospital parking lot?

I've learned that nothing makes sense about friends that disappear during a crisis, and friends that you didn't know you had, surrounding you and lifting you up in prayer and feeding your family for weeks and weeks and hanging around for nine years. Still praying.


What makes sense about me finding the joy and peace I've always wanted, under the pile of debris from damaged and broken lives?

What in the world makes sense about me being totally grateful for a wheelchair that I also totally hate my child having to use?

What makes sense about me not even noticing that wheelchair, plus a smaller one, and a standing frame, parked beside my antique furniture?


And most of all, what makes sense about Jesus loving me with the same love the Father has loved Him, His perfect Son?  (John 15:9)

What makes sense about God being the Light in my darkness when I didn't want Him or need Him in my artificial light?


No, most of life doesn't make sense.


But if you love someone who has suffered a traumatic brain injury, missing them and giving thanks for them makes perfect sense.


Sometimes, I touch Ethan just to make sure he is really here.


But I also run my hands over the glass of the frame with the legs and hands behind it. The legs that walked, and the hands that could draw like his dad. The legs that took him everywhere, and the hands that held cell phones and golf clubs and the steering wheel of the car that he said he wanted to drive forever.

I run my hands over the glass where the dreams and hopes of another life lived.


And then I look at Ethan.


Alive. Smiling. Blessed. Held together. Favored by God. And I wonder, could God be any better to me?


Could He have blessed me any more?


Yes. Ethan's life, given once, then twice, is a most precious gift.


I shake my head, in complete astonishment and awe of God's love toward my youngest son, his brother, and his mom and dad.

I shake my head, when I wonder how this mom of Ethan's has learned to give thanks for so much that she didn't want to be.


I love Ethan more today that I did December 1, 2003 when I went into his room and I kissed him good-bye, before I left to spend the morning with fifteen four-year-olds and before he left to return to his life in Gainesville.

I remember thinking, "It's okay he's leaving. He'll be home for Christmas in a few weeks."


Ethan wasn't home for that Christmas. 


But for the seven following Christmas mornings, that miracle child of mine has opened presents, laughed with his brother and cousins, and reminded us all of what Emanuel, "God with us," really means.


I could not love Ethan more.


My heart is completely full and overflowing with gratitude towards his Creator, Healer, and Redeemer.


"But I miss him."


I miss Ethan.

I know it probably doesn't make any sense.

But because of the way He comforts me, I know it makes sense to God.

I know that it makes sense to Him when I whisper "but I miss him," and God holds me and whispers back to me, "I know Cheri. I know."



Trust in Him at all times. Pour out your heart before Him. God is a refuge for us. *  He is the Father of mercies and God of all comfort. *  God has promised never to leave me or forsake me. *  He brought me up out of a horrible pit, out of the miry clay.  He has set my feet upon a rock and established my steps. He has put a new song in my mouth-Praise To Our God!

Psalm 62:8,  2 Corinthians 1:3,  Hebrews 13:5,  Psalm 40:2-3 

BLAMING OUR GIFTS

The pundit on the news said, "You can't just blame the campaign. You have to blame the candidate. Blaming the campaign is like a tennis player, who hasn't played a good match, blaming the tennis racket."


Immediately, a memory flashed through my mind in technicolor and surround-sound.

I knew the same memory was flashing through Ethan's head when the only word I could understand through his laughter was "putter."

There was a time when I thought there would be no more sharing memories with Ethan.

What an amazing gift. To laugh. To share. To remember. Together.


I'm not sure if we were laughing about one of my best parenting moments or one of my worst.

Regardless, we were laughing together, and together is always a gift.

Ethan was about fourteen or fifteen. He was playing in a two-day golf tournament in Mobile, and he was playing terribly. He spent most of the tournament in the woods, looking for lost golf balls.

I rode in a cart with other golf moms, and was thankful for their friendship and patience. They knew what it was like, after paying a huge entry fee, for their sons not to be able to hit a beach ball much less a golf ball.

Ethan's whole game had been off. His tee shots. His iron shots. And his putting. He putted so badly, I really think that if he had picked up the ball with his hands, and put it in the cup, it would have jumped out.

It was not a good tournament. But Ethan loved golf, and we both knew there would be better days playing golf.  We also knew that all athletes have good and bad days, and unfortunately in golf there is no room for being a "little off."


Ethan and I were driving home from the tournament, discussing what went wrong and where he  might need to concentrate his practice the following week.

That's when Ethan said, "I think it was my putter. I think I need a new putter."

With that comment I pulled off the road, stopped the car, and told Ethan to get out. Yes. I told him to get out of the car two hours from home. And in that moment, I meant it.

My mind was "chinging" like a cash register, ringing up all the money that had been spent on putters, drivers, and other various clubs. They were usually all given as birthday or Christmas gifts, but all golf gifts are expensive gifts.

Ethan looked confused. He knew I was his greatest cheerleader. I never missed a tournament, and although parents weren't allowed to talk to their children during a match, I would smile, nod my head, or give him a thumbs up even when he had to take off his shoes, roll up his pants, and wade into a pond to find a lost ball.

Ethan knew, as well as any fourteen or fifteen-year-old could, the time and money Jim and I had sacrificed for him to pursue his passion.

When Ethan didn't get out of the car, I told him he could either get out of the car and walk home and never play golf again, or that he could promise never again to blame his poor play on his equipment.

Ethan chose to continue to play golf and accept responsibility for his game, and I remained his greatest cheerleader. Regardless of how he played.

Ethan, when he found himself disappointed with himself and fearful that he had disappointed others, blamed his gift.


I too have blamed my gifts.

I think maybe we all do.

Adam sure blamed God's gift of Eve when he disobeyed God and ate the apple.

I've blamed my husband, a wonderful gift, for my frustrations and tempter tantrums when they actually come from the selfishness that lives in my heart.

I've blamed my children for my worry and anxiety, when my unbelief in God's goodness is the source.

It's easy for me to blame the business of others for my feelings of rejection, when those feelings are the result of worshiping at the "wrong feet."

I can blame life's disappointments and my past mistakes for my wandering and wilting, but it's me who decides to live in the world of "if only."

I can blame my lack of discipline on my circumstances.

Yet although they are hard, God has told me that as His child I am an over-comer.

I could blame the church, politicians, the weather, or the oak trees in my front yard. I could blame the fish in the bayou, or the sand in my shoes.

To tell the truth, I probably have.


I've wondered why Ethan felt the need to blame his putter.

I've wondered why I feel the need to blame the gifts in my life.

Could it be that it's just too much to admit we've failed?

Is it just too painful to admit that, after all the trying and striving and all the promises to do better, we've missed the mark again?

Does the realization that we'll never get it right, that we'll never be good enough, and that we will continue to fall, make us turn hatefully to our gifts and throw the blame off on them?

Do we blame our gifts because we have forgotten that Jesus came to fulfill the requirements of The Law, once and for all, because we can't?

Could it be we blame our gifts, because we forget that Jesus came for the sick and the weak and for those who have no righteousness of their own?


Would there be the need to blame, if we accepted the grace the tax collector accepted when he prayed, "O God, be merciful to me. I am a sinner?"

I know that the day Ethan blamed his putter, he was thankful for the gifts he had been given, and that he was just looking for a way out.

God knows that I am thankful for my gifts and that when I blame them, I have forgotten that Jesus is, and will always be, My Way Out.


Jesus came to do what I could never do for myself.

He took my failure on the cross and gave me His righteousness.

That is The Gospel and that is where, and only where, the blame game can finally come to an end.

"If we want to enjoy the benefits of The Gospel in our daily lives, we must learn to live like Paul. We must learn to look outside of ourselves and our performance, whether good or bad, and see ourselves standing before God justified - cleansed from our sins through the shed blood of Christ and clothed in the perfect righteousness of Christ."  Jerry Bridges  The Transforming Power of the Gospel

God put the wrong on Him who never did anything wrong, 

so we could be put right with God." 
2 Corinthians 5:21
The Message

 

THE STRENGTH GIVER

My sister ran out to the car to get something, and I was left alone with the lady who was going through my dad's clothes.

Funeral homes are quiet.

I didn't want to be there.

I didn't want to do what I was doing.

And then I remembered.

And my knees started to buckle under me.

I remembered when the doctors had said that Ethan wouldn't live.

They told us over and over again.

I stood there and wondered, how would I have ever been able to take Ethan's clothes to a funeral home?

"I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me."

"I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me."

And I knew that if He had called me to do it, that's how I would have done it.

And if he ever calls me to do it, that is how I will do it.

It's how I've done everything else for the last eight years.

It hasn't been my strength.

It has been by His.

I breathed deep and long and thanked God, that by His grace and by His mercy and by His power, Ethan is with us today.

And I breathed deep and long and I thanked Him for His strength.

Strength that is outside of me.

Strength that is outside of being a mother.



There were many many tears, but we did celebrate on the day we said goodbye to our dad.

We celebrated the man my daddy was on that beautiful warm winter day.

The sky was as blue as God could ever have made it.

We celebrated as we introduced Our Miracle to Daddy's friends and distant family members.

We celebrated as they met their answered prayers.

x

x

x

Yes we celebrated.

But most of all we celebrated The Giver of Life and The Giver of Miracles.

And I celebrated His Strength.

Philippians 4:13

A CHRISTMAS STORY ONLY GOD COULD WRITE

I'd like to tell you an amazing story.


I can call it amazing, because it has nothing to do with me.


And yes, it is a Christmas story.

A wonderful Christmas story.

Last week, on the eight anniversary of Ethan being injured, my sister went into a grocery store to pick up a couple of things for her son-in-law's birthday party. It's a store where she doesn't usually shop, but that day it just happened to be convenient.


She laid a few items on the counter and reached into her purse for her cash. As she handed the cash to the clerk and looked her into her face, she thought she recognized her.

Her hair was different, and she seemed awfully thin, but my sister  knew it was her.


Debbie, my sister, asked her if she had worked for the grocery chain very long.


The clerk said "yes."


Debbie asked her if she had ever worked at the store closest to Debbie's house, and if she had, was there any chance that she had been working there eight years ago?

The clerk, though puzzled, thought for a moment and then smiled and said, "Why yes. I did work at that store eight years ago."

My sister then asked her if she remembered a woman, who while checking out groceries the week before Christmas eight years before, had asked her if she believed in miracles.


The clerk said, "Yes. That was you. It was your nephew. Your sister's boy. I prayed for him but I never knew what happened."


My sister, the one seeking a miracle for her nephew, and the clerk who believed in them, were brought back together eight years to the day on which Ethan was hurt, at a grocery store across town from where they had first met.


They were brought back together by a God who sees everything.


By a God who saw a young man who had made a terrible choice, who was sitting alone in his apartment barely breathing, for hours.


A God who saw a mom and dad out shopping for Christmas presents that their child would never be able to enjoy. 


A God who saw doctors and nurses, who would soon be standing over our Ethan, believing he was gone . . . that it was too late, but willing to use their skills and experience to allow God to work through them.


A God who saw a big brother at home, waiting for hours, days, and months, to know if he would spend the rest of his life with or without his best friend.


A God who saw an aunt, with tears streaming down her face in a grocery store check-out line, desperately seeking a miracle for her nephew, and for me, and for Jim, and for Seth.


And a God who saw one of His precious children, working as a clerk in a grocery store, that believed in Him and what He could do.


The God who sees, is the God who left heaven, took on flesh, and became man to dwell with us. (John 1:14)


Last week my sister was able to share how God showed His glory by waking up the nephew for whom the clerk had prayed. 


She shared how God had given Ethan back his memory, his intelligence, and his wonderful sense of humor.


Debbie told the clerk what a joy and delight Ethan is to our entire family.


As my sister was sharing this amazing Christmas story with me, we were both crying on the phone.


We were crying because the memory of the pain we felt during those very dark days is still very real.


We were crying because our hearts were overflowing with gratitude to the God who sees, and who does more than we can ever imagine or hope for. (Ephesians 3:10)

But we also cried tears because we so desperately want complete healing for Ethan's body. 


Loss hurts, even in the presence of a heart full of gratitude.


The God who took on flesh, and came to dwell with us, has shown His glory in the ways he has healed Ethan.


But, my friends, He has also shown His glory the greatest in the ways in which He has not.


His glory has shown the brightest in our darkness.


In the darkness of our loss and sadness, His glory has brought unbelievable and undeserved joy, comfort, and strength.


His glory has brought life. 


"Turning the calendar page to December doesn't turn life into this dance of the sugarplum fairies."  Ann Voscamp


Oh, how I know Ann's statement is true.


But I also know what memories from past Christmases or a beautifully decorated tree or parties or even friends and family can't do, God can do.


And that my friends, is what I ask for you, and for my sister, and for the clerk at the grocery store this Christmas.


I pray that His glory will shine brightly in your darkness.


I pray that the good tidings of great joy that the angels promised to the Shepherds, as they found themselves in the darkness that Christmas night so long ago, will fill your heart and bring you peace.


"Then the angel said to them, Do not be afraid, for behold I bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people. For there is born to you this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. And this will be a sign to you: You will find a babe wrapped in swaddling cloths, lying in a manger." And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying: 

"Glory to God in the highest. 

And on earth peace, 

goodwill toward men."

Luke 2:10-14

 

THE NEXT DAY

We went to bed the night of April 18, 2004 like we had every night over the past four and a half months. Ethan was unresponsive. Our hearts were broken.

As Ethan lay in the hospital bed in the room next to our kitchen, his heart was beating. His skin was warm. But our Ethan wasn’t there, and we missed him terribly. We missed being able to tell him how much we loved him. We missed hearing him laugh. We missed making new memories with him.

Many nights had past since we last talked to Ethan. Nights that we had laid our heads on our pillows without hearing Ethan’s voice. Without seeing him smile.

Ethan was gone... and we couldn’t get to him. We didn’t know where he was.

But God knew.

God knew where he was, and that night He knew that the next day He was going to show us His power and His mercy. He knew that He was going to answer the prayers of our longing hearts. God knew that He was going to bring excitement, pure delight, and laughter back into a home that had been filled with guilt, tears, and despair. A home that had been filled with agony that can’t be described. An agony that can only be known by those who have experienced it.

He knew.

And I imagine that He could hardly wait for His sun to come up over the horizon so that the day could begin. I wouldn’t have been surprised if He woke the birds up a little earlier than normal that morning, in anticipation of what He was going to do for our family.

Did the sun shine on our home a little brighter that morning? Did the birds in our yard sing a little louder that morning? Did creation know what God was about to do? Were they waiting for the celebration?

God might have felt like I use to feel on Christmas morning. Regardless of how late Santa and I had stayed up putting toys together, arranging them for maximum effect, the anticipation of what the boys had in store for them wouldn’t let me sleep. I was always up before they were. Coffee in hand. A little make-up on the face. Charged batteries in the camera. A heart full of joy that only giving can bring.

I couldn’t wait.

I felt the same excitement with birthdays.

I would have gifts ready and waiting for the boy’s big day, but oh, how many times I gave them to the boys before their birthdays. I would be determined to wait for the big day, but somehow I just couldn’t wait. I’d cave in and give them their gifts early. Of course, that always meant more gifts, more money spent, because they still needed a surprise on their actual birthday!

Is there anything that can compare to giving a gift that is longed for? Is there anything that is more exhilarating than to give someone you love something they want, something they can’t get for themselves?

I can only imagine God’s excitement over the gift he had for us that day.

I’ve told this story over and over again. But today, April 19, I have to tell it again. I imagine that I will tell it every April 19 as long as I can. And, if the day ever comes when I can’t, I pray that someone will tell it for me.

Actually, it’s a story I tell myself over and over again. When things are harder than usual. When hope is fading. When I go to bed at night and the tears don’t stop. I tell it to myself when I walk past a picture of Ethan, of Ethan before, and I long for that part of him that is no longer there.

I remember.

I remember what God gave us that day. I remember that when we went to bed the night before, we had no idea. We had no idea what God had in store for us.

We knew God was good. With His Mercy and His Grace, we were living every day in His strength. We were living every day in His comfort. And that day we learned that His hand is never too short... His gifts cannot be measured. That day our eyes saw, our ears heard and our hearts knew, that what was impossible with man, was not impossible with God.

I hope reading the following will help your eyes to see, your ears to hear, and your heart to know the same.

May God richly bless you as you experience that day with us.

******************************************************************************************

April 19, 2004 began like most days had begun since Ethan came home from the hospital on February 12. It began with the same 24/7 routine of being a caregiver; medicines, tube feedings, trying to meet the needs of one who couldn’t care for himself... while trying to care for yourself and your co-caregivers.

Jim had not gone to work that day because we had an appointment with a physical therapist. She was coming to the house. Not so much to work with Ethan, but to teach us how to work with him.

We had pleaded with the doctors to write a prescription for a physical therapist. It hadn’t happened, because Ethan’s diagnosis was custodial instead of rehabilitative. To put it simply, the doctors believed Ethan would never wake up. That it would be a waste of insurance money and resources on a life that was, for all practical purposes, gone. We were frustrated that we couldn’t get Ethan what we knew he needed. We understood the reasoning by the doctors, but it didn’t make it any easier. We had received only minimal instruction by the hospital therapist during a quick session before Ethan’s discharge. We were willing to work with Ethan, but we were uncertain and without any training. In our ignorance, we didn’t want to hurt him. Finally, one of Ethan’s doctors consented to writing a prescription for therapy. I think he actually got tired of Jim’s pleading. As a father himself, I don’t think he could stand saying no to Jim one more time. And, as a believer in Jesus Christ, I believe this doctor was sensitive to God’s leading and prompting.

We finally had a prescription for physical therapy, but we still had to find a therapist.

It took us several weeks to find a therapist that could come to the house. To take Ethan anywhere at that time would have required an ambulance. After much prayer, many many phone calls, and friends doing their own networking behind the scenes, we finally had an appointment.

That day the therapist taught us stretching exercises for Ethan. She taught new methods of positioning him in the bed; putting pillows here and there to help prevent further problems for a body that had already been in bed for such a long time.

She also asked for Ethan’s rented wheelchair and Hoyer lift to be brought into the room. She was going to teach us how to get Ethan up out of the bed. I think we were a little stunned that on her first visit, she would attempt to teach us such a bold move.

I felt uneasy and nervous about it. Ethan had not been out of the bed except for a few times in the hospital, when the nurses would used an electric Hoyer lift to put him in a recliner.

This was way out of my comfort zone. Actually, everything I had done for Ethan in the last few months had been out of my comfort zone. I wasn’t a nurse. I had never wanted to be a nurse. I didn’t even dress up and play nurse when I was a little girl. Nursing was not my thing.

The Hoyer lift had a detachable sling on it. You would take off the sling, slide it under the patient, and then pull the sides together and attach them to the lift. The one the insurance company had provided for us was manual version. You cranked the handle and it raised the patient up off the bed, and you rolled the lift where you wanted to put the patient. Then you cranked the handle again to gently lower the patient into the new place. It’s hard to explain, but imagine a giant stork carrying an adult in a sling.

Before we knew it, she had Ethan sitting in the wheelchair. She put him back into the bed and told Jim it was his turn. Jim used his engineering mind, followed her techniques, and with great care, he got Ethan into the chair.

Then the therapist left.

She left us with instructions to get Ethan up during the day for short periods of time. She would see us the next week.

The sun was shining. It was a beautiful spring day so we decided to take Ethan out on the patio. We somehow arranged all his equipment safely and there he was... sitting outside in the sun. Sitting outside on the patio where he had played with his Legos. The patio where he had eaten his favorite meals of dad’s grilled shish-kabobs. The patio where we had sat and discussed his plans for the future. The patio where Jim had given him a buzz-cut because he didn’t want to wait for a barber's appointment. The patio where we had laughed at pranks he and Seth had played on each other. The patio where we had spent ordinary days experiencing ordinary moments together. They didn’t seem that ordinary anymore. Every moment that we had had with Ethan... every memory... became extraordinary.

I guess it should have felt bitter-sweet. But it didn‘t. I did take pleasure in the fact that Ethan was outside. But my Ethan had always loved being outside.

When Ethan was a baby and I couldn’t stop his crying, all I had to do to get him to stop was to stand in an open doorway, and let him see the light of the sun and feel its warmth.

The light and the warmth of the sun was once again shining on Ethan.

Jim and I left Ethan outside with Seth and Seth's girlfriend. She was a wonderful young lady we had come to love, and whose presence in our lives during that time was so comforting.

Seth was sitting on one side of Ethan, and his girlfriend on the other.

From the first time Seth walked into Ethan’s ICU room in Gainesville, he talked to him. He would ask him questions. He told him funny stories. Over and over again, Seth begged Ethan to come back to us. Seth played him his favorite music. He sang to him. There were many, many times we would walk past Ethan’s hospital bed only to see Seth laying in it with him. His arms wrapped around him. Seth’s head laying on the pillow next to Ethan’s.

That day on the patio Seth was still talking to him. After four and a half months of not receiving any answers, Seth was still asking him questions.

Our lab, Bayley, was running around the backyard barking. Chances are, Seth was making her bark. Seth, while looking at Bayley, asked Ethan, "Who’s making all that noise?"


Seth continued to play with Bayley but his girlfriend quickly said, “Ask Ethan that again.” Seth was puzzled as to why, but turned to Ethan and asked again, “Who’s making all that noise?”

She thought she had seen Ethan’s lips move with an answer, but now she was sure.

So was Seth.

After four and a half months, Ethan answered a question!

He couldn’t speak because of the tracheotomy tube he had in his throat, but he very clearly mouthed the answer.

“Bayley.”

Ethan said, “Bayley.”

Seth ran into the house screaming.

I don’t remember what he was screaming. Only that he was screaming.

Jim and I ran to the door, not knowing what we would find.

Was the scream coming from fear? Panic? Did the scream tell of more disappointment? Did it signal something else that we would have to deal with?

As we ran out onto the patio and saw Seth, kneeling down in front of Ethan’s chair, we had our answer.

No fear... No dread... No disappointment.

The scream had been a good scream.

We had been given a gift, and we were in the process of unwrapping it.

We knew it was good but unsure as to what it was.

In four and a half months of seeing hurt on Seth’s face, we now saw a smile that screamed pure joy and delight.

Seth was asking Ethan questions.

“What’s my name?” Seth.

“What’s your name?” Ethan Rainer Galloway.

“What sport did you play?” Golf.

“Who is this?” Your girlfriend.

“What kind of car do you have?” A Jetta.

“Where was it made?” Germany.

Over and over again, Seth asked him questions and Ethan mouthed every answer.

Ethan couldn’t laugh that day. He couldn’t smile. He couldn’t make his eyes follow us as we walked around the patio. He couldn’t hold up his head.

He was so extremely weak. He had lost over 80-90 pounds since the time of his injury.

We didn’t get to hear his voice that day. We didn’t get to feel his arms around us.

But we didn’t care.

We didn’t care at all.

We could do something that our hearts had longed to do.

We could tell Ethan that we loved him and know that he heard us.

And God, only God, who is never satisfied to only give a little of our hearts' desire, gave us the gift of Ethan mouthing the words, “I love you, too.”

God had done the "longed for." On April 19, 2004, an ordinary spring day, God reached down and showed His unbelievable power and mercy... in an extraordinary way.

There are many things I am still longing for...

I am longing for many things for Ethan.

I am longing for many things for my family.

The other night I was sitting beside Ethan, when he was in bed for the night, and he told me something that he is longing for. Most of the times, what he is longing for, seems impossible.

I began to tell Ethan this story again. For the "umpteenth time," I told him this story. As I got to the end, when we realized God had given us our Ethan back, I reminded him that the night before that day, we had no idea what God had in store for us. We didn’t know what God had in store for us. And we don’t ever know what the next day will bring. But, we do know that God is good. We know that He takes great joy in answering our prayers. That He feels the excitement that a good father feels when he gives a child the desires of their heart. We don’t know if it is in His perfect will to give us what we ask for. We don’t know how He will answer our prayers.

Our pain and our fears blind us to the goodness of our Father’s heart, and to the many gifts He gives us every day. We lose sight of His excitement as He waits, for the perfect time, to show us His perfect plans and to give us the wonderful gifts He has for us on our journey through this life, and the gifts He will give us in our next life which will last for all eternity.

When we lose sight of His heart, we lose our hope.

God knows it’s hard for us to believe. That it’s hard for us to believe what our eyes can’t see. To believe what our minds tells us is impossible. He knows that in this world, it’s easy to lose hope. That the circumstances and loud voices that scream at us to give up, can easily overwhelm us.

But Jesus told us when he was standing outside the tomb of his dead friend, Lazarus, that if we believed. . .we would see.

I don’t know what your heart will be crying out for as your head lays on your pillow tonight. I don’t know what you have cried tears over, the dreams you thought have been lost. I don’t know what your mind is telling you what won’t happen, what's impossible. I don‘t know what you circumstances are yelling at you.

I just know that he did the impossible for us on April 19, 2004. I know that when we went to bed the night before, we had no idea that the next night when we went to sleep we wouldn’t be crying. But that we would be singing. We didn’t know that the next day our eyes would see what our minds had told us wouldn’t happen. That God made the impossible dream of our hearts come to pass.

There is a saying that says it better than I can.

“If you can’t believe He will do it for you, than believe he did it for me. And in believing that He did it for me, you will begin to believe that He will do it for you.”

I sense God is smiling as I share this story with you. That He’s smiling because He surprised us. He’s smiling like I use to smile when I would give the boys a gift that I had told them they weren’t going to get. Maybe a gift that they knew was too expensive, or too dangerous for a sissy mom to let them have. I think God just may be smiling because He remembers the day He gave us a gift that knocked us off our feet.

A gift that knocked us to our knees.

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DREAMS

One of the things that's so amazing about God is that He replaces one dream with another. You don't even know He's in the process of doing it. You just realize one day that He's done it and you know in your heart that it could have only been His doing. You know that it was Him because somehow it's OK. Somehow through all the pain and tears, it's OK.

Therapy

Here I am. You see me. You know what I am thinking.

Why? Why are we here? Is it a dream? Will I wake up?

Imagining that it is a dream that I will wake up from, brings me relief. Imagining, that I will open my eyes and I will see Ethan strong and healthy brings me joy. If only for a few seconds.

We are at physical therapy. A golf course is across the street. He should be on the golf course playing golf. I should be watching him play golf. But today, he is sitting on a mat, a low table, learning how to balance. The first step in learning to sit alone.

I use to hope that Ethan would hit a good tee shot. Make a long putt. Today, I hope to see something Ethan can do that he couldn’t do last time. Anything.

I use to love to hear people say, “Ethan, great shot... you’re the big man!” Today, I want to hear Robin, the therapist say, “Ethan, that’s great. You couldn’t do that before.” I want her to mean it.

Some days are easier than others.

You see the tears welling up. Hold them back.

This looks impossible.

So has everything else over the last 41/2 years.

He’s still my child. He is still Ethan. I am proud of him. A great shot. Sinking a long putt. Shooting below par. Sitting for 5 seconds alone. Trying so hard to make something happen. Wanting us to be proud. He is still mine.

And I am still yours. When my faith is this long-----.
Or, when my faith is this long-----------------------------------------------------------------.
I am still yours.

I don’t think I am going to wake up.

There's a song by Bebo Norman in my head.

God, My God. I cry out.
Your beloved needs you now.
God, be near, calm my fear and take my doubt.
Your kindness is what pulls me up
Your love is all that draws me in.

I will lift my eyes to the Maker of the mountains I can't climb.
I will lift my eyes to the Calmer of the oceans raging wild.
I will lift my eyes to the Healer of the hurt I hold inside.
I will lift my eyes. Lift my eyes. To You.

God, my God, let mercy sing
Her melody over me.
God, right here all I bring is all of me.

'Cause You are and You were and You will be forever
The Lover I need to save me.
'Cause you fashioned the earth and You hold it together, God.
So hold me now.

God, my God, I cry out,
Your Beloved needs You now.

I am the Beloved.

Lazarus Sat at the Table with Him

I've tried all week to write this post, but every time I became overwhelmed and gave up. I am going to try one more time.

I know that God and God alone brought Ethan back to us. I know that He gave Ethan back his memory, his personality, his sense of humor and his ability to think and reason. However, I often wonder how God will use him to make a difference in this world and in His kingdom. I am so amazed at what all God has done in Ethan's life, but sometimes frustrated at the same time that others may not see it. I want Ethan to know that his life makes a difference in this crazy world. I know that he might not ever be able to do the things that others do. I know that the plans and dreams that Ethan had for himself may have to change. I know that I have had to lay down many of my hopes for him. But I also know that God has a plan and a purpose for this life He saved.

Living with Ethan's injury day in and day out, and watching other young people get married, start new jobs, become independent, well, sometimes my eyes start focusing only on what I can see. How good is God that He rescues us with a word and helps us to remember that we have to believe to see. (John 11:40) He rescued me once again last Sunday morning.

I had a few moments to spare, so with a cup of coffee in one hand and the remote in the other, I went channel surfing. I ran across a preacher talking about Lazarus. Here is where God stepped in with His hope. "Then, six days before the Passover, Jesus came to Bethany, where Lazarus was who had been dead, whom He had raised from the dead. There they made Him a supper; and Martha served, but Lazarus was one of those who sat at the table with Him. Then Mary took a pound of very costly oil of spikenard, anointed the feet of Jesus, and wiped His feet with her hair. And the house was filled with the fragrance of the oil." (Luke 12: 1-3) Martha is still doing what she does best, serving. Mary is again worshiping on her knees. And the one who was raised from the dead is sitting. Wouldn't it make more sense for Lazarus to be up doing something important? Wouldn't you think that considering what Jesus had done for him, that Lazarus would be doing something for Him? The Bible doesn't tell us anything that Lazarus did after he was raised from the dead, except that he sat. No books, no great speeches. He just sat at a table with Jesus.

Ethan does a lot of sitting. What God showed me is that it isn't what Ethan can do that will make a difference. It is what He has done for Ethan that will make his life count. For those that have eyes to see, Ethan's life, even with him just sitting, will be an example of God's compassion, His grace, and His power. "This sickness is not unto death, but for the glory of God that the Son of God may be glorified through it." (John 11:4) I am humbled that God has chosen my son through which to glorify His Son.

I know that I get so busy in trying to do for God, in trying to make a difference, that I don't spend enough time with Him, just sitting at His table with Him, to let Him be glorified through me. Amazing that He could use me. Now that's some kind of mercy, some kind of grace, and some kind of power!

I remember now a special moment that happened only a couple of weeks ago. When my niece and her new groom walked out of the church after their wedding, and my sister and the groom's mother had been escorted out of the church, my little family had the opportunity to walk down the aisle of that beautiful church. The pews were filled with many people who knew our story and who had prayed for a miracle for us. I thought, as my husband pushed Ethan in his wheelchair, and my oldest son and I followed behind them, this is what God has done. Look and see what God has done! All for His glory and our good.

Bless you. I hope that today you may have a few minutes just to sit with Jesus.




At the wedding reception