Anniversary Reflections.

The basic facts are these: on the morning of February 9th, 2004, my Dad fell down a flight of stairs in our home and suffered a Traumatic Brain Injury. He was airlifted to a Shock Trauma Unit where half his skull was removed in a craniotomy, and he was placed in a medically induced coma for four weeks. During this time doctors also inserted a PEG feeding tube and performed a tracheotomy opening. He spent five months in the hospital, and came home in a wheelchair. He lived with a feeding tube for the next year, and slowly began to walk, again, via the aide of a walker and then a cane. Almost a full year after his injury, the feeding tube and trach were removed, and he began to ingest food. Six months later, while trying to maintain his balance, he fell and broke his hip. He was hospitalized again. Months upon months of physical therapy have helped him regain strength lost during his injury and hospitalization. Seven years later, he is a walking miracle.

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The most ironic part to me is that the day was a day like any other. Nothing special about it. Not a holiday. Not a birthday. Not even a weekend. Just an average Monday morning in the dead of winter, and now we can't forget it. And, now a day that never stood out in any significance will always mark an anniversary. That's ironic to me. But, aren't all days like that I guess? It was just a regular day until it was your birthday. It was just December 25th until the liturgical calendar declared Christmas. It was just February 9th...and now it's not anymore.

I tend to think of it in terms of a negative anniversary. It is not one I want to celebrate, because celebrating implies gratitude...and my mess of questions clouds over the gratitude I feel I should feel. It is a celebration of your life. That you lived. And that is the important part. It is a celebration of the new. Gone is the old life. Gone are the old ways.
Here is the thing I have learned about God in these seven years: He is good, and I can trust Him. He does not waste experiences. And, His love for us...for me...oh, His love. If I live to be 100, I will never understand the goodness of that love.

Seven years provides moments for reflection, in startling clarity, and gratefulness for our people. You have people. We all have people. But, maybe we don't recognize all those people until tragedy strikes without warning. When your world turns upside down--when the sun shining brilliantly stands in sharp contrast to the weight of your heart--then, if you're fortunate, your people arrive on the scene.

And, this morning I'm thinking of faces from seven years ago:

-my college friend, Becky, who packed my suitcase for me when I rushed to the Pittsburgh Airport to catch an emergency flight home. She was only a freshman, just 18; and we'd known one another just a few short months.

-our pastor who paid for my flight home from Pittsburgh-- to this day I have yet to see a receipt for that last-minute airline trip.

-the Marshall family, and in particular, Carol, who single-handedly organized an Excel spreadsheet to coordinate meals for our family for the next few months

-the Walton family, and especially Nancy, who spent close to two years sending detailed e-mail updates to our friends and family

-my Mom's best girlfriends, who took shifts at the hospital so she could go home...who took my siblings and I out for dinner so we could process everything...who whisked Mom away on a trip to St. Thomas...who were available at any hour, day or night.

-one of those girlfriend's husband, who taught Stephen how to drive, and helped him earn his license

-that same husband who took Nate and Josh to the circus one weekend, and then took them shopping for Christmas gifts that year

-the Coffey family, and especially Lorna- who sent a hand written note once a week, for over a year, to encourage us and remind our family of their prayers

-Grannie Jo, and Mike and Anna, who came to stay with Dad for a week so the rest of us could go on vacation

-the people at Bullard Chapel Church in Tishomingo. We felt their love and prayers all the way from Oklahoma.

-my sweet friends, too many to count, who would ask questions...and pray...and hug...and e-mail...and let me be a mess

-the therapists, the doctors, the nurses; their  encouragement gave us hope. Their humor let us breathe. Their kindness let us mourn.

I'm forgetting some people, I'm sure. But, those are the people who stand out in incredible clarity. Their tangible acts of love are simply unforgettable in my mind.

We need people. That's another thing I've realized in these last seven years. We weren't made to go this alone. We need others to come alongside us.

We need joy. My Mom has remarked that when tragedy strikes, "You get bitter, or you get better." And, it is so, so easy to be bitter. It's still something I have to pull myself out of more times than I'd like to admit. It can be quite the tailspin when you start to ask, why my Dad? Why this much pain? Why our family? It's given me a new perspective on suffering to think, why not our family? It's given me empathy. That guy in the wheelchair at church? The person who has a seizure in the grocery store? Even the news following Representative Gabrielle Gifford's recovery...I can identify, on a small level, what kinds of emotions those experiences elicit.

I wish I didn't know what a tracheotomy was. There are moments I wish none of this had ever happened. But, it did happen. Now it's a part of our story. It's the life we're living. And, no, it's not all a bed of roses...and even seven years later there is still pain that can make my insides twist. But, the Lord is good. His mercies endure forever. His faithfulness continues to all generations. Those are the promises I'm claiming.

I hope you never have to endure pain that turns your world upside down. Though, it's a funny hope to wish in this post-Eden world. But, if you do--when you do--I hope you'll stand firm against the onslaught of grief, hopelessness, and anger.

I hope if you crumble, it'll be at the foot of the Cross.
I hope if you pound and rage, it'll be at the horror and unrighteousness of death itself.
I hope if you run, it'll be into the Savior's arms.
I hope the pain will shape you and refine you and mold you into a living, breathing, life-changing example of heavenly sorrow turned into joy.
I hope your story will inspire.
I hope you'll spill over with empathy for others.
I hope your heart will be free.



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You're not alone for I am here

Let me wipe away your every tear

My love, I've never left your side

I have seen you through the darkest night

And I'm the One who's loved you all your life

-Meredith Andrews, You're Not Alone

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