The goodness of God

There is a song, "Goodness of God" by Jenn Johnson that I play over and over on Spotify. The lyrics sing to and soothe my soul:

I love Your voice:

You have led me through the fire,

and in darkest night you are close like no other.

I've known you as a Father,

I've known you as a Friend,

And I have lived in the goodness of God.

My one and only post of 2018, in January, declared that family and faith would make it an amazing year. How overly confident and presumptuous, because in many ways, 2018 was an absolute disaster. Then again, it was a triumph in how God showed His goodness to me. 

In April 2018 I suddenly entered a series of scary, painful, and life-threatening health issues. From a kidney stone, to septic shock due to medical negligence, to an infected knee requiring surgery to flush it and 21 stitches to close it, I endured a physically miserable summer. The unknown world of home health care, the E.R. and I.C.U., infectious disease doctors, orthopedic surgeons, physical therapy, and prescription meds became the norm. I had no energy, no appetite (except for coconut cream pie!), no focus for reading, and a lousy attitude. Bill and Katie took over all my household tasks, the family I work for showed grace as I healed, and our extended and church family supported us. I absolutely hated being so dependent.

The spring and summer days slid by and bed became my retreat from constant pain, from the reminders of my limitations. Every step, every turn of my body, even standing to make eggs and toast, were reminders of my weakness. Some days it took me to a dark place of self-pity.

To add insult to all the injuries, the avalanche of medical bills began. Because of the nature of my insurance and the fact of several hospital stays, doctors, and surgeons, we were soon tangled in an indecipherable web of bills, statements, and phone calls that took a full ten months to completely sort out. It was, truly, almost worse than all the physical healing.

And yet. Now, with almost all of it behind us, I see much more clearly. Could God have prevented the sepsis? Yes, I believe He could. Instead, He used it as an opportunity to draw my family and me closer to Him. God doesn't "give us only what we can handle," quite the opposite. He allows trials that we cannot handle, that are far too big and hard and painful for us, so that He will be shown strong in our very weakness. 

I had a 50% chance of living or dying that April weekend and only now, more than a year later, do I see the goodness of God in sparing me. I've always been a stubborn rebel at heart, self-sufficient and for many years not thinking I needed God. "Thanks, God, but I've got this." Well I didn't have it last year, and in my darkest moments I realized it with clarity. Not only did I need a physical rescue, I needed a spiritual rescue as well. 

'Cause your goodness is running after, it's running after me.

With my life laid down, I'm surrendered now, I give you everything.

I had no choice but to give God everything. The pain, the fear, the depression, the mounting bills. It was so very hard, but it was so good. His goodness ran after me and showed me His big love through a big rescue. Is life perfect? No. We are still stumbling financially a bit, and I will probably never chase my grandchildren like I used to. But in that, a greater good has come: eyes to see God's goodness. 

And all my life You have been faithful.

And all my life You have been so, so good.

With every breath that I am able,

oh I will sing of the goodness of God!

Had I succumbed to sepsis, would God still be good? Why do children die and mothers get cancer? Why did my friend's teen desert her family? Where is God when Alzheimer's derails retirement plans? Even the most faith-filled cannot know. But in the book of James, we are told to "Consider it joy [JOY!] when you face trials ... because the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work  so that you may be mature and complete ..." [That is, complete in Christ.] (James 1:2-4) WOW I go back to this passage time and again. So much there.

I sense a quiet stirring in my spirit. I am almost 65 (yay, Medicare!) and I think God has more for me. I am excited for what lies ahead.  

Even if tomorrow is my last day, I have seen the goodness of God. And it is enough.

Ten little Indians! Now there are 11, since the arrival of Jude William last month.
L to R: Jake, Ari, Noah, Ethan, Peter, Jordan, Lily, Maddie, Ashlyn, and
I'm holding Simon.  (Photo by Katie Haller)

crazy, happy, hard

Here's what I've been doing: I'm spending the afternoon on our back porch, working on a magazine article. After our brutal winter, the sun and wind and daffodils under the pines are like heaven.

At this moment my life is crazy, happy and hard. So much has happened since Thanksgiving. And I thank HIM, the God of universe for all of it, hard as it is to walk with the hard stuff.

We learned that we get our tongue-in-cheek hope for another baby in 2015. (Four generations of us born in '5' years) And we get TWO, due five days apart in early June! I think they're both boys. We'll see when they come because neither mom is finding out her baby's gender. Love, love that!

Bills' mom Elizabeth, 98, had a nasty fall on Christmas day, another hospital visit on my birthday in early January, and entered Hospice care. We thought we'd lose her within weeks but she rallied and has had ups and downs since then but seems stable. It's an emotional and physical journey for those who love her and particularly Bill and his brother Bob, who visit her every day. Which goes to show, it is God who numbers our days. Not doctors, not hospice. I invite you to pray for Elizabeth's comfort and peace.

I've had a fun little part-time job for about 18 months ... I'm a mother's helper to a family with six children ages 3-17 and their mother Noelle homeschools every one of them. Some think I'm crazy, but my time there is a blessing to me, especially in the midst of Elizabeth's decline. In their home is life and love and NOISE and music (lots of piano) and laughter and I love it. It's a little trip back in time.

In February our oldest son, David, proposed to his girlfriend Chelsea. (last post) And since they live two hours apart and are just crazy about each other, it won't be a long engagement. In July we will trek to Florida for their wedding! The other boys' weddings were local, so this is different in many ways. Lots of texts, phone calls, questions and answers, and really, getting to know Chelsea better at a distance. I couldn't be more blessed by my daughters-in-love!

Our Michigan cabin is back on the market and we are talking more and more about moving south when the time seems right. It's been a decision long in the making and ya know how when you make a decision you just want to get on with it? I battle impatience and resting in God's timing. But faith is trusting God even when we don't see what we want, when we want it.

And that is what I pursue and rest in, day after day.

the hard and the holy

Hard stuff has been going on with us but I haven't written about it because, well,

it isn't just my stuff. Not like with my dad.

Bill's mother Elizabeth has been under Hospice care at her assisted living facility

since new year's. She'd been in obvious decline for many months but

the past month, and this week in particular, she has declined dramatically.

 

Elizabeth is being kept as comfortable as possible; her care is excellent.

Many of us are in and out checking on her;

Bill and his brother split the day to be with her: they are so attentive.

But today was very hard. 

Those bright blue eyes tried to stay open and focus. 

She tried to talk but the medication has slowed her speech.

When I held her hand, her grip was firm.

These are the hard but holy moments.

It is hard to see a person dying. God never intended death for us.

But there is stunning holiness in witnessing the end

of an amazing 98-year life.

 

 

 

When it comes time for you to lose a loved one,

I hope you can sense the holiness in the hard moments.

It is there.

 

We covet prayers for Elizabeth's comfort and her homecoming.

 

I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.

2 Timothy 4:7

the beauty in dying

Did you read the story of Brittany Maynard, the 29-year-old with brain cancer in Oregon? She plans to legally end her life on November 1. When I read her story and watched her heart-rending video this week, I was saddened and horrified, especially by the support and encouragement she is receiving regarding her decision.

But then, I'm not dying of cancer. I didn't know how to express my sense of how Brittany's decision seems so wrong. I couldn't lend credibility until I read a post on Ann Voskamp's blog, A Holy Experience. Ann's friend Kara Tippetts, a 38-year-old mother of four, also has stage 4 cancer. Kara opens her heart to Brittany, imploring her in love to reconsider her decision that looms less than a month away. It is tender, affirming and loving in every way. Please read and decide for yourself:

http://www.aholyexperience.com/2014/10/dear-brittany-why-we-dont-have-to-be-so-afraid-of-dying-suffering-that-we-choose-suicide/

"In our dying, He meets us with His beautiful grace," says Kara. How I came to know this truth on my four years of trips to Nashville to be with my dying father. I hated those trips. But I loved them, too. In that last year, as painful as it was to witness Dad's agonizing decline into dementia and death, I emerged on the other side realizing that beautiful grace.

God granted me the beauty of getting to know my father: a man who managed to hide his real self. God showed me how to stretch beyond my comfort and pain-free life to hold the hand and heart of my dying father. He comforted me on every drive home from Nashville as tears fell. God drew me ever closer through music and scripture, speaking to my heart that He had me, and He had my dad.

If this wasn't grace in dying, please tell me what is. Grace. It's a gift, an unmerited gift. My father's death was a gift of grace and powerful love for us both as we drew ever closer.

Had my father been able to take a pill to end his life, well, the gifts and grace and intense beauty would have been stolen. And his life would have ended before God had planned. God creates life and it is He who takes it away.

My times are in your hands ...

Psalm 31:15

As for God, his way is perfect ...

Psalm 18:30

love holds fast

I stepped into his room a year ago. Looking small and frail in his bed, my father opened his eyes as I leaned over and took his hand. Not the hands I once knew, but tiny and white waxy.

"Do you know who I am?" I asked. In the screaming, silent moment, my throat tightened. This time he might not know me.

"You're my daughter," he answered finally.

I spent that day at his bedside and knew for certain it would be

my last with him on earth.

The last day I would print off a name tag at the front entrance to Richland Place.

The last time chuckling as I tried to punch the right code for the elevator,

a procedure to prevent confused patients from leaving their floor.

The last time "going to dinner" meant heading down to the resident dining room to eat cabbage rolls and drink sweet "tay" with Dad. 

And the last time he'd say, "let's get some breakfast" at three in the afternoon.

And we did.

The last time I would sit, thinking of something to say to pull him

into reality and as he dozed off, shift my gaze to golf on TV. 

The last time I'd sympathize about the "bugs on the ceiling" or the prospect

of Dad "having a meeting about buying this hotel."

I can accept death. It's the journey of dying, my father's slow and painful slide to the end that haunts me still. His loss of personality, physical strength, and life quality brought me to tears each time I left him to drive home from Nashville.

Though I wanted to run, I held his frail hand and sat beside him for ten hours on our last day together, June 10, 2013. He slept most of the day and I thought of leaving.

 It wasn't my will that held me there nor even a perceived obligation.

It was love that held me fast.

One of the last things I said to him was, "Dad, do you love Jesus?" And at that moment his eyes focused on me. "I do, I love Him a lot." And my heart was comforted.

I arrived home the next day, exhausted. Bill, Katie and I ate dinner on the porch. All I could say was, "I hope you never have to watch someone as I have watched Dad."

God created us for eternal life with him. I rest in that.

But holding fast to the dying: hard to take.

Then again, it was love that held Christ, too.

Love held Him fast to the cross.

 

... everyone who believes in him may have eternal life.

John 3:15

February 2013

empty

I didn't cry at the funeral. I didn't even cry at the graveside. But when I walked into an empty horse barn today at our county fair, I broke down.

It's the end of the fair; we missed it while out of town for Dad's funeral. But Bill and I went anyway. My favorites are the animals: sheep and pigs that the 4-H kids show. Lop-eared rabbits. And sleek, strong horses. They're all back at their farms now, gone from the fair for another year. And when I entered that deserted horse barn, it was an image of my heart right now: empty, quiet.

 

You know the story.

My dad made an agonizingly slow decline

into dementia and,

eventually. other issues brought on by immobility.

It lasted four years and his inability to do much of anything for himself

for the past six months was deeply saddening to watch.

I know he is now whole and healthy, living in God's presence.

But my heart, like these horse stalls, is feeling empty for a time.

Abandoned, in a way. Though I'm blessed by many loving family and friends,

I've decided grieving is a solitary journey.
And so I continue it, because it really began
four years ago when Dad began his decline. 

Thank you all for the many expressions of love and caring.

 

I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.

2 Timothy 4:7

so long for now

Fort Riley, Kansas, around 1949

Joe Lanier Matlock
December 23, 1924 - September 13, 2013

My dad died peacefully this morning in Nashville, Tennessee. He spent 88 years on earth, with a long and brave struggle at the end. Now he will spend eternity with Christ. For that we are grateful.

 "I tell you the truth, no one can see the kingdom of God unless he is born again." John 3:3

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



a divine purpose

My dad, around 1949. Fort Riley, Kansas.
 

A few years ago I flew to Nashville to visit Dad and Sally.

Dad picked me up at the airport, but instead of heading home,
we ended up in an abandoned parking lot and had to flag down a guy in a pick-up
 to lift the gate for us to exit.

At the time I thought little of it; Dad just took a wrong turn.

But now I see clearly. Dad's mind was falling prey to dementia.

It was the beginning of a long, slow journey.
 

Ten years after this photo was taken, Dad was rolling on the floor

with my brothers and me, wrestling and laughing.  

A little girl with a strong, healthy, capable daddy can't know that time is fleeting.

That some day he won't be cutting the grass on Saturdays (how I loved that smell) 

or taking me to Sears to roam the hardware department.

That he wouldn't tend his tomatoes or build Mom a flower garden. 

One day he'd no longer grill out on Saturday nights or make sausage and biscuits on Sundays.

That even my teen years, when he didn't really know how to talk with me
and I was incredibly frustrated by him, would quickly fade away.  

That life stands still for no one.

 

Dad is still alive, but he's not living. I pray he doesn't grasp how much care he needs,
how his once-witty and intelligent mind has been scrambled and robbed.

I last visited him in June. So emotional was the visit
 that it's taken me two months to write these words.

His fluctuating condition weighs on my heart,

the sight of him bed-ridden replays in my mind nearly every hour of every day.

 

I felt I was staring down death. 

Dad's eyes were vacant and as I gazed into his face,

he barely realized I had tears streaming down mine.

It was a short visit, a detour home from Charlotte.

 On that full day I spent with him, June 10, he was awake maybe two out of the

 ten hours I sat beside him. It felt awkward, but I held his frail, white hand as he slept.

 I wanted to, for I was certain this would be my last day with him on earth.

I wanted him to feel my love and the peace that I prayed over him.

Late in the afternoon he opened his eyes and I said what I most wanted to say.

"Dad, do you love Jesus?" He brightened a bit, focused briefly and answered,
 "I do, I love Jesus a whole lot."

Some question the purpose of a life like this. Or God's timing. Or if God is even there.

We cannot know God's ways, so much higher than ours.

In His creation lie the mysteries of His love, justice, compassion and mercy.

We catch glimpses, but cannot fully know what God knows.
We aren't supposed to. We are not God.

Dad's lengthy illness has also brought gifts. 

Over these nearly four years, we've had conversations I never imagined;

 a glimpse into the heart of a man I never knew.
Up until about a year ago, he answered many of my questions about
his childhood. About his parents, and theirs.
How the mail was delivered on horseback to their Arkansas farm
and how his father offered to send Dad to Yale.

I forged a deep, sweet relationship with my step-sister Anne,
renewed the relationship with my sister (also Anne) and

had lovely visits with my step-mother Sally.
And Dad's caregiver Lisa is an angel on earth.
 

I've spent hours alone, driving to and from Nashville, talking things over with God.

I wrestle with things before God; I do not wrestle with God,
as Oswald Chambers so beautifully reminds me.

(My Utmost for His Highest, December 16)
He also explains how God's permissive will is used
"to accomplish His divine purpose for our lives."

 

Perhaps the best gift of all is, I hope my own children

have seen vulnerabilities and a faithfulness in me.

It's been an emotionally exhausting  journey,
but also one of the sweetest.
In this I am content and thankful.
Perhaps my discovery of these gifts on this hard journey
is God's divine purpose for me.

 



Go safely, Dad. God will hold you as you once held me, safe and sure.

I'll see you someday. You know I love you.

 

As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways

and my thoughts than your thoughts.        Isaiah 55:9

precisely unfilled

“There is nothing that can replace the absence of someone dear to us,

and one should not even attempt to do so.

One must simply hold out and endure it.

At first that sounds very hard, but at the same time it is also a great comfort.

For to the extent the emptiness truly remains unfilled, one remains connected to the other person through it.

It is wrong to say that God fills the emptiness.

God in no way fills it but much more leaves it precisely unfilled and thus helps us preserve - even in pain - the authentic relationship.

Furthermore, the more beautiful and full the remembrances,

the more difficult the separation.

But gratitude transforms the torment of memory into silent joy.

One bears what was lovely in the past not as a thorn but as a precious gift deep within, a hidden treasure of which one can always be certain.”

~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer

1960

Ten days ago, a young husband in our church lost his vibrant wife Kala. Her unexpected death left three young girls without their mother.

As I sat through Kala's service on Saturday, I was inspired by her deep and abiding faith in God. Kala was, in the words of one close friend, "mildly inappropriate" in her zeal for living and loving, for her family, and for pointing others to God.  

Yesterday I came across this Bonhoeffer quote on another blog. It struck me as deeply profound  in light of Kala's recent death, and in the death of my own mother, who slipped away 34 years ago today.  

I think Bonhoeffer is saying we should not struggle and shake our fist at God at the loss of someone we love. God certainly comforts. But to ask God to fill our empty longing is to diminish the beauty and authenticity of our relationship. God leaves us intentionally and "precisely unfilled" to preserve the memories, love, and joy. In time, this emptiness becomes a deep, unshakable and precious gift.

God is, after all, a god of relationships. It's what He wants most of all with us. And so God redeems and transforms the pain of loss into a gift. The gift of a hidden, preserved relationship.

Make no mistake: losing my mother was devastating. The pain of it reared its ugly head as I brought my babies home from the hospital, rocked them, and raised them with only stories of their grandmother. For years I couldn't stand to pass the Mother's Day cards at the store in early May.

Like everyone, I wouldn't be the person I am without my mother's influence. But I'm also a different person by having lost her so young. I am stronger in spirit, with a more compassionate heart, at least I like to think so. And best of all, I've learned to rely on God, not my mother, not anyone really. Her spirit, her kindness, her crazy ways live on because God allowed me to be "precisely unfilled" for a very long time.

For that I am grateful and now experience a silent joy.