Tuesday, January 31, 2006

This Road (part 3)

On Thursday I will be leaving for Nicaragua to take part in a medical mission. You can keep up with the trip by clicking the following post. Please be praying for us.

  • Mission Nicaragua 2006
  • Thursday, January 26, 2006

    This Road (part 2)

    I hate hospitals.

    As I descended down A-tower the elevator stopped about half way to the bottom floor. I was joined by a lady whom I can only assume was a young mother. She was crying. This was not a subtle melancholy. What I heard were the gut-wrenching sobs of loss. I’ve been in enough hospitals enough times to recognize this particular brand of agony.

    I wanted to help. I wanted so badly to comfort her. I wanted to say something to let her know I understood her pain. But I couldn’t give comfort and I don’t understand her pain. As bad as I hate hospitals, as much as we’ve been through, and as much pain as I feel when we are confronted with Brendan’s heart illness, tomorrow I get to take him home. As bad as it gets, we are indeed richly blessed.

    So, I said nothing. I had nothing to offer other than a silent prayer to the one who could help.

    The second turn on this month long road-trip brings me to Columbus, Ohio. Another heart procedure behind us I sit and take stock of what is real. In times like these there are some truths that have brought me strength beyond measure.

    I don’t know how anyone does this without family. Dana and I are both blessed by a devoted family and an extended spiritual family. The strength we draw from the love that comes from our church is difficult to quantify. To those who covered us in prayer and support, we are in your debt.

    Brendan is the strongest person I know. The past two days had to be scary for him. He faced them with the courage of a warrior. With all the pride that only a Dad can truly feel, he is my hero.

    Hospital food sucks. The stuff they brought Brendan to eat tonight was not fit for human consumption. I wouldn’t even feed it to the Imlay’s dogs (I’m not sure how this truth has brought me strength, but it feels good complaining about it).

    I love my youth group and my youth volunteers. When we walked around the corner tonight to see RonJon, Emma Jo, Rob and Cory waiting in Brendan’s room it was difficult for me to hold back my emotion (at least until they started making fun of me, er, which really wasn’t that long after they arrived). The card we got from Amber was amazing. The calls, letters, and love that have been sent our way keep us going. I have the best job in the world.

    People always ask how we do this. The answer I always give is, “God gives us the strength we need.” That strength shows up in many ways, but mainly through relationships, our friends, our family. We are blessed. There is a strength, a power in God’s family. I hope the lady in the elevator knows that strength.

    Tuesday, January 24, 2006

    This Road (part 1)

    With a backpack, an i-pod, and a couple of hats in tow, I strike out on a familiar trip to be with my family for my Dad’s surgery. I’ve been so busy. The car provides an oasis of sorts, a resting place, a spot to cool down from the desert heat that has been my life. The singer songwriters fill the listening space in my car delivering thoughts both contemplative and ironic, like the town criers of old, like the ancient prophets spinning their own private brand of truth.

    It is in these moments I realize I have spent my entire life traveling to Tennessee, but never really staying. Wherever I have lived I’ve always known the path back. I’m going today for my Dad’s surgery, but I’ll be back in a month for another reason. I used to think it was because I was meant to live there, like I had somehow I had missed my destiny, my one true love. Now I think it’s more about the trip back, or should I say the trip home if home can be a place I’ve never truly lived.

    The reason for my trek this time is not an exciting proposition. Although this surgery is a long time coming, the idea of spending any more of my life in a hospital waiting for news is almost unbearable. If it will ease my Dad’s pain at all it will be worth it. It’s amazing how much a few seconds can change your life. Since the accident Dad as not been the same and in a way none of us have.

    The surgery was planned to last several hours, but it has only lasted an hour and a half. The doctors told Dad he would be in the hospital for five days, but he is out in less than twenty-four hours. He should not be walking for days, so I guess it’s no surprise that he is walking me to my car to tell me goodbye.

    The music on the way home is much more upbeat. Even though Dad is still in pain, there is now hope where there was none before, hope that he can move on from the tragedy that has affected us so. As I reach the place half way between home and home my thoughts turn to my family, to the love Dana and I have for Brendan, and to the uncertainty of the next part of this journey.

    I love my life.

    I rejoice in what is behind us, and praise God for the trials that are ahead. The strength of the embrace from my son as I walk in the door brings emotions for which I am not yet ready. He’s going to need that strength.

    Thursday, January 12, 2006