Monday, April 7, 2008

My Very Own Meteor Shower (part 1)

My life has gone through so many amazing things this past month, that I have to break it down into readable segments. So much has happened that it really works best if told in parts. This is part one.


If I had a moment to explain... I wonder if I could.

Imagine being thrown into a forest in the thick of the night. Feeling lost, desperate and horribly afraid, you cry out to God. You beg Him to get you out, to send you home- anything to get you out of the nightmare. But all you hear is the echo of your own voice. You crouch on the floor and cry in despair, when all of the sudden- a flash of light. As you look up, you notice the tail end of a shooting star. It’s enough to distract you. Thinking of the stars in the sky and the universe that holds them makes the forest seem small by comparison. Your faith begins to build. Not too much later, you spot another one. Then another. And another. Before you know it, you’re standing in the middle of a meteor shower, an awesome display of God’s power for an audience of one. You.

If you can imagine being there, then you have a faint glimpse of the stunning moments that I have recently experienced.







A CRY OF FAITH (where it all began)


I remember when my husband and I walked out of the geneticists’ office. I remember the smell of wet dirt and the grayness of the sky. The weather was slightly cool, but it felt like ice. My heart had just been broken. No- it had been smashed, stomped and pulverized. Holding my husband’s hand, I still felt alone. So did he. When your child is diagnosed with a disorder that takes away your hope for her future, the brokenness is yours alone to bear. No amount of hugs, kisses or talking takes the pain away.


Katy had turned one merely days before. When other parents celebrate with party hats and cake, we were taking our birthday girl for blood draws and lab work. The news was bad. They said that she had a metabolic disorder. It was genetic. Her condition made protein toxic to her brain. Since we did not know about the disorder until that week, we had not placed her on a diet that could have saved her mind (she was born in Mexico, where these tests are not run). Now we stood there, listening to how we had hurt her brain beyond repair.


There was a 95% chance that she would be severely brain damaged. Our princess! The one we tried to conceive for so many years! The one I held with tears of joy the moment I first received her. How? How could this be her future?


“She may be five and still not walking,” the geneticist said without hesitation, “expect any development to be slow.”


The evening of the diagnosis, Katy had a seizure in the doctor’s office. It was not uncommon. Her seizures manifested four to six times a day. It was just one more thing to prove that her brain was not OK. We drove home in silence.


After I put Katy to bed, I found Isaac on his knees- crying, praying. I gave him some time, and went to another room to do the same. I don’t remember how it happened, but somehow, we fell asleep- for a few hours.


I awoke to the soft sound of a guitar. Isaac was playing in the living room. He had written a song. I walked in to listen to the words-

Hear my cry, O God; listen to my prayer.
From the ends of the earth I call to you,
I call as my heart grows faint;
lead me to the rock that is higher than I.
For you have been my refuge,
a strong tower against the enemy.
I long to dwell in your house forever
and take refuge in the shelter of your wings.

For you have heard my vows, O God;
you have given me the heritage of those who fear your name.




It was Psalm 61



From that day on, I would hear his song on a daily basis. It became his faith cry. And mine…

2 comments:

Patyrish said...

I am a big fat slobbering crying mess!

Your heart mirrors mine in so many ways. I know your pain and you know mine. It's eerie how I remember the same details of "diagnosis day" for Makily. The smell of the room, the soap on my hands, the spot where I stood pacing waiting for them to tell us. It never leaves you.

That song is beautiful, Isaac is talented and your family touches me.

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