Mistaken Mercy

We were about five hours deep into our hospital stay. We had moved rooms and were awaiting instructions on what we should do next. E’s respiration appeared to be getting labored so I called the nurse in and asked if that was something we should be worried about. She replied with a simple “I’ll be right back.” The doctor came back in and confirmed that yes, it was unusual. I was keeping my sister (the trauma nurse) updated via text, and she immediately called me. She said “I just want you to know that they’ll probably have to intubate her. It will relieve some distress on her lungs while they continue working to figure out what’s wrong, but I just didn’t want you to be scared by it.” I told her I was fine (and I really was), and that if that’s what they needed to do, then of course I was okay with it.

We hung up the phone and for the first time, the room started bustling. New people came in. Machines. A little more urgency. I still wasn’t panicked. I believed they were simply doing what doctors and nurses do.

The entire time, I felt peace. But more people started streaming in. I heard someone mention “shock.” And for the first time, I felt like there could be something happening that was more than the doctors were prepared for. Still without panic, I prayed my first and only verbal prayer. You should know…I’ve learned over the years how beautiful it can be to converse with God all throughout the day. Not always with words, but sometimes just with thoughts, with acknowledgments of his presence, with an intentional focus toward what He’s speaking into my heart. But in that moment, I paused. Physically paused, closed my eyes, and spoke but five words.

“Have mercy on us, Lord.”

That, of course, is a loaded request. What I meant was, please spare her life. Please work a miracle and let her little body figure out what it’s supposed to do. Please reveal the medication to give her that will get everything working right. Please allow us to at least be able to medivac her to the nearest Ped ICU. But as you already know, that’s not the answer we received.

What I learned that day, and what I continue to learn every single day, is that God offers his mercy in many ways. His ability to stand with us, carry us, serve us where we are, and give us what we need before we even (if ever) know we need it, extends far beyond the boundaries we set up in our own minds for how that mercy is supposed to be doled out.

As I reflect on that day, as I do nearly every day of my life, the complexity, timing and personalization of his mercy is revealed to me more and more. I think about when we first arrived and the nurses tried to find a vein for an IV, prodding time and time again, there was an inexplicable peace in our Elizabeth’s eyes, as though she had angels holding her, protecting her from the pain. I think about how over the 8 or so hours we were at the hospital, I never once felt panicked, even when the room was filled with 20 people – doctors from all different departments in the hospital, pharmacists, respiratory techs, you name it. It was a peace that, to this day, I cannot explain in a worldly way. I think about how in the month leading up to her passing, in an unexpected break from his extended late night work schedule, Adrian was able to come home from work early almost every day, read to the girls and then rock Elizabeth to sleep.

2020 has been a year of extreme loss – loss of life, loss of jobs, loss of security. It’s also been a year of struggle – a struggle of humanity against individualism, of wealth against want, of humility against stubbornness, of truth against lies and half-truths, of identity and belief and a sense of worth and belonging. It’s been a year of tension, of anger, of heartbreak, of learning, of unlearning, of self-reflection and of change (hopefully). And in the midst of it all, it’s been challenging to see the mercy in it all. Where is God’s mercy when so many are hurting?

I’ve asked myself that question time and time again – in the moments where the pain of Elizabeth’s absence makes me physically ill. In the {daily} moments when I continue to walk with Nora through conversations and emotions that challenge my belief in how real the small divide between earth and eternity really is. In the moments when I see families around me with three children or with sisters matching in their cute outfits. Or even worse, in the moments when I see people devaluing life itself.

But the mercy is there. It may not meet our expectations. But that’s because our expectations are earth-bound. God’s are infinite.

Do I wish I had Elizabeth back? No question. But I know I will see her again. So then the question becomes, what am I going to do with what God has allowed to happen in our lives? Do I dwell on my disappointment of not receiving the packaged mercy that I desired or do I choose to see the mercy as it was given and use that to do what I was sent here to do in the first place – to share my hope so that others may also choose to walk in faith through the small divide?

I hope my life will reflect that I choose the latter. And I hope yours will too.

Steady.

I started marathon training today. Training for the Chicago Marathon, to be exact. I lived in Chicago for three years during law school. We love the city and try to make it back once a year. Adrian ran the marathon in 2018 and in a moment of what I can only think now must have been an hallucinogenic, sleep-deprived lapse in judgment, I signed up to run this year. I am NOT a runner. Yes, I exercise, but running is not the same. At all.

Anyway, I got about half a mile in and was pretty sure I was going to black out, slide ungracefully off the end of the treadmill, only to be found once my husband realized I’d been out there far longer than the turtle’s pace of time it would normally take me to run that mile and a half…so basically like midnight. (Did I mention I’m not a runner?) Thankfully, though, the music blasting through my ‘pods refocused my attention.

It’s been a stupid week. Like, the world is totally bananas and no one really knows what’s going to happen from day to day. There’s panic. There’s hoarding. And for many of us who already fight a daily battle against anxious energy, it’s a time of expending even more energy on the battle. And did I mention that stress lowers your immune system?

So what do we do?

Steady in the boat.

A storm raged all around. The story says that the boat was being swamped by the waves. Taking in water, with a very realistic threat of capsizing. The men were absolutely freaking out. I hate water. Drowning is my worst fear. I sympathize. And where was Jesus? Knocked out in the front of the boat. They couldn’t believe it. They went to him and were like “Dude…don’t you care that we’re about to die?!” And you know what he did? Woke up, told the wind to chill, and went on about his business. Y’all…he was totally unaffected by it all. Like, no urgency, no worry, no NOTHING. Mad.chill. The storm didn’t change his personality. The storm didn’t raise his blood pressure. The storm didn’t change whether he worried about whether they’d make it through. He was completely steady.

So I got to thinking today…well…if that’s his character, if God is steady, if nothing surprises him and nothing shakes him or makes him shift like the wind…and God lives in me, then I can be steady too. Because it’s not me…it’s Him. None of what’s happening right now is a surprise. None of it will alter his purpose for this Earth, and none of it changes the fact that we are, after all, only on a sojourn here and our actual home is promised to those of us who choose Him.

To others out there who need to hear it as much as I did, I encourage you to ask yourself at the start of each day whether you’re choosing to be steady in the boat. Are we choosing to decline to indulge in the fearful thoughts the Enemy is trying to perpetuate? Are we choosing to decline to be moved all around like the changing wind? Are we choosing to be steady, no matter what? Not because you think you can, but because the one who can dwells in you. It’s a marathon, but I feel like if I can do that, one day at a time, then maybe I’ll get through it all a little more healthy, sane and free.

Time.

Time

Time can be really rude. It has no respect for anyone but itself. Unlike a good friend, it won’t wait for you until you are ready. (“Just five more minutes!” you say, but to no response.) And it won’t slow its pace as you try to catch up.

It just keeps on going. With or without your permission, it moves on, unapologetically and without regard for who or what it leaves in its shadow.

There have been many moments in my life over the last two years that have stalled my breath. How is it possible that it has already been one month? How is it possible that it has already been six months? A whole year? Two years?! How.is.that.possible?

Today marks the start of a season of those moments in our family. This is the day, one year ago, when we lost one of the best friends this world has ever seen. He was the epitome of brotherly friendship – he checked in when no one else would. He called things how he saw them. He was unafraid of inserting himself into any situation, because he just assumed he was the same as family. He was a brother to my husband – best friends since kindergarten. He called me “Sis.”

He would be very proud of our Preston, his namesake.

No, time won’t wait for any of us, but in many ways it is best that it doesn’t. We are all here but a short while, and regardless of how many days we are allotted, my hope is that we learn to number them, to recognize that each and every one is filled with the potential to leave a mark on this earth that no one else can create and time cannot undo.

Ernest Preston Walker, thank you for modeling to me what true friendship and brotherhood/sisterhood should look like. Thank you for reminding me that there is no time like the present to be obnoxiously passionate about serving others. Thank you for leaving marks on this earth that no one but you could’ve created and time will never undo.

Ernest Preston Walker, our brother, our friend

Push.

Tonight I pushed. For the first time in nearly two decades, I really pushed.

I’m talking doubled over, burn-in-my-chest, sweat-and-spit-flying kind of push. I honestly haven’t felt that way since my drill team days. When the workout was over, I have to admit I was kind of surprised. I’m not sure exactly what put that fire in me tonight, but there it was…I had left it all on the floor and it felt good. But why? Why tonight? Why THIS workout?

I’ve had a little bit of an identity crisis lately. To be honest, it’s a bit more than little. In 2011, after graduating from one of the top law schools in the nation, I moved to Houston with my new husband, and for three years I worked as a full-time lawyer in one of the city’s biggest law firms. Around that time, our prayers were answered and my husband – whom I affectionally call Hunky Hubby – got a great in-house job (he’s also a lawyer) with a company based in west Texas. Although he started out working in their Houston office, we always knew that at some point we’d need to consider whether we’d be willing to move. While Hunky Hubby was raised a big-city kid – and to be honest, I too had grown quite fond of large cities – I was raised in a small town and was firmly settled on wanting to raise our family in a small town as well. So when our first daughter was born, the conversation became more serious. Ultimately, we decided to move. Somehow I was able to sucker my firm into letting me continue working remotely. So we packed up our four month old and off we went. For about four and a half years, I worked diligently for my clients, but once we found out we were expecting our third child, we decided as a family that it was time. Time for me to take a step back. Multiple factors contributed to that decision, and I felt 100% confident in it.

There’s something funny about life, though. Regardless of how confident you are in the choices you make, life has a funny way of reminding you what you’ve sacrificed. For me, that reminder came in the form of a message on LinkedIn. Well, not the message itself, but what followed. I rarely sign into LinkedIn, but since I received that message (which, ironically, was a congratulations on my 8 year anniversary with the firm), I decided to hop over to the feed and see what my peers were up to. Accomplishment after accomplishment flooded my eyeballs. Classmates making partner, former colleagues engaging in international panels as experts in their fields, friends gaining momentum in their entrepreneurial endeavors. And me…sitting in my living room checking messages between folding laundry, scrubbing spit-up out of the carpet and playing chauffeur to ballet and tennis lessons. Then I made the ultimate poor choice…I checked the latest salary scale. (In case you didn’t know, the standard for big law salaries is set every year by one particular firm in New York and published publicly.) Yikes. My earning potential had I stayed on full time through all those years was staggering.

Now trust me, I am fully and painfully aware of the value in and privilege of being able to take a step back and invest this way in my children, my husband and my home. It is a privilege denied to many who desire it, and not a day goes by that I don’t feel extreme gratitude for the ability to be here. Having said that…it can still be a shot to your ego to have a visual representation of what your potential could have otherwise been. Not to mention having to figure out how to describe yourself to new people when they ask what you do. For years, I was able to immediately gain legitimacy and respect by simply reciting the phrase “I’m a lawyer.” But what happens when that answer is more complicated? “I’m a semi-retired lawyer.” “I stay home right now but I’m a lawyer by trade.” Because as much as we hate to admit it, we all make immediate assessments of people when we find out what they do for a living.

But the real question is…why do I care?

Two years ago, our youngest daughter died unexpectedly of a rare acute-onset heart condition. In the two years since then, I have had the humbling and beautiful opportunity to share our journey and our hope with many people. Countless numbers of friends and strangers have reached out to share their own struggles and experiences with me as a result. I still cannot believe that God would use such a broken person as me to give a tiny bit of encouragement to people. But there are no numbers attached to that. No metrics. No pieces of paper that reflect the impact. Nothing I can put on LinkedIn or announce as a badge of honor when I meet new people.

But…what if that’s EXACTLY what I was created to do? What if, more than helping my clients build roads and schools, more than earning income for my family, more than being an expert at anything – all of which are noble and laudable ways to spend your life and endeavors I am very proud to say I pursued for many years – the task for which I was ultimately destined was something much less tangible?

In some ways, I think I’ve always only gone half-way with things. Fear of failure, fear of investing in something that’s ultimately not worth my time, fear of being asked to know or create or lead something I find myself incapable of doing. But what if, rather than being concerned about the world’s definition of success or worth, I chose to stop concerning myself with whether anyone thinks I’m smart or accomplished or influential and focused instead on using this new-found time freedom to giving my whole heart to doing exactly what God created me to do? What if I decided to be proud of the intangible?

So perhaps in this next stage of life, that’s exactly what I’ll do. Perhaps my workout tonight was the new visual representation of what my life can look like, what it WILL look like when I reach the end of my sojourn…doubled over, out of breath, chest burning because I gave my all to the cause for which I was created, whatever that may look like at any given stage. Proud because I held nothing back. Hopeful that the words I spoke and the time I invested will give glory to the Almighty and hope to those who needed something the standards of this world can’t offer. Now wouldn’t that be beautiful?