Esther Slips Away

Today I want to honor the Earl family. On Wednesday morning at 3am, their Esther took her finally bow as a citizen of Earth and slipped her lovely self into the Heavens. Esther was 16, the veteran of a four year battle with metastasized papillary thyroid cancer.

I could try to come up with words that would be worthy enough to carry their pain; to cradle the accumulation of their suffering and loss. But it would be a vain exercise and I would be foolish to try.

Let me say, instead, that the Earl family have shone to me these last years. Their faith has taught me new levels of grace while their grace has taught me new levels of faith. I am so much richer for knowing them.

Esther's daddy writes:

We awake to an empty bed... and empty hearts. There is awfulness all around. We are sad. The weather is sad. Esther's cats are sad. But Esther liked this kind of day. She liked most everything. Esther liked. We would stay doubled over but she would have us rise and receive the grace that is a new day. And Esther loved you all so much! She loved us, too. Esther loved. Thank you to everyone near and far, known or unknown to us. You helped to carry our light and life, gave her hours of joy and purpose. She will miss you and we will miss her banter with you. We're not so up for calls and visits but appreciate your condolences, emails, texts and tweets... Nerdfighteria: you are awesome! Remember: Awesomeness trumps awfulness every time. Death is not the final word but the "next great adventure" as Dumbledore said so well. Esther was never an unhappy lady. She was always happily up for adventure! In our hearts and exploring heaven; that's where we'll find her now.

Our Star was a welcomer. Didn't matter who you were or what badge you did or didn't wear, you were welcome to sit and visit in person or by computer with her. Esther welcomed. Whoever you are and wherever you may be, we welcome you, too, to join us as we remember and celebrate her brief, but glorious life. By tomorrow we will connect you to her official obituary and a means whereby you can give in her memory if you'd like.

You can read more of the story here .

Peace upon your family, dear Earls.

Undone

It's late and I need to get to bed but I can't sign off from this day quite yet. Ever since early this morning, my heart and mind have been heavy with the knowledge of senseless suffering.

You know, there is so much suffering in the world it can become an entity of its own: "Suffering." As strange as it seems, I can almost keep it out there some place when there's just one big impersonal name for it.

But right now, suffering has a single, piercing name. Suffering slips through my defenses when the big generic title is dropped and I hear the name Esther.

Our friends, Wayne and Lori, were colleagues of ours in Europe when, 4 years ago, their young Esther was diagnosed with metastasized papillary thyroid cancer. It's been a rough road since then; one that seems to be moving toward a final destination.

Today, I am equally undone by the uselessness of Esther's suffering (what is the point?) and the honesty of her father's shared journal entries. Wayne has permissioned me to share a couple of excerpts here...

29 April 2010

Esther is not doing well. Next week they will be putting in one or more shunts (tubes for draining fluid) into her right side. All the fluid, and more, that they drained out a week ago is back again. This is very likely a sign of tumor growth. She's uncomfortable and tired a lot and has asked for a hospital bed so she can sleep for longer stretches. Our health care team is looking at yet another experimental chemo and maybe something more. We are willing and Esther is game to keep fighting, so we're not giving up hope!

Still, suffering seems a useless business. I see no value in my daughter's pain. I know the standard answers ("redemptive" "result of sin" "an evil attack" "bigger purpose"). But the only reality is mystery and that sucks. Our faith remains but is changed; we have "put away childish things". We talk about death and dying and living and loving and we wait, and try to dream a little together each day. Esther knows more about these things than any 15 year-old should. The grief for us is like a tightening of the chest, a closing in, a sadness and an anger and mostly, a helplessness. I can't do anything to make my little girl's pain go away! And she's so perfect, to me.

I wish I could tell you more but those treasures are ours for now. Thank you for waiting with us.

Wayne

9 June 2010

Just last Friday evening Esther strolled (or rather was pushed by Angie in a wheelchair) around a local cemetery where she picked out her spot. Am I saying this? What parent helps their child choose a plot? This is not what we want. The joy and sadness of watching two sisters roll the grounds and simply be together was surreal. I cannot explain why hope sustains us even in the presence of innocence undone. Very few people in our culture talk about death and dying or if they do it's "embrace the light/suffering" or "fear not, heaven will reunite us with loved ones". I do not worry about death, at all, though I do not welcome Esther's dying. I do not care about joyous celebrations there; I want to give her away in marriage here! Heaven is Esther doing cartwheels again, her cloud of fire-white, brittle hair shining, waving at waiting earth.

Wayne

*************

How could I possible add any words to that?

Pray for Esther and her family. Their journal can be found here .

all the broken places

i am quite sure
i have no words
to name your pain

tiny body taken
by force

darkness deeper than
oceans
the brutal need
to crush

multiply it out
times a hundred?
times a thousand?
times a million?

how many millions?

words fail

on this cold day between
as his body lies
so very
very
dead

i can only hold to this

that he was
battered
torn
tortured
murdered

to heal

all
the
broken
places

Dessert First (and Byron's back slowly improves)

Today I had dessert first, which is to say that I read my pleasure reading before my work reading. It felt sort of luxurious to just read for the joy of it. But it was Sunday and the pleasant verandah at Sidai was telling me that this is what a Sunday morning away is for.

Last week was a bit of a blur to me. Most of our emotional energy in that time went into managing this pain that was radiating down through Byron's sciatic nerve to his calf and foot. It was just no fun. In fact, it was quite hard.

Can I just qualify that by saying that both of us are acutely aware that debilitating pain in the leg is a very small problem compared to what most of sub-Saharan Africa deals with. So Byron and I are well convinced that his pain isn't too important in the scheme of things, but it sure was throwing a wringer into life for us. I was surprised by how much work we got done despite Byron's condition, but I was distracted from most everything, worried for Byron and discouraged by the ramifications that this much pain could apply to our up-coming time in Portugal and the States.

And so it was that, after a full Friday morning of therapy and doctors appointments and x-rays and amped up pain medication, we finally made it over to Ciska and Ian's house to leave for a weekend away at one of the camps under their care. This has been in the works for a long time. We wondered, in the days before, if Byron's pain would cancel the trip, but it didn't.

We didn't DO a lot this weekend and that was just right. We mostly enjoyed the beautiful setting, our kids and the friends we were there with.

For my part, I was thankful that no speeding lorries knocked me off the tarmac and that, once we got into camp, I had a very nice verandah and a selection of good books to enjoy. Byron was none-the-worse for the car ride (he was lying down for a lot of it) and he relaxed, too.

Reality sets back in tomorrow. We are entering our last full week here before the great journey to the other side and there is a TON to do.

Blech. I don't look forward to being away from home for so long. But... Joy! I look forward to the friends and family we will see :-) Hugging our older boys... coming soon!

Wakeful

I remember you
Head in the crook of my arm
Little self pressed lightly across me
Warm

Now you're here
Head in the crook of my arm
Long self flopped down next to me
Wondering

You question
And try to explain what you feel

You hurt
And try to put words to it

I feel it too

We stare up into the darkness
Admitting our fears
Exchanging our reasons for frustration
The things we don't like about ourselves

And God rests there with us
In our questions and fears
He talks to us about
The way he sees us

His version is so different
From our own

Journeying with you
Is my great joy

communion

crack open the disaster
the rich raw red flow of this soul

dark colors turning,
dancing in the night

breath!
it comes in gulps of
shattering cold

(breaking death)

crack open the disaster
the sheer shelter sham of self

tastes, heavy like the dew of heaven,
pour together

life!
it comes surging
sure, strong

(unstoppable)

crack open the disaster

Little Boys Fly

I walked out onto the beach a few days ago and noticed Jesse and Trevor bending together over a tide pool on the reef. Jesse is 20 and Trevor is almost 18 but my brain instantly changed the scene to years ago when they were about 7 and almost 5, peering over tide pools and wearing the caps that I had sewn long flaps into to protect their necks from the equatorial sun. How familiar it was to see them in the midst of a seaside adventure.

This time they were coaxing an eel out of his hole in the coral and considering who would be the first to try to grab him. (In the end, they flipped him out onto the reef and danced around yelling as he squirmed rather violently between their feet and back into the water.)

Jesse and Trevor left Arusha by shuttle bus yesterday afternoon at 2pm. They got to the Nairobi airport at about 7pm and caught their flight at 11:25pm. They connected in Zurich (with a five hour lay-over) to Washington DC and will connect from there to LA. They will arrive at about 8pm California time.

That's the clinical side of what has happened. Real life is a little different.

Yesterday morning in bed I asked Byron, "If we don't get up, can we keep this day from happening?" "Yep," he answered and closed his eyes.

But we were wrong.

The sun came up and the boys put their last minute things in their bags and made sure they had their passports. When the time came, they boarded the bus and began the journey that would eventually be about 42 hours door to door.

It's SO good to see these boys become men. It's so fun to watch amazing paths opening up ahead of them. It so badly sucks that those paths take them 10,000 miles away.

We are truly excited for them and truly sad for us. Byron and I stood with Colin and Heather by the door of their bus, eyes all full of tears, and waited till they were gone before we moved. Much later in the day I asked Byron how he was doing and he said he wanted to be sick. I knew just exactly what he meant.

Colin says he feels really sad but peaceful about their departure. We all concurred. It's a good thing, the right thing, just a hard thing.

So little boys grow out of their caps with home-made sun flaps and big boys grow out of the need for their mother to be watching from the beach.

And I grow too.

As the dawn was rising yesterday and I tried my best to hold the day back, I kept hearing an Angels and Airways refrain in my head. It says,

"I cannot live, I can't breathe unless you do this with me..."

I don't even know what the rest of the song is about but that refrain has become my prayer. God beckons me on to growth through the circumstances I find myself in. I walk forward only because he walks with me.

And today, as I'm still achey from their departure, I am thankful that he is utterly patient with my pace. I feel him resting here beside me, letting me know we'll walk on only as I'm ready.

(Photo of Jesse paragliding)

Earache

Trevor is sacked out on the sofa for the second day in a row with a killer earache.

We were at the doctor yesterday morning and again this morning. The specialist this morning inserted a tiny sponge to help wick the medicinal drops down into the area that needs them. (The canal is swollen shut so he can't hear out of that ear, nor can the drops reach their intended area.)

Before she inserted the sponge she said, "I apologize because this is going to hurt."

"OK," Trevor said.

This from the boy who has been on codeine every four hours over the last 24 to deal with the pain. This from the boy whom I never realize is as ill as he is just because he doesn't seem to show it.

In went the sponge and Trevor yelled out quietly but with force. He looked as if he was going to punch the lady. Then he looked like he was going to pass out.

Across town this morning our little niece, Jessica, fell from her scooter and had to have six stiches put into her chin.

What a day we're having around this family!

Longing Toward Sunday

I can't imagine what the disciples were feeling on Saturday after the violent death of Jesus that they had witnessed.

We know what happened next so can we really fathom what was going on for them? They didn't know that Sunday was coming.

I imagine them huddled together behind locked doors. Small groups with whispered questions, anguish, and the silence of disbelief. I imagine them with no appetite, hardly able to sleep, in shock. Maybe they would drift off to sleep from time to time only to wake up to the aching again. Possibly, in those few moments between total sleep and wakefulness, possibly in there somewhere they forgot it was true, believed it was a nightmare Maybe they experienced the fleeting relief of thinking that this was just a dream.... but then they would come back to consciousness and be hit with the cold truth. It was not a dream.

We don't want to linger here. We like to wear our crosses empty.

But Friday's executions were reality. Saturday's silent empitness, it's closed-mouthed refusal to explain, was stark, heavy and 100% real.

Bleak, cold, harsh, void, hollow.

Shock, anger, fear, grief, pain.

Saturday had to be lived through.