I live in Houston, Texas. Saying that brings about a million thoughts to your mind at this moment in weather history. The near 50" of rain in my neighborhood came down and down and down and I seriously thought it would never end. Made me think about the bible character Noah more than once. I wondered how he endured 40 days and 40 nights listening to the pelting rain? Then more than a year inside small quarters of stuffy, moldy animal dung along with his entire family? You gotta admit, not a very fun prospect. Til you really think it through, really remember what was happening. All the people, EVERYONE, and everything was drowning all around that boat. I'm sure they heard crying, screaming, and lots of begging. People knocking on the door begging to be let in. I shudder thinking about it. When things are really bad, it's definitely our family we want to hug every night. I imagine them holding a candlelit lantern sitting on the rolling ship, arms locked together. The people who mean the most, we want with us when the chips are down. Whether that family is blood or the people in our lives that treat us like family. We need that family during a flood.
As I thought about the word flood, I thought about how it can be used to describe more than "overfilling of too much water, a deluge, a torrent. It can be a flood of emotions, a deluge of pain, a flood of hope, or a torrent of grace. This last year has contained so many floods for our family. We've watched our son in one flood after the next. As if severe autism isn't enough, he has endured a flood of seizures that we thought might never end. A deluge of pain as his shoulder dislocated over and over. (31 times to date) A torrent of frustration as no one seemed to be able to help us find a way out of this cycle of seizures and dislocations.
Then all your troubles will fade from your memory, like floods that are past and remembered no more. JOB 11:16
Perspective is really, REALLY a magical thing. My concern for my son's shoulder over rides the flood, whether our business would survive the flood, how would we repair our home... and pretty much everything else at that moment or even now. When the flood waters rose higher and higher, and we finally accepted the inevitable...we put our furniture up as high as we could and we went to sleep.
I laugh about it a little because, the "old me" the worry wart me would never have gone to sleep. But I kept thinking of Jesus sleeping in the boat while his disciples flipped out. Then He had the audacity to ask them, "why are you so afraid, have you no faith?" Good questions. The disciples might've even had some good laughs about that moment years later. But I guarantee you they were not amused standing in the pouring rain, hair matted to their faces, clothes drenched and the waves pounding them to the deck.
I've struggled and argued and wrestled insurance representatives for over 87 days. Cried at least four or five times every day for over three months. Given up, dragged myself off the floor, begged God for a miracle, and repeated the horrible cycle. Hoped and prayed and tried not to succumb to the stream of emotions as I worry I can't help my son get his shoulder repaired.
In case you don't know our story, Britton's shoulder has dislocated over 30 times now. It began back in September of 2016, when he had a seizure standing up and fell backwards into the wall. It's been a constant since then. Seizure, subsequent shoulder dislocation, lather rinse and repeat every painful time . Over and over it would happen again, with no end in sight til it finally cracked two bones, and tore up all the ligaments. (In case you are thinking, "what's wrong with these people? Why don't they get it surgically repaired? NO ONE would repair it. Seizures would tear it up before it could heal, far too risky.). It's no longer just a dislocated shoulder, it's a wicked bad, and serious shoulder injury on his dominate arm. Now the arm can't go back in place without surgery and it just hangs like a puppet arm whose strings have been cut.
I expect Britton would say it's been a flood of disappointments and pain from where he's sitting. He never talks about the pain, he only begs for help and lashes out on his iPad asking me why I won't help him. Recently he typed, "you are mean!" I was surprised and asked him, "why, why am I mean?" He typed, "you won't help me with my shoulder. " My heart still throbs from that indictment. I think he may be the bravest, strongest person I have ever known. He's had 8" needles to place lidocaine in that joint 9 times so far. He's endured seizures, and drugs, allergic reactions, ER doctors who try but have never put a shoulder back in. AND... the drugs, I've lost count of the more than 17 IV's with on average 8 infusions of medications to knock him out long enough to get his shoulder back in. Trying all kinds of treatments, anything that might help. He has tried to be brave and stay strong and not give in to depression and hopelessness. Which is more than I can say for myself.
Each morning Britton and I turn on our church "live stream" and I ask him if he wants to watch Ms. Jessica sing? (Our praise and worship leader) He always does and we relive the Sunday before, or the Friday or which ever service we decide to watch. It brings a flood of relief as we are able to leave this physical world and step out of our flesh for long enough to forget all our pain and worries. I squeeze my eyes closed and remember there is nothing like God's embrace. Standing under a flood of hope and unconditional love we are strengthened for another day. Undergirded with the truth that God does care, and He is working on our behalf. As the last prayer is said, I am reminded with a flood of gratefulness that God is good and He is asking me the same questions he asked those first disciples as they were pummeled by their storm.
I can see them in my minds eye as they held tightly to the ropes or the sides of the boat as it rocked. They watched the waves get taller and the clouds darker. Drenched from top to bottom and sure this was the end, beyond exasperated that Jesus sleeps undisturbed.
The Galilean Sea was well known for it's storms and every disciple knew someone who had been lost there. But in that moment of total fear, Jesus exhausted from teaching, healing, and loving this world slept the peaceful sleep of confidence. As I pictured that story in my mind, I giggled albeit with a tear rolling down my face. Jesus snoring, those disciples wet and angry. I can see them, fists clenched, teeth gritted watching him snore. We've all been there. Where is God when the waves are high and the rain won't stop? If we get the guts to wake Him, we might be more than a little angry ourselves. Demanding he DO SOMETHING to intervene in our situation. With our fists still clenched our souls rebel from the sting of the same questions. "Why are you afraid? Where is your faith?"
I have been on a downward spiral the last few weeks. I have cried so many times it seems like if I'm awake I'm crying. After being told NO, by the insurance company, the insurance coordinators, the hospital. Everyone said this surgery would not, could not happen. They were all out of network, and I was all out of ideas. As I inhaled to release the next flood of tears, I heard the question in a far off whisper. It seemed like I had been ramming my head up against yet one more brick wall made out of denials and new reasons why insurance can't do the right thing. Red tape, bureaucracy all wrapped around my throat so tight til I couldn't even cry out for help one more time. So I sat in a crumbled pile of despair and whimpered my prayers. It is no small feat to get an insurance company to say they will pay for a surgery OUT OF NETWORK! As a matter of fact I would say unequivocally that it took a miracle. I saw the number on the caller ID and I sighed, heavy and let the sadness drain out of my heart before I said hello. She said, "Mrs. Holman, we have received the letter of agreement from United Healthcare." I couldn't breathe. I felt so many emotions that I couldn't speak. She said, "Mrs. Holman are you there, did you hear me?" I swallowed down that gigantic rock of disbelief and said, "I'm here, I don't know what to say. Thank God." I hung up and I danced, I praised God, I shouted. I laughed and I sang. Victory, FINALLY, Jesus was awake!
There would be lots to do. We had to get lots of botox in that shoulder. (Jump off that bridge when we get there). Then spend the next two weeks after surviving his "noodle arm" while we wait for the botox to do it's thing. Sounds simple, sure unless you're severely autistic.
I did explain the whole process to Britton, ad nauseam. I'm sure til he wanted to say, "STOP TELLING ME, I got it!" But I needed to be sure he understood. I needed to be sure that when they started using his arm for a pin cushion we would get yet ANOTHER miracle and he would hold still for it. Yeah I know, what was I thinking?
We showed up for the botox, the entire staff was amazing. BRITTON was like a different person. To put a person with severe autism on a gurney and expect them to lay there and get stuck with countless needles, is not even fathomable. We thought he would be sedated. Apparently we were mistaken. But the unreal happened. He laid there, he cooperated, he communicated by nodding yes and no. We watched a miracle, we were there in the presence of Jesus as He overshadowed the room and peace permeated all of us. My son was calm, my son was brave. The surgeon told him he was far braver than the football players he worked on every day. God was so mighty to me at that moment. I absorbed the love, the presence of God like a flower blooming in a desert rain. The best day EVER.
THEN... Wednesday came. Britton woke up with a surly look on his face and growling at every request. I gave him the extra pain medications as instructed. He got more upset, he was not himself as each minute passed he became more agitated. A lot happened that I'm not willing to write about... but there were seizures, there was a drug reaction and there was a 911 call. From the peace of the procedure room to the terror of aggression and pain. We plummeted down from the mountain top of faith into the Valley of despair like greased lightning. Fear like something wild reared it's ugly head and came at both us like the highest wave of the Galilean Sea. It crashed over Britton and the next wave crushed us both to the bottom of despair. He lay on the bathroom floor in a restaurant with his face spasming and hallucinating and lashing out like he didn't even know where he was. Foaming at the mouth, my hands wiping away blood. The enemy had come in like a flood, and he laughed while we bleed. What an ordeal, and when we finally got home, he climbed in his bed and laid there just staring at the ceiling. I put my hands over my face and cried inconsolable tears til I vomited. If you've lived through some unthinkable things, and most of us have you will understand my dark thoughts.
I was numb, and it seemed that sometimes dying is so much easier than living. Sometimes letting go and just giving up sounds so restful, almost relief. Life is hard and even those who seem to be skipping through unscathed usually have a hidden world none of us could imagine. If I was fighting for myself, I'd probably given up a long time ago. But my son, he's counting on me. I am his voice, his advocate, his mom, his guardian.
For thou hadst cast me into the deep, in the midst of the seas; and the floods compassed me about: all thy billows and thy waves passed over me. Jonah 2:3
I had been managing just fine. I really had. I was dealing with an unreal amount of pressure. I was standing firm and being solid in my faith. I was not trying to deal with anything except my son, cause right now nothing else matters? My son is going to get his arm repaired and I had so much to be grateful for. But when that last wave hit me and knocked me down to my knees I couldn't breathe, I couldn't believe anymore. Giving up, giving in and throwing in the towel felt like the only choice. I was about to wave the white flag and scream, "You win life! I give up! You're right you're the boss of all of us!" As I took a deep breath to scream my gut wrenching accusations at a savior I was sure had fallen back asleep. That's when I heard it.
If you believe God whispers to His children, then I'd like to share with you what I heard. A quiet question, a gentle awakening of truth, he asked, "What will happen now?" The strangest question, and I sure didn't have an answer for it. Still don't. Out loud I said, "Only you know God. What will happen now?" I can't even begin to imagine because sitting in a public place on a bathroom floor, mopping up blood and wondering where it will all end. I admit it, my faith has taken a serious beating. This flood, this flood of pain, panic, and serious fear have about pushed me under the waves of doubt wanting to scream, " I will never surface and breath in faith again.... I'd rather drown." I'd like you to hear with me what the "sleeping savior" whispered.
"We continue to shout our praise even when we're hemmed in with troubles, because we know how troubles can develop passionate patience in us, and how that patience in turn forges the tempered steel of virtue, keeping us alert for whatever God will do next."Romans 5:3-4
My mind kept envisioning a strong sword, bent and dull. It was in the fire, glowing hot and changing shape. I'd like to say I enjoyed it. I'd like to say I embraced it. But my next vision was the blacksmith hammering that sword on the anvil. I've been feeling every swing of the hammer, pounding away at my doubts. Beating my flesh so that it can finally give up and allow my spirit to trust the God I say I believe in.
Without warning I felt a warm wash of God's spirit fall over me like a shower of warm faith. I squeezed my eyes and breathed in the presence of a very AWAKE savior. Feeling the assurance that if I could only, let go... if I could only BELIEVE God and not only what my eyes can see. Then miracles would continue to happen. As I held my doubts with a death grip, in my minds eye I stared Jesus in the eyes and swallowed down all my fears. How grateful I am that God's answers are wiser than my prayers.
I do not know what is going to happen in the next few months. How many meltdowns, how much struggle, how much courage will be needed. I hope that I can say things like, "God intervened in a miraculous way. He brought healing to our situation and our hearts. Britton handled the surgery and subsequent pain like the warrior he was during the botox injections. I hope...
"Faith is, the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."
I definitely do not see one minute ahead. I cannot even look very far because if I do, my heart may fail me for what is required. I trust that the grace I need will meet me the moment I need it. I definitely do not know how this will turn out . But until then, I will pray that the newly forged Steele of my heart is battle ready. That warring against my own flesh will create a faith in me that is stronger than even I can believe for. Mark Twain said, "forgiveness is the fragrance that the violets sheds on the heel that crushed it."
To me it seems that courage is the essence of the heart squeezed hard by brutal trials, leaving behind the perfume of faith.
