Gravity and Brokenness

We’re broken, finite people.   I don’t always want to believe that, and there have been times in my life when I’ve tried to defy this reality.  My youngest likes to hear the story about the time I broke my foot in elementary school.  I’m pretty sure it’s not the broken foot that fascinates her but it’s the reason that it broke:   

I was trying to fly.   Duh. 

There was not a soul who could convince me that my plan was ridiculous.  I was sure that if I could get up …just high enough….that I could make this flying thing happen.  My youngest loves to hear about this bizarre occurrence from my past and when she does, these are the kind of questions that follow:  “Did you actually fly?  Like maybe for five seconds did you fly?  Can you show me how high you jumped so I can try too?” 

Um, no - to everything.  

You probably couldn't fly because your arms weren’t strong enough. You didn’t do workouts like me when you were my age.  Let me show you my muscle. So, I could probably do it mom…

I bring up gravity regularly when we discuss this story because, well, who can argue with gravity?  My hope is that her wide eyes that I just know are imagining jumping off the playground bridge because her muscles are bigger than mine, will be somewhat…um….squelched.  But then on one occasion, she said this: 

But God could have let you fly if he wanted to. 

Yep.  But He didn’t.  I wasn’t made to fly in my broken state.  And as a child, my fractured, broken bones reminded me of that reality for weeks after my attempt to defy gravity. 

My mom had some tough last days this side of heaven, an ever present reminder of this broken physical state.  One particular day, while she was in and out of consciousness, I watched her wrestle to sit up on her own, even move her leg off the bed in an attempt to stand up.  I pushed her leg back into the bed with a sense of guilt because pushing it under the covers was a way of saying to my strong mother:  let your strength go.  Be still and give into your weakness, mom.    It didn’t feel right to say it much less write it. 

But the process of dying should never feel “Okay.” Death was never the intention.  The reality of our frailty is not celebratory, and death is not good; in fact, I’ve seen first hand how ugly it can be.  Death is a result of this broken world.

Jesus Himself lamented death in the book of John when His friend Lazarus died.  Those watching the face of the Son of God exclaimed, “See how he loved him!”  (Jn 11:36)

I’ve thought many times about the weakness that this disease caused in my mom through the years. Since her diagnosis only three years ago, she has fought to defy the implications of a brain illness:  She read out loud to her grandkids every chance she had, but over time she simply could no longer form the words;  she traveled to the beach regularly, but soon enough it became impossible to function in a regular room without hospital equipment. 

And yet, with the loss of speech, strength, and simple abilities, she surprised us all with a unique strength of spirit that was displayed through her legs and her hand.  

Just three weeks before she died, mom made one last visit to her home church.  Though she was essentially wheel chair bound, mom was determined to walk down the aisle and out those church doors after the brief service.  I couldn't have been more proud to watch that ten minute struggle down the aisle as she clung to the neck of her caretaker.  I laughed imagining her twirling around and kicking the wheel chair to the side.  Because really, she probably would have if she could have. 

And while she didn't have the use of her right hand, she used that left hand to communicate everything she possible could, even in the last days.  Mom pointed, hugged, pushed cups off places they shouldn't be placed (truth), and grabbed on to the things she wanted.  That hand stayed so strong throughout her deterioration.  

   

But, the reality is that we are broken.  She was broken.  The strength in her hand and legs could not defy death; it showed it’s ugly face and we lament it's existence, just as Jesus did. 

But, that’s not the end of the story.  Praise God it’s not the end of the story.  We weren’t saying good-bye to her forever when we whispered in her ear:  “It's ok to fly to Jesus now, mom.” 

For every believer in Jesus who has kissed good-bye a precious loved one, we’re not giving into death.  Death does not have the victory, though it feels in our weakness that it has somehow won. 

“Where, O Death, is your victory? Where, O Death, is your sting?” 

No.  Death has not won, but it reminds us of our brokenness without a Savior.  Without Jesus, we fear the grave.  With him, we have defeated it. 

Jesus is so close in grief.  My sisters and I know His presence fills  the gap where our parents used to stand.   Praise God.  And praise God for the brokenness that forces us to long for what mom is experiencing now:  

Seeing her Redeemer, 

running without growing weary,  

celebrating without sin,  

worshipping with a restored heart,  

feasting with loved ones...  

and maybe there's even some flying.  

Mom is broken no more.  

 

Just Dance

My husband and I were watching Footloose with our oldest daughter the other night, and, of course, we started dancing during the movie.  I showed my eldest all my really cool moves, and it didn't take long for her dad to join in (For the record, neither of us can actually dance.  We pretty much look like rabid monkeys when we try to bust a move.  Have fun imagining that.)

And, of course, my teenager joined in laughing and dancing with her mom and dad shouting: "This is so awesome!  You guys are so awesome!"

Not at all.  In reality my daughter was basically horrified.  She caught our dance on video for evidence, she says, of why she may or may not need to be adopted at a later time.  And she seems to enjoy sharing these videos.  She's so generous.

"Mom," she said after I had accidentally tripped over the bench and fallen on top of her, "you guys are just not normal."

And neither were my parents when I was a teenager, of course.  My parents were just, plain odd when I was in junior high.  Take my dad, for example, whose nickname for me was "Mongrel."  Yep.

"Hey, Mongrel!  Time for dinner."  So, this sort of command was common, and even somewhat affectionate coming from my dad, but while I heard, "Hey, Katie come and eat,"  my friends probably heard, "Hey, crossbreed!  Come get your feed."  It just wasn't a terribly conventional nickname, but I'll never forget it.  

And then there was my mom:  a woman who at the age of sixteen had the awesome opportunity to watch the completion of the St. Louis Arch.  With all the excitement in St. Louis at the time, she and a friend decided to attend the opening day at the arch.  When they arrived for the big event, the line to get in the doors was incredibly long.  Noticing that the handicap folks were allowed to go straight to the front of the line, my mom did what any normal person would do.  She acted like she was blind so she could jump to the front.

Duh.

Oh, yes she did.  I asked her on many occasions why a blind person would want to experience the sights from the top of the arch.  "Duh," she'd say.

Kidding, kidding....

Oh, mom.  She would just smile a conniving smile and remind us that she was one of the first people to enter the doors of the arch, and she held in every bit of "oooh" and "ahhh" whilst at the top.  Instead, she stared straight ahead with her friend guiding her along, both relishing in their bizarre accomplishment.

So, not much normalcy there either.  And definitely a story that even the grandkids have remembered through the years: "Tell us that story of when Ya Ya pretended like she couldn't see so that she could go up in the arch to see what it was like!"  Yep.

But this abnormal behavior goes back even farther.  When my parents were engaged, my mom's grandpa was anxious to meet the young beau who had taken my mom's heart.  So, my dad and great-grandpa met.  Mom introduced dad to her grandfather saying, "Grandpa, this is my future husband."  My grandfather, who could see clear as crystal, held out his hand and said, "Yes, well, I'm blind and can't see you." And my dad bought it.

Hook, line, and sinker. For the remainder of the night, healthy-eyes grandpa Witmer was blind as a bat as far as my dad knew.  And I'm pretty sure no one's ever going to forget that story.

But then there's also my husband, lest you think this uncharacteristic behavior is one sided.   In college he would dress up like gandhi.   Why, you wonder?  Well, because new students would visit the campus.

Duh.

And so he would greet new students dressed like this:

And then he would say in his gandhi accent:  "This is the flower of life.  This is the flower of death."  And it would look something like this:  

His college friends will still talk about gandhi when reminiscing about good old college days, and there's just not much more I need to say about that.  The pictures speak a thousand words.  Or create strange thoughts.  Or produce questions.  Or just leave you bewildered.  Something along those lines.   

Just this last week my husband and I had a proud parent moment while watching my son impersonate Napoleon Dynamite in front of his entire school.  Yes, that's right.  All in one sentence: proud parents and impersonating Napoleon Dynamite.  While each class prepared group lip syncs, Jrod approached us with the idea of doing the Napoleon Dynamite dance by himself, and all we could think was:  

Awesome.  

He spent hours learning from tutorials, chatting about his progress with friends from church, and he watched the dance over and over....and over again.  And then he did it.  My son danced a choreographed dance by himself, dressed up as the ultimate nerd, and while it was pretty unusual for an elementary school lip sync, it was pretty awesome.  

And really, this is something he'll remember forever.  It's probably something I'll remember forever, standing and clapping for this odd dance like a mother whose kid just won the Nobel prize. There's just something great about doing things a little uncharacteristically, living fully in the moment, and embracing the abnormal every once-in-a-while.  Dance.  Greet others like gandhi.  Wear a huge wig, moon boots, and bust a move.  Why not?  Have fun, enjoy this life we've been given, and make memories along the way.  Life's too short to only be normal all the time.  And I'm pretty sure my eldest daughter is starting to embrace this herself:   

  Cheers, my girl!  Mom has videos too....