I don't hear this phrase used very often anymore, but it's a truth in our lives; yesterday, today, and probably tomorrow. This line of thinking was provoked because I was reflecting on Adam's upcoming birthday; he'll be twenty-eight years old in December. There's something in the waiting-and-not-finished-yet in this fact.
As I mull over this great event that will happen in a few weeks, I'm a bit melancholy. On the one hand, I'm so happy that he's doing okay, and especially that he's still here with us. On the other hand....
At this age, Adam could have a college degree. More than one, if he wanted or needed them.
He could have been married at this age. He could have had one or more children. (I could have been a great grandmother!) He would probably be driving and have his own home, whether an apartment with friends, or a house with his wife and children. He would be working and providing for himself, and his family. He could have traveled across the country or around the world. He could have served our country in the military. He could have run a marathon or two. Or biked along the I95 corridor to raise money for his favorite charity, or hiked the Appalachian trail.
Maybe he would have been a teacher. Or an architect. Or a mechanic. Or a small business owner. He might have been a carpenter or a plumber or a banker or a doctor. The list is endless, but it doesn't matter. He isn't any of these things; will never do any of these things. This is the pain of the families of children with disabilities.
We don't talk about it because let's face, who wants to hear it? Most of the time we don't even want to think about it. It's depressing. There's nothing that can be done about it. There are no comforting words that will make everything alright. There is no salve to heal these wounds. If we do try to talk about it, we often can't speak because of the tremendous emotion that sits right behind our eyes and in our hearts, and we don't want it to come tumbling out, out of control. If the dam breaks, it's hard to build up the wall again. This is a glimpse into our world. This is an invitation to look, to try to understand something you hopefully never really have to understand.
So what was this all about? Oh, right, the now and the not yet. Everything I just wrote about is the now. It's our reality. It really stinks sometimes. But not all the time.
In the now is also a loving family; a child who tries his hardest to communicate, to keep up with others as they do everyday things like walking and talking. Parents and grandparents who do their best but mess it up plenty of times, sisters and brothers and cousins and aunts and uncles who are in and out of the picture in the day-to-day of life, but always in the picture because they're family. It's Adam's smiling face, his gusty joyous laughter, his hugs and his jokes, his endurance in suffering, and his love for anyone who is nice to him. This is the good, the sweet, the precious, the needed; the reality all the time, even when the bad times come.
We're in between that now, and the Not Yet, which is what we long for. We long for the day when there will be no more pain for him, no more surgeries, no more G.I. bleeds, no more meds, no more watching from the sidelines because he's not able to participate. No more being left out because he doesn't fit in. We long for the day of healing. The Not Yet. We hold on to hope that the Not Yet will become the Now. We hope it is going to be this side of heaven. We don't want to hear the platitudes about God's purpose in Adam's suffering. It's there, we know it's there, but being told this does not comfort us, it just reminds us that you don't know the whys anymore than we know the whys. And I have learned not to ask that question, because there isn't an answer when I do.
So we, at least I, hold on to the hope for the Not Yet. God stopped by today as I was pondering all of this and reminded me that "Faith is the substance of things HOPED for, the EVIDENCE of things not seen. " I'm so glad He did. I really needed the reminder about faith, and what it really is. It isn't something I can stir up, it's something I receive when I hold on tight to Jesus, when I reach out for strength to get through a difficult day, week, month, year. It's there for me when I forget it's there for me, because God is faithful.
Thanks for taking the time to read this post. I'm sorry if it made you sad, but we don't dwell in this place. We visit it from time to time, mostly avoiding it and looking at the good we have. And life is good. We are truly blessed. We just look forward to the fullness of that blessing that is in the hand of God. Don't you?
As I mull over this great event that will happen in a few weeks, I'm a bit melancholy. On the one hand, I'm so happy that he's doing okay, and especially that he's still here with us. On the other hand....
At this age, Adam could have a college degree. More than one, if he wanted or needed them.
He could have been married at this age. He could have had one or more children. (I could have been a great grandmother!) He would probably be driving and have his own home, whether an apartment with friends, or a house with his wife and children. He would be working and providing for himself, and his family. He could have traveled across the country or around the world. He could have served our country in the military. He could have run a marathon or two. Or biked along the I95 corridor to raise money for his favorite charity, or hiked the Appalachian trail.
Maybe he would have been a teacher. Or an architect. Or a mechanic. Or a small business owner. He might have been a carpenter or a plumber or a banker or a doctor. The list is endless, but it doesn't matter. He isn't any of these things; will never do any of these things. This is the pain of the families of children with disabilities.
We don't talk about it because let's face, who wants to hear it? Most of the time we don't even want to think about it. It's depressing. There's nothing that can be done about it. There are no comforting words that will make everything alright. There is no salve to heal these wounds. If we do try to talk about it, we often can't speak because of the tremendous emotion that sits right behind our eyes and in our hearts, and we don't want it to come tumbling out, out of control. If the dam breaks, it's hard to build up the wall again. This is a glimpse into our world. This is an invitation to look, to try to understand something you hopefully never really have to understand.
So what was this all about? Oh, right, the now and the not yet. Everything I just wrote about is the now. It's our reality. It really stinks sometimes. But not all the time.
In the now is also a loving family; a child who tries his hardest to communicate, to keep up with others as they do everyday things like walking and talking. Parents and grandparents who do their best but mess it up plenty of times, sisters and brothers and cousins and aunts and uncles who are in and out of the picture in the day-to-day of life, but always in the picture because they're family. It's Adam's smiling face, his gusty joyous laughter, his hugs and his jokes, his endurance in suffering, and his love for anyone who is nice to him. This is the good, the sweet, the precious, the needed; the reality all the time, even when the bad times come.
We're in between that now, and the Not Yet, which is what we long for. We long for the day when there will be no more pain for him, no more surgeries, no more G.I. bleeds, no more meds, no more watching from the sidelines because he's not able to participate. No more being left out because he doesn't fit in. We long for the day of healing. The Not Yet. We hold on to hope that the Not Yet will become the Now. We hope it is going to be this side of heaven. We don't want to hear the platitudes about God's purpose in Adam's suffering. It's there, we know it's there, but being told this does not comfort us, it just reminds us that you don't know the whys anymore than we know the whys. And I have learned not to ask that question, because there isn't an answer when I do.
So we, at least I, hold on to the hope for the Not Yet. God stopped by today as I was pondering all of this and reminded me that "Faith is the substance of things HOPED for, the EVIDENCE of things not seen. " I'm so glad He did. I really needed the reminder about faith, and what it really is. It isn't something I can stir up, it's something I receive when I hold on tight to Jesus, when I reach out for strength to get through a difficult day, week, month, year. It's there for me when I forget it's there for me, because God is faithful.
Thanks for taking the time to read this post. I'm sorry if it made you sad, but we don't dwell in this place. We visit it from time to time, mostly avoiding it and looking at the good we have. And life is good. We are truly blessed. We just look forward to the fullness of that blessing that is in the hand of God. Don't you?
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