Lifesaving Words

Words have the power to uplift and heal. They also have the power to tear down and destroy.

Today's post is an encapsulated version of significant parts of my story, and a tribute to the dedicated woman who chose her words carefully. Her timely, lifesaving words gave me hope when there seemed to be no hope, and her obedience to God's prompting saved a life. I owe her much more than a debt of gratitude.  

   Lifesaving Words

            Why, why, WHY!? How could this happen to me again? I wondered. My body lay confined in a head-down, foot-elevated position on a rock-like hospital bed, my mind reeling from the reality just hurled at it. Nurses bustled too quietly around the room while my obstetrician presented a medical discourse about my “condition.”

           

            Roused from a Sunday evening with his family, he had shuffled slowly into my room five minutes earlier, hands buried in his jacket pockets, his face a etched with concern and caution. Before he spoke, I instinctively dreaded his forthcoming appraisal. With a sober voice and matching demeanor, he pronounced his diagnosis: an incompetent cervix—the medical community’s nomenclature for a cervix that opens prematurely during pregnancy. He stood at the end of my bed, presenting options to my stunned husband and me. “Your cervix is dilated to three centimeters, and you are seventy-five percent effaced. If we can save this pregnancy at all…,” his voice trailed off. He seemed as grieved as we were.

             

            Continued labor would mean a severely premature baby delivered at twenty weeks, too early for life support in 1994. Our only hope would be to pray I didn’t have an infection, survive the night successfully, and then perform a cerclage—surgically drawing the cervix closed like a marble bag the next day—and then pray the amniotic sac didn’t rupture during or after surgery.

           

            It was devastating news. Twenty months earlier, our daughter, Victoria, died in a premature delivery following a misdiagnosed pregnancy complication, with another doctor. My heart and mind couldn’t believe we might be making a return trip down this ugly road, and our beseeching prayers might be answered with a “No.”

           

            The nurses busied themselves with the task of officially admitting me and pumping euphoria-producing muscle relaxant through my IV line.

           

            They encouraged my husband, Chris, to spend the night. Before he wedged his six-foot-one-inch frame into the reclining chair, he shuffled down the hallway to call my visiting parents to let them know he wouldn’t be coming home.

           

            Vera—one of my nurses—lingered after everyone else left. I had noticed her absorbing my doctor’s words and watching my reaction to the news from her quiet vantage point in a corner of the room. Now she slowly walked to my bedside. Her delicate cross necklace glittered in the room’s harsh fluorescent light.

           

            First, she told me a story about a young woman who bled to death from a placenta previa rupture—the identical problem I’d had with my daughter’s pregnancy. This mother hadn’t arrived at the hospital in time. Her doctor warned her of the problem, but she’d either ignored the danger or misunderstood the gravity of the situation. Vera’s meaning was clear, and it re-awakened in me the awareness that mercifully, I had not suffered the same fate, even though I’d come dangerously close to dying from severe hemorrhaging.

           

            Vera stayed for some time, and we talked about faith, God, and his promises. Suddenly Vera stopped talking to silently and intensely observe me. Then she leaned close and softly uttered her carefully selected words: “I have a good feeling about this; I think everything is going to be fine.”

           

            My eyes adhered fiercely to hers. I wanted to believe her, ached to believe her. Maybe Vera was right, and I wouldn’t have to relieve another nightmare.

           

            The following afternoon, I lay in the recovery room after the twenty-minute cerclage procedure, entertaining morbid thoughts about my legs never regaining sensation and having to spend the rest of my life confined to a wheelchair.

           

            Suddenly Vera strode through the recovery room doors, projecting a radiant smile. My morbid thoughts disintegrated. “I just felt like I needed to come and see how you were doing,” she said in her soothing voice. “How are you?” But then she stopped looking at me and scrutinized the paper steadily rolling from the fetal monitor perched next to my bed.

           

            “Fine,” I replied, calmed by her warm, hopeful presence.

           

            “Are you keeping an eye on this monitor!?” Vera shot at the recovery room nurse. “She’s having spikes of contractions all over the place, every three minutes! You’ve got to give her magnesium sulfate, right now!” My head swiveled to look at the other nurse, who wordlessly snapped to attention and rapidly prepared the injection for insertion into my IV line. Vera reiterated the need for attention to the monitor, shook her head, told me she’d see me later, and quickly left.

           

            Within seconds the prescribed magnesium sulfate flooded my body. A dose of an anti-nausea medication reduced the nasty nausea and feeling-like-you’re-being-burned-from-the-inside-out side effects. Within minutes, the contraction waves quieted to occasional baby wiggle blips, and glorious sensation slowly returned to my lower extremities. All ten toes gestured ecstatically at their liberation.

           

            I was retuned to my room, repositioned with my head titled south—to keep pressure off the cervix. Vera attended to my every need the rest of her shift. I missed her terribly when she departed that night.

           

            The following day Vera was there again, waving goodbye to me as I was wheeled out of the room to head home. “Get some rest,” she and the other nurses waved at me. Happy smiles decorated their loving faces. “Good luck! We’ll see you back when you’re ready to deliver in four months!”

           

            Four months of complete bed rest. Would I make it that long?

           

            Day after agonizing day, I prayed for the life of my unborn baby. And I remembered Vera’s words: “I have a good feeling about this; I think everything is going to be fine.” Her words gave me strength and hope. They spurred me to persevere. I think I wanted to prove she was right, and not let her down.

           

            I didn’t make it four months. I made it three and ended up back in the hospital, once again in premature labor. This time the magnesium sulfate wouldn't do its job.

           

            And just about the time my six-and-a-half-week premature baby was to arrive, Vera arrived for her shift. She had silently slipped into the room during the chaos of my newly ruptured cervix and no doctor in sight. Once again, she patrolled the room and kept her eye on me. Once again, she was the last nurse remaining, and the one who tended to my every need after my precious son was born, resuscitated back to life, and wheeled to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit.

           

            And she was there eight days later, when he was miraculously released earlier than anyone expected, and my husband and I triumphantly carted him to the obstetrics unit, to thank her for her love, her dedication, her kind, hopeful words, and her intervention that surely helped save my unborn baby three months earlier.

           

            Twenty years later I look at my son and remember Vera, and thank God for her, for nurses who not only save lives, but also encourage and nurture them, who fight for and help bring them into the world. For nurses who share a good feeling with their scared, bewildered and broken patients.

           

            My heart knows my boy would not be here today, if not for Vera and her lifesaving words.

Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

God's Tender Heart: Binding Up Your Sorrows

Earth has no sorrow

Heaven can’t heal.

                                                                                from “Come As You Are” by David Crowder

           

            Although it might not seem to be the case when you are crushed under the weight of anguish, God has a tender heart toward the brokenhearted. The Bible is full of stories about how He prays special attention to those whose hearts throb from the loss of loved one. In fact, the entire Bible is really a story about loss, heartache, restoration, hope and redemption. It is about God, His love, and His tender heart.

           

            For this short post today, I want to concentrate on one verse: Psalm 147:3. A short, concise verse that really says it all.

           

            He heals the brokenhearted

            And binds up their wounds.

                                                Psalm 147:3 (NASB)

            In this verse we are told that God clearly is the healer. One who brings about healing, makes something broken sound or whole, restores to health, mends and returns to a sound state. (Anyone who has experienced the crushing pain of losing a loved one can attest to not feeling as if they—or their mind—are in a sound state.)

           

            And He binds up their wounds.

           

            In this passage, “wounds” literally means “sorrows” so the implication here is that God works like a doctor to wrap up a wound.

           

            When you wrap a wound, you might do so for many reasons:

            ~ to stop or slow the flow of blood

            ~ to protect the wound from further external assault or damage

            ~ to keep the wound closed and protected from infection

            ~ to bring the wound edges together so they can heal more quickly

            ~ to aid healing by keeping it wet and better able to heal

            ~ to support or splint the wound or injury

            ~ to compress the wound so selling can be reduced and the wound can heal

            What we need to remember is that wound healing is not an overnight process. It can take time. Sometimes a lot of time. The larger, more complex the wound, the longer the healing can take, and the more we must visit the physician to have our healing closely monitored. Monitored by the One who knows us intimately, who knows how to put us back together and restore us to wholeness.

           

            He knows just how tightly the healing binding must be wrapped, and when it needs to be removed. I say “needs” to be removed because bindings can be worn too long and can actually hamper healing, or cause it to regress. I’ve had patients who feared binding removal because they’d grown so accustomed to it that it became their “friend,” something they relied on, something they thought they needed to survive. Something they had learned to live with. Something they now couldn't live without. They would have chosen it over the freedom of complete restoration and healing. Removing the binding was terrifying to them. In that case, they would not allow the healer to do his completed work. Sometimes, intentionally or unintentionally, they thwarted the healing process whenever they could. They might have been fearful or enjoyed the attention they received from having the wound. And binding an injury when it does not need binding can actually weaken the supporting structures to a point where the binding becomes a permanent necessity. You get to a point where you can't live without it.

           

            Another fact we also need to remember is that a well-placed binding can sometimes cause discomfort or outright excruciating pain. The pain is something we need to expect, and, yes, embrace if we are to submit to the healing process. I remember well the young emergency room physician who apologized profusely as he tried to move my foot up and get it into a ninety-degree angle to my ankle after a devastating fracture that deformed my lower leg. He was so nervous and shaky about the pain he was causing me that his hands shook and sweat beads dripped from his forehead. I was in so much pain from the pressure and movement that my leg shook uncontrollably as it hung over the bed. Tears poured down my eighteen-year-old cheeks as the unaligned bones grated together. The room swam as the severity of pain threatened to cause me to faint. And all of that in order to apply a plaster cast to keep the ankle and foot in the desired position. All of that so my leg could be put in a position to heal. And the pain didn’t end with the cast application. It lingered for weeks; every movement recreated the bone grinding, until the body had sufficiently knit the bone back together to stabilize the fracture. Only pain medication kept me relatively sane.

           

            The more we rebel against the healing process, the longer it can take. If we are poor patients, the healing can actually go awry, and our sorrows won’t ever properly heal.

           

            If we can concentrate on this passage in Psalms, repeat it to ourselves, hide it in our hearts and saturate our minds with its truth, we will know and come to believe, even in the midst of our deepest pain, that He will heal our broken hearts and bind up our sorrows, so that we may be fully restored to life.

           

            Trust Him to do it, for His heart is tender toward you, and He is faithful!

Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

How to Kick-Start Your Grief Recovery

            Have you been languishing in grief for months or years? Do you feel “stuck” in your grief, unable to dislodge yourself from it? Do you find yourself sinking back into grief and thinking about nothing else but who and what you lost? Your baby and the dreams that accompanied her?

           

            While the title of this post may seem callus or silly, kick-starting grief recovery is often necessary for those of us mired in grief, or those of us letting it control our every waking moment, decisions, attitudes, and conversations.

           

            Since January, I have been embarking on a daily study of “peace.” (I choose a single word to delve into every year; a word I feel the Lord is leading me to peruse and absorb.) What I have learned is interesting, and life changing.

           

            Jesus promises us peace, but most of us find complete, true peace elusive or fleeting. Much of the time, that’s because we don’t trust enough, we don’t know God’s word, we don’t look to the Lord for guidance or blessing when we embark upon a plan in our lives, or because we don’t have faith. Or we rely too much on ourselves and find that eventually self runs out and fails even us.

           

            One of the meanings of peace I came upon time and time again in the first five books of the Old Testament was that peace means “offering in thanks.” And Israelites were to give plenty of “peace offerings,” or “offering in thanks offerings.” It was a reminder of all the LORD had done for them, how He had rescued them from the clutches of their Egyptian slaveholders, miraculously sustained them through their forty-year wilderness trek, and how He continued to lead and bless them. It was a reminder that it was not due to their own abilities, talents, or cleverness that they survived or flourished.

           

            It became obvious to me that having peace in my life could be affected by being thankful. Having a heart full of thankfulness.

           

            It is an idea explored by author and photographer Ann Voskamp in her book One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are. When you have a thankful heart, you have a joyful heart. And a joyful heart both simplifies your life and deepens it.

           

            Voskamp writes: “I know there is poor and hideous suffering, and I’ve seen the hungry and the guns that go to war. I have lived pain, and my life can tell. But I only deepen the wound of the world when I neglect to give thanks for early light dappled through leaves and the heavy perfume of wild roses in early July and all the good things that a good God gives…

           

            “The brave who focus on all things good and all things beautiful and all things true, even in the small, who give thanks for it and discover joy even in the here and now, they are the change agents who bring fullest Light to all the world.”

           

            I believe what she writes, but I am struck by two significant words in those two paragraphs. Neglect and focus. They are antonyms, exact opposites, for if your are neglecting something, it is impossible to be focused on it. When we concentrate on something, we are not neglecting it. We are feeding it, giving life to it, nourishing it. We choose to focus on something. We are mindful of it.

           

            So then it is only fitting for us to take stock of what we are focusing on so we can assess what we are neglecting.

           

            Are you neglecting to think on good things? Things that bring you joy? Things that make your heart grateful?

           

            It is an admonishment the Apostle Paul gives us in his letter to the Philippian believers. “Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things” (Phil. 4:8 NIV).

           

            Living this way means we are the ones who take control of our thoughts. And when Jesus tells us outright “Do not let your hearts be troubled,” He is telling us that our thoughts—which affect our heart—are controlled by us alone, and we are the ones responsible for taking the action to guide our hearts to peace, joy, and away from trouble and fear.

           

            And Voskamp continues: “When we lay the soil of our hard lives open to the rain of grace and let joy penetrate our cracked and dry places, let joy soak into our broken skin and deep crevices, life grows. How can this not be the best thing for the world? For us? The clouds open when we mouth thanks.”

           

            When we mouth thanks. It seems obvious God knew that a person’s heart needs to mouth thanks as often it can because of the instructions He gave the Israelites to present so many offerings of thanks to Him. Not only did He do that for His benefit but for theirs. Offerings of thanks acknowledge Him as the gift-giver, and they open the heavens for our hearts and lives to be drenched with blessings. Indeed, while we are yet still mouthing the words, our hearts are enlivened and restored. Our hearts begin to swell with joy and contentment. They morph into sponges to absorb all good things the Lord wants to give and does give in response to our attitudes and actions. Having been thankful for the small, we are overwhelmed with gratefulness for the abundant. And the abundant actually often translates to overabundance, which automatically gets poured out on others around us. As Voskamp writes, we become change agents that bring Light to the world, which includes ourselves.

           

            The thankfulness meter of a heart registered plainly and profoundly for me recently when I attended the funeral of a friend who died unexpectedly of a massive heart attack, while his wife looked on. While I stood blubbering before her, repeatedly saying, “I am so sorry,” and “I don’t know what to say,” Marie clasped my hands in hers, smiled up at me through glistening eyes and said, “It’s okay. I know where he is.” Another thing she told everyone was, “I am so happy and grateful that we made forty-two years together.”

           

            Did you see it? Grateful. A thankful heart. Most likely, a heart practiced in the art of being thankful and overflowing with the memories of those forty-two precious years. I know Marie, and I know her words are not coming just out of the benevolent grace God usually bestows upon the recently wounded heart. It is how she lives life. It reflects the grieving with hope that I wrote on two posts ago. It is a heart condition born of practice and repetition.

            Another word Voskamp I am struck by is brave. Go back and read Voskamp’s sentence. “The brave who focus on all things good and all things beautiful…” 

           

            It takes a brave person to take responsibility for their joy. It means letting go of their pain and grief. It means stopping the finger pointing. It means making a conscious decision to take responsibility for one’s thankfulness, joy, and subsequent peace of heart and mind. It means changing direction and concentrating on all of your blessings and the good things, and rejecting thoughts about all of the things you don’t have.

           

            It’s probably another reason Paul tells Timothy in his letter to him that, “God did not give us a spirit of timidity…” When our hearts are fearful, it is not because God has made them so. He has given us brave hearts. Being thankful can shore up and strengthen a timid heart and make a brave heart braver. It taps into the bravery languishing there, dormant and stagnant.

           

           

            So where are you in your grief? Have you been languishing, unable to move forward? Are you stuck?

           

            If you answer “yes” to any of those questions, or this post strikes a nerve, then perhaps thankfulness is something you need to explore and pursue. Start writing down all that you are thankful for, one a day. I’ve made thankful lists for years, but not nearly enough of them. I have not saturated my heart in thankfulness. I too easily think of what I don’t have, what I’ve lost, what I think or convince myself I’m missing. Every year I mature more in my thankfulness, but I have a long way to go.

           

            Where are you in your journey? Write and tell me.

           

            So we can be thankful together!

           

            Next week we’ll look at how tender God is toward the broken hearted.

Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea