Declare His glory among the nations, His marvelous deeds among all peoples.
– Psalm 96:3 –
And when appropriate, do it in jig form.
Also, it’s probably always appropriate.
And without further ado, for all who have asked about the video from Easter Sunday, here’s my guy in his own words standing on his own two feet and (appropriately) avoiding the jig:
Let’s be honest, I’ll never see Easter the same way again. The story that has been familiar to me since I was five is ALIVE in new ways.
As I sat in that waiting room five short Saturdays ago, my mind was churning on all the words that had been delivered to me. Like heart attack and life support and it’s time to say goodbye. My mind kept sticking like a scratch on an old record on the word “widow.”
When the doctors and both attending nurses walked into that waiting room, I stood, expecting to hear the pronouncement, the time of death, the confirmation of this new title I never wanted. I mean, I’ve watched Grey’s Anatomy, I know what happens when the attending physician comes in with backup.
Instead, the doctor’s eyes and mouth got wide at the same time as he said “I can’t explain it, but he’s awake, you should go see him!” One of the nurses then grabbed my hand and raced me down the hallway. She was practically skipping, proclaiming over and over again that she’d never seen anything like this, that it was a miracle. My steps were a little more stumbley and heavy, as my mind and heart tried to catch up.
And there he was. ALIVE! And mad – oh my gosh so blessedly mad at the tubes and so scared by the noises. His eyes were just as wide as before, but instead of blank orbs there was LIFE fighting to see and be seen. He was in way too much danger for anything more than a few minutes of sloppy kisses on his forehead and words to calm him and tell him he was so loved.
I went back to the waiting room to tell everyone it was true: He IS alive! A friend raced in moments later – I will never forget the sound of his flip-flops as they raced down the hall and into the waiting room, not pausing to round the corners, coming at full speed to my side, where both of our messy tears and words rambled through a series of “I heard he was gone? But that now he’s alive?” and “yes!” and “what!?” and “how can this be?” and “what does this mean?”
I imagine a very similar scene in “that other” sacred waiting room – the Upper Room where the disciples waited from Saturday to Sunday morning. Like me, Peter was trying to wrap his head and heart around watching his best friend as he was dying. Like me, they were preparing for a burial. I mean, you guys, the women went to the tomb to prepare the body for burial, not to check for resurrection.
And the women came and Peter probably stood. Or maybe he only half looked up. Because either way, he already knew what they were there to say. They came to pronounce that they had prepared the body.
Except they hadn’t.
Because his body wasn’t there.
Because he was IS alive.
And Peter ran. His feet flew to the tomb when he heard the words that Jesus was ALIVE … I don’t know whether he ran in confidence or confusion or with skipping feet or stumbling feet. But when I read of Saint Peter’s footsteps as he ran to the tomb, I will forever hear an echo of my own as I ran-stumbled down an ICU hallway. And I’ll hear those flip flops, too.
Because “He is alive!” is news that makes you run.
So I hope you run today. To the empty tomb. To life. To Jesus. Whether you have seen His new life with your own eyes or heard a report and are still figuring out what it means, whether you’re in ugg-boots or flip-flops, whether you’re running with confidence or stumbling along as someone else holds your hand. Run. Run to the news that HE IS ALIVE.
Because you guys, He is.
Raise your hand if you were traumatized by the video of Lexi being removed from her foster parent’s home.
Yeah. Me too.
I’ve read multiple articles expressing varied views, some in favor of the Choctaw Nation and seeing this as a victory for the tribe and a loss for the father, some in favor of ICWA in general, some in direct support of the Page family as they seek to get Lexi back, and perhaps most importantly the Court of Appeals Order.
I don’t really trust any of the stories I’m hearing in their entirety, but I do know the system. It is broken. But it’s also working with broken pieces. Some articles paint Lexi’s biological parents as villains, others as victims – they were probably somewhere in between. Her bio mom had already lost a battle to methamphetamine and with that had lost custody of at least six kids prior to Lexi. Bio Dad also lost custody of at least one other child, and is described as having an “extensive criminal history”. Lexi is 1/64th Indian, subjecting her to ICWA, and was described as a child who “bonded and thrived with her foster family.” The words and thrived stick in my throat. That said, the family she’s en route to, while demonized by many news outlets, first petitioned for her in 2011 and have been skyping with and visiting Lexi for years.
See, I bet some of that was new information to you. And that’s only a fraction of the details in play here.
As an Adoption Attorney and Orphan Care Advocate, I probably read some of these things with a different filter than many. ICWA isn’t new news to me – I think it’s the wrong solution to a problem. My brain does a few somersaults and sees the many conundrums and legal precedents that are butting up against each other.
As a human-being-with-a-heartbeat, I’m guessing we feel the same after we read these things. My heart twinges and breaks and aches as it seems like broken stories are only further broken. I hear so much being argued about competing rights, and a little girl named Lexi seems lost in the fray. Much like victims of frenzied stampedes in crowded places.
And I can’t help but think there could be another victim here too. More vulnerable only because it is easier to ignore, easier to overlook.
It’s the hearts of all those who stand on the edge of love. Wholehearted, fierce, unrelenting love. Especially those who stand on the verge of foster parenting and say “see, that’s why I could never do that.”
I won’t pretend I haven’t thought that as stories like this unfold.
Though to be honest, isn’t a story like this exactly why we need more and more foster families willing to risk wholehearted love? Shouldn’t every foster child “bond and thrive” with their foster families? Some of the tragic and untold stories are of foster homes where love isn’t offered at all. Science tells us that attachment is one of the most important things a child can experience at a young age. In that, the Pages offered Lexi – and whatever family she grows up with – a priceless and irreplaceable gift.
But I get it. Love is scary. Love is risky.
As a new bride, I was scared to be all-in on this love thing. Because that meant placing my heart in the most vulnerable position of all: potential utter devastation if anything ever disrupted this marriage. Like, say, a heart-attack that could take my husband’s life at age 39. About two years into our marriage, I realized I was about 99% in, holding this tiny fragment of myself as a means of self-protection, as if I could ensure I’d “be okay” if anything ever happened. I woke up one night and realized the bigger regret would be to have not loved wholly and fully and without self-preservation intact. And when that heart attack did strike on February 19, you better believe I was glad that none of my tears were ones of regret.
A lot of us try to live in the land of love and self-preservation at the same time. But they are different places with different currencies and different languages. Eventually you have to choose one.
And while we can inhale deep breaths of concern and exhale deep breaths of prayer for this situation, a lot of us are wondering if there’s anything more we can do. Well honestly, for Lexi, probably very little. For the Pages, maybe some money or some cards and meals. For the law, you can use your voice to call Congress, sign petitions, and lobby for either side you support.
But maybe the bigger thing you can do is dare to love. Fiercely and wholeheartedly. To not let a story like this kill the part of yourself that would dare to risk. That would dare to be broken. To hate the ICWA and love the Lexi in your life – in the situation that’s messy, that makes you vulnerable, and that guarantees you nothing beyond today. Maybe that’s an aging parent with dementia. Maybe that’s a spouse with a terminal illness. Maybe that’s a foster child, Indian or otherwise. Maybe it’s the drug addict that doesn’t show up for Thanksgiving. Maybe it’s the student that makes you question teaching.
Maybe it’s anyone we love. Because “[t]o love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.” ― C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves
While the Pages may come out of this with some things they’d change, I can bet on one thing they’ll never regret: loving Lexi.
And TODAY is the four-week anniversary of Jason WAKING UP against all odds.
Also, ALSO, it’s our twelve year engaged-a-versary … warranting a fun re-post …..
—————
Ten TWELVE years ago today, I was the Best Girlfriend Ever.
Really, it’s true. I said so. Out loud. To my mom.
See, I’d just come out of a traumatic relationship. Not a romantic one. A work one. On March 18, 2004, I walked away from my job. Another thing to cross off of my Brave Things I’ve Done list.
So come March 19, 2004, I woke up feeling like a new woman, enjoying her first Day Off in a long time. I was excited to do whatever I wanted and answer to absolutely nobody.
Then Boyfriend called. Would I drive out to see him in Riverside? To watch basketball – it being the middle of March Madness and all. Could I, would I, be the one to drive to him for a change? Sigh. Yes. Yes I will, because I love you and I’m your Girlfriend and I have a Day Off and blah blah blah.
So, being the Best Girlfriend Ever, I readjusted my day, told my To Do List to wait, turned off Daytime TV, and called my mom to tell her how amazing I was. How I was so flexible and selfless and was earning girlfriend gold stars and what-not. How she didn’t snicker at me, I’ll never know. Mom-powers are amazing and mysterious.
When I got to Boyfriend’s house, he came out to greet me and suggested a brief walk around campus (where he worked, not went to school – no robbing the cradle here). He then casually suggested we take a drive up to Big Bear, my hometown in the mountains, an hour-ish away. We’ve never before nor never since “just decided to take a drive to Big Bear.” It’s always a planned thing. But I was turning over a new leaf. Flexibility. And also, think of my alternative: watching basketball. Sure, why not? I said, only briefly reminding him that it was the middle of March Madness. More girlfriend-gold-stars after all. If texting had been a thing back then, my mom would have been getting a play-by-play oh my awesome-ness.
With each mile we drove up the mountain, I repeatedly thought this is so weird that we’re just taking a random trip to Big Bear. But instead of thinking – even ONCE – about it in a suspicious manner, it only furthered my own sense of girlfriend-greatness.
A handful of hours after I graciously swept my day aside in favor of time with my Beau, we pulled into a parking lot near the lake “to take a walk.” Still not suspicious. Seriously? Seriously.
Until I saw the candles. Forming a path to the lakeshore.
And heard Boyfriend’s breathing change.
I caught my own breath as I realized this was IT.
He led me down the candle-lit path pre-set by his little engagement elves, back down to the lakeshore where years before he had turned me away, making today the day he’d reclaim that territory and ask me to say yes to forever.
Years before, I had prayed just one prayer about the day I might be asked to marry someone. Please God, just let me KNOW the answer, whether it’s yes or no, I want it to be clear. No doubt, no hesitation. I simply couldn’t fathom being stuck somewhere in the middle and answering with an Uhhhh, ummmm, welllll.
And there on that fateful day, a resounding Yes! came out of my mouth as naturally as the air I breathe.
Sometimes Jason will whisper in my ear, Thanks for saying yes, and I always answer back, Thanks for asking. I’ve never lost sight of just how amazing it is to be asked.
Somewhere in the darkness a ring was slipped on my finger – the same one that rests there today.
A little known-fact is that Boyfriend and I didn’t kiss, not even when Boyfriend became Fiancée. A fact that shocked even my mother. I’m pretty sure she said something about owing a guy a kiss if he gives you a diamond ring. But it’s just something we decided to save for our wedding day. Not in any holier-than-thou way, but more because we knew our triggers and didn’t need to add another one. So I got a diamond but Boyfriend-turned-Fiancee didn’t get a kiss. Yet.
When it all caught up with me, I felt a teeny bit chagrined about the self-applause I’d given myself all day. Way to go, Brooke, you are sooooo selfless. You were willing to clear your schedule and be available for a proposal. Bravo.
When we then made our way to my family’s house for a pre-orchestrated celebration party, my mom’s grin said it all.
Wow, did I really just brag to you all day about what an awesome girlfriend I am? Yes.
And you knew the whole time that he’d be proposing and not watching basketball? Yes.
It’s a good thing that I was the Best Girlfriend Ever that day, since it was my last day as a girlfriend.
(Also, we were just baaaabies!)
It’s hard to believe that my favorite heart stopped beating four Fridays ago. And then started again. And then stopped again. And then, well, for those that have been reading along, you know the ‘and then’.
I know someday will be “just another Friday”, but for now – and the foreseeable future – I’m counting. Today is Friday number FOUR from “that Friday.” Friday and I have always had a thing – but more in the abstract, the idea of Friday as a season, which emerged from the disciple Peter’s experiences on that fateful “Good Friday.” When shock, loss, and mourning collide. When the unreal becomes real. I’ve always said my “first Friday” was going through infertility – our unplanned unparenthood. Heck, even the Bible Study I wrote is called, of all things, ‘Friday’s Rain.’ Walking through my proverbial Friday is how I learned that lament is worship and what it means to praise a GOOD God in the midst of UNGOOD feels and reals.
So it’s not lost on me that “the call” came on a Friday, too. The literal and figurative Fridays colliding in a scene that is still surreal, though the flashbacks hit with shocking realism.
This morning I woke up thinking about all that I didn’t know four Fridays ago. ICU-Nurses-turned-friends. Campus-security-officers-turned-heroes. A hospital I didn’t know existed. Medical terms that were previously obscure and irrelevant to me. Doctors I would hug. A naivety and innocence that I didn’t know was naïve and innocent.
But also the depth of community, the power of prayer, and the LIVING nature of Scripture. Just how rich we are in friends. Just how miraculous each breath is. These are all things I knew, but now I KNOW.
This morning my guy decided that it was time to kick me out for a little beach time before I went to therapy – both some of the healthiest things for my soul. When I got down to the water, the clouds were still perfectly thick, keeping everything sleepy and just the right amount of Southern California chilly. But as it generally does, the sun started to fight off the clouds, and as I took in the sun’s warmth, I thought about how the last few weeks have felt just like that … a taking in of the sun as it slowly burns off the clouds. And makes your eyes burn if you stare right at it.
Direct staring not recommended, but paying attention: highly recommended. Walking the beach, I thought of my hours in the ICU, where I remember wondering if there would be a day that I’d walk the beach again in full contentment. And while I don’t miss the hospital or that ICU room, there’s one thing I do miss. Okay two. Okay three.
First, the definition within its walls. Second, Nurse Nancy. And third, the breakfast burritos.
The second two I can go visit. The first, the definition, may sound like a weird thing to miss- because a hospital is full of UNdefined possibilities, more questions than answers, chaos, and is constantly ON. But one thing a hospital does just right is having a single focus: LIFE. Life has one very specific, distinct, simple meaning in a hospital, especially the cardiac floor. You watch the heart. You watch it’s rythym, it’s beat, it’s pace, it’s consistency. Life inside the hospital walls means one thing. Watch the heart, keep it beating.
Life outside the hospital walls is not so simple. And that’s SO GOOD, and so healthy, and a little tricky. Because life outside the hospital walls includes deadlines and decisions and diets and directions and dog-hair and dust and deep sighs.
And still, watching the heart. Yes the physical – low sodium, cardiac rehab, etc. But also the heart-heart. The soul-part. The one that doesn’t come with a monitor – but oh my gosh can you imagine if it did!? Yikes. Because even when everything changes, you still bring the same self to the table. You’re forever different, but you’re also not.
Watch the heart, for it is deep, and varied. It can take in wonders, and can expand beyond what you thought possible, and ache in unknown places, and echo dazzling light and love. Watch it. Watch your hot-mess heart as it LIVES. I think you’ll be surprised what you find, whether it’s a Friday or “just another Friday.” One sign of LIFE returning this week were the tears and the laughter and then the laughing-tears when a kinda rough conversation led to Jason saying to me, “You know you’re the hot mess that I WANT to do life with, right?” You better believe that I laugh-cried right then and there.
You guys, these hearts of ours. Goodness they are a sacred mystery. They need watching. They have a lot to process and prioritize and participate in. And maybe life outside the hospital walls isn’t all that different from life within: watch the heart, keep it beating.
Some people cross the bridge from care-free to care-full slowly, one responsible vitamin at a time. Others get pushed off the bridge and inherit a pillbox and a bunch of ‘ologists overnight.
Our first week home has been a crash course in all things care-full – if you’ve ever seen a life vest, you know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t, just think gun holster meets inspector gadget. It’s like wearing a bomb that will SAVE your life instead of end it, and it requires some quick-change action between showers.
Turns out a broken heart takes a long time to heal. There has GOT to be some amazing spiritual and emotional parallels as a physically attacked heart has to go through such intense recovery and rehab. So much I never would have known before, but it really is TIME that is needed most. Time, sleep, and quiet.
Oh the Quiet. No heart monitors. Birds instead of balloon pumps. Heck, even the occasional jet planes overhead have a soothing new rhythm because they remind me we are NOT IN A HOSPITAL.
I’ve never enjoyed silence like this. We sit. We read. We rest. We savor. It’s some sacred quiet. Slowly, bit by bit, we talk through all that has just been, and turn our attention to all that will be. (Because there is a will be!!!)
And slowly, the pace of “normal life” is creeping back in, too. Which is beautiful and also not at the same time. I don’t miss the hospital at all, but I do miss some of the single-focus-clarity that two weeks in a hospital forces, and I’d like to adopt some new filters as we readjust into our new normal.
One thing that’s ever-more-evident is just how different our two experiences are, and therefore our healing journeys will be. We knew that within the first 24 hours of him leaving ICU, of course – his journey involves sleeping through some of the most vibrant, haunting, and sacred hours of my life. His journey involves disorientation and shock on a whole different level. His journey involves wearing a life-vest. His journey went from a basketball court to a hospital bed in a blink of an eye. His journey involves the emotions inherent in heart-attack recovery … everything from “glad to be alive” to “damn this hurts” to “I’m not worth all this attention” to “when can I get back to work/school?”
We’ve decided that miracles are allowed to be grumpy.
And me, well, I’m still experiencing a layer of grace that I can’t take any credit for. I’m still being held up by a Mighty Right Hand (Psalm 63:8). That’s not to say there aren’t a lot of Deep Feels going on.
The tears – they come at surprising times. As I open a can of chicken. As we play cards. As he chokes on a cough and I feel the pain on his face.
The sighs come when the flashbacks zap me. When images flash in my mind of monitors, wide-open but un-seeing eyes, and the wail that defied words. Some say I was strong. I wasn’t strong. I was simply a girl in love with the guy on the ventilator. Some say I’m strong now. And still, I tell you, it’s love making me breathe “thank you” even as I echo “ouch” as I watch my man – my active, vibrant, strong, athletic, bold MAN – learn how to re-enter life one five-minute-walk at a time.
Hold out for that kind of love, ladies. It’s worth every high and low.
The deep thoughts come with classical music, haunting me with the ways it can say what my words and actions can not, just as it soothed both of us while it played in the ICU.
The chills come when I remember that I should be a widow, and I look up to receive comfort from the very man who has instead kept me a bride.
The smiles come when he reaches for my hand.
The goosebumps when each kiss becomes just a little bit longer.
The laughter when the right pun hits at the right moment, or when Mrs Chanandeler Bong is so much funnier than before. Or when I win at the card game.
Because miracles laugh, and cry, and shudder, and go silent, and get grumpy, and dream of the future. Because miracles get a future – we just enter it slowly.
Home. We’re home! WE are home.
I’ve realized things in a hospital move super slow, like the evolution of your fashion standards into something like this:
(You’re welcome)
or super fast, like being admitted or, as it turns out, discharged. Which is, by the way, equal parts wonderful and terrifying because you do get a bit used to nurses and doctors and life-saving equipment being a call button away. Still, after a few shared tears as we face our new and unknown normal, it was all smiles from there:
Gods hand has been in
countless details. More on those later. But one of tonight’s was that our song, Out of the Woods, came on as soon as I turned on our car. For reals though. It’s the song Jason says is how he felt while pursuing my heart all those years ago. It will hold even more meaning to me now.
And we came home to the most beautiful displays of love for us – more to come on all our friends have taught us about love. I mean wow. Our home was filled with flowers, our fridge and pantry stocked with heart healthy foods, our laundry done, our sinks and floors cleaner than I can keep them, and our chalk wall declaring Jason’s LIFE verse.
As we settle into our new normal, beginning with a few DAYS of sleep, we will be telling ourselves of the great things God has done as we read messages and cards and our own hearts.
“Give thanks to the LORD and proclaim his greatness. Let the whole world know what he has done.” Psalms 105:1
Because the world was a part of the great things He’s done – we got messages from around the U.S., Vietnam, Indonesia, Bangladesh and Australia – as people stood in prayer, stormed the gates, and rejoiced over Jason in singing – I’d love your help in capturing some of those stories and moments before they’re lost. If you have a picture or video or story of prayer and praise over this man of mine or how God met you as WE ALL are living this miracle, will you get it to me? And please to be sure to include your location.
Here’s a few ways:
1) use the hashtag #teamjasonmiller and #wearelivingamiracle on Facebook or Instagram
2) comment here
3) email me at brooke@brookemardell.com
Because living a miracle isn’t something you do alone.