Certainly!

One of the wonderful, unpredictable benefits of living just off the 855 is my friendship with Leslie.

There's no real logic to our friendship: she's a couple of (okay, three!) decades younger than I am. She is related to, or friendly with, almost everyone in the county; I'm a newcomer, an outsider. She loves horses; I'm scared of them. She rises to new challenges; I take a few steps back in trepidation. She'll take on anyone; I shrivel at the anticipation of confrontation.

How I met her was a little unusual. There was an election, so the Good Rancher, our friend Malcolm and I headed to the local polling station. After we cast our ballots - the GR "solemnly affirming" that I was who I claimed to be - we went to the one remaining local eating establishment for a burger.

Her folks had bought the place the previous year, and she was our waitress. We discussed voting for a few minutes and I discovered she was eligible for the first time to vote. She was uninterested.

I launched into lecture mode, using phrases like "privilege and responsibility" and "civic duty" and "women fought for this right." Probably to shut me up more than anything, she capitulated and said she would vote if I would go with her.

Her aunt registered her; she cast her ballot; by the time we walked back to the restaurant, our friendship had been launched.

Two years later, I realise we do have a few things in common: we love our dogs; we like reading; we text at all hours; we wear our hearts on our sleeves.

And now, this: this past Friday, January 26, at 2 pm, we attended the Celebration of Life for her Dad.

Last year, at the same time on the same day, the Memorial Service for my Dad began.

We both miss our Dads from the centre of our very beings ...

She seems to float just above the ground when she walks; I lumber like my favourite pachyderms. 

She calls me Momma K. I call her My Girl.

Something else about Leslie: she is living proof of what a preemie can grow to be.

Here's her story in her words:

"I was born at 24 weeks and I had heart surgery then eye surgery then I had pinholes in my intestine because they fed me milk to soon so they removed some of my intestine and put a ileostomy bag on me and I came home with oxygen and had it for 3 months and then I had to go get the ileostomy bag taken off and closed back up."

She as much as anyone is following Levi's story, is loving him and caring for him and rooting for him.

She, more than most, understands.

Our little Levi is now scheduled for neurosurgery to insert a shunt tomorrow morning, Monday, January 28, at 7:20 a.m. (Mountain Standard Time).

His mum updated us a couple of days ago: "He's so strong and even continues to try to breastfeed. Earlier he was having lots more events with clusters of heart rate and oxygen drops. His eyes strain to open with the pressure ..."

As I was contemplating the journey that Levi has already taken, the accomplishments he has achieved in his short life, the joy he brings, I was trying to speculate what God might have in mind for Levi. I was trying to bear some of the burden of his exhausted Mum and Dad. And I wrote a note to the Rev David McIlveen, the minister who conducted the graveside service for my Dad's body's committal to the earth. I thanked him for the word of hope he offered from the Bible that day, certain knowledge that we will see our dear Dad again; and for the comfort his presence brought us in the days following the funeral - he stayed with our family, bracing us up through the initial pounding waves of bereavement, always pointing us to God, who has promised to be "a Father to the fatherless."

He wrote me back promptly. And in his letter he offered this reflection, which I passed on to my family:

"Recently, I found great comfort in the words of Exodus chapter 3 verse 12, where God said to Moses, 'Certainly I will be with thee.' I have thought much about that word certainly. God could have said, 'I will be with thee,' and that would have been exceedingly precious. But to supplement the message with the thought of certainly is most reassuring to us.
In thinking about Moses, I thought of my own heart in that Moses was faced with,
The uncertainty of his faith.
The unreliability of his flesh.
And the undercurrent of his fear.
Each one of these challenges God addresses with the word CERTAINLY providing the preface.
Regrettably, life and time brings its changes, and with those changes we must look to the One who changes not."

And God reminded me that as He was with Moses, so He is with Levi.

This evening I read Levi's dad's post on Facebook:

"... We are so thankful for how far he has come, and know that we are never beyond the reach of God's love, even when our feet can't feel the bottom. We've seen so many miracles through Levi's life so far, from his conception to now. We've also seen them through the hands and hearts of the incredible team caring for him.

"Unless God intervenes this weekend, we believe that Levi needs to have this pressure relieved and the only way to do so at this point is with a shunt. Of course we pray for steady hands, clear decision making, no bleeding or infection now ... or in the months and years to come, and a clean uncomplicated recovery. We know that God is able if He is willing, but more so, He is CERTAINLY with us, and with our little boy, and that will not change. Through this all, our Lord continues to still our storms and remains the same, yesterday, today and forever ..."

God is for Leslie, for Levi, for us. He is with us. His plan for Levi's life will unfold in due season - He has promised to make all things beautiful in its time.

And He will.

Certainly.

"... When There Seems To Be No Way"

For all who are journeying with and praying for Levi (and his mum and dad), an update straight from mum:

💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

God is so good... He answers prayer!
Neurosurgeon came in this morning ‎and was encouraged to hear Levi's improvement over the weekend and the fact that he is down to once a day taps. She felt his head and thought that it might be a bit better, but certainly not worse. Then she said " I think that we can hold off on surgery and see what he does given his progression... maybe he'll be able to go another 5 weeks eventually without a tap. Also, there's a kiddo who came in over the weekend with a brain tumour and we need to use Levi's OR time for that case." Are you kidding me??  The answer's clear, no doubt whatsoever... no decision to be made today by Jonathan and me!! We thank Jesus, and pray for this little one and family who do need urgent surgery.
Then the neurosurgery nurse practitioner came in‎ and thought that his head felt a "bit better." His head circumference is stable from yesterday and he has improved overall. She suggested that we wait even on the tap today - can be reassessed at anytime according to what Levi tells us. Will likely tap at least tomorrow regardless and then repeat  a fast MRI on Wednesday.
She is completely stumped saying "What's going on kiddo, I don't get you but I could almost be ‎happy excited... almost!" I told her what I know is going on.. that God is answering prayer - the prayer of people across this globe who belong to the beautiful family of God. She wasn't sure what to think of that, but said "whatever you're doing, keep doing it."
So... no meeting this afternoon, Levi will be reassessed ‎regularly for taps and have an MRI this week and we keep trusting in the One who is altogether trustworthy. The days ahead are unsure, but we are so very grateful for this clear answer.
Also, his cultures for virus,etc on his brain fluid all came back clear.
Thank you Wonderful Father.
Thank each of you and family of God.
Our hearts are overwhelmed with gratitude!

J, D and Levi ‎(who had 5 pokes this AM for an IV that they couldn't get, and now we don't need it!)

💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

So much gratitude, to God and to all of you who are praying for our boy. He's not out of the dark yet, but each step forward is one step closer to the dawn.

It reminds me of the song, "God can make a way when there seems to be no way ..." We don't know how He's working; but we see Levi and know that He is.

When We Come To The End Of Ourselves

On January 20 one year ago, as darkness wrestled with the dawn, my Dad, while sleeping, removed his oxygen, threw off his blanket, and - having quite literally laid aside the last of his earthly weights - stepped from time into eternity and thus finished the race that was set before him.

He had come to the end of his journey here on earth, and was immediately where he had longed to be for so long: at home with the One who had known him from the time he was formed in his mother's womb; the One who had preserved his life as a preemie; the One who had directed his comings and goings for 84 years.

Waving goodbye to one of "his" Chelli daughters

peeking in for a last glimpse of him ...

We would never wish him back.

But oh, how each of his children have at various times been drawn to the end of ourselves this year! We have missed his wisdom, his guidance, his hugs and gentle humour. We've missed the way he knew each of us so well. We've missed him.

Two of us in particular: they received the news during the first aching trimester after Dad left us that they, in fact, were expecting. The due date? January 20, 2018.

Each day from the day they heard, they consecrated their little one to God, the same God Who had spared his or her Poppa's life and now would be trusted to preserve this treasure.

Days and weeks were checked off calendars. All seemed to be going along as it should.

Until the texts.

3:06. "she is having some discomfort ..."
3:56. "Pls pray"
4:01. "We are going in for a c section. No choice."
4:04. "Things are happening quickly ... pls pray most of all for this life."
5:10. "Boy. [Just under] 2 lbs. Mum ok."

And with that started the fight for this little one's life. Levi, they named him. Set apart for God.

He was over three months premature.

The word went out, and around the world an army of prayer warriors fixed their sights on their target. From the day of his birth, Levi has been held up before the throne of God by someone every hour of each day.

"We ask that You would raise up a man of God to be a prophet to our nation, and that the mantle of his grandfather will be four times upon him," Pastor Paul Warnock would pray almost every Sunday. 

Catastrophic brain bleed. Stage 4. Weekly ultrasounds show no signs of diminishing ...

Daily head measurements show circumference expanding, and fontanelle filling up with fluid ... 

Respirator dislodged! Get help, stat ...

Neurosurgery required. Transport arranged from one hospital to the other in the Stork. Reservoir surgically implanted to enable tapping of the fluid from his head in order to relieve pressure ...

Eight weeks on oxygen. Preemie babies' retinas and prolonged O2 flow - a high risk of blindness or compromised sight ...




And yet he held on, tiny hands clutching his father's finger, calmed by his mother's voice.

And they held on, literally, for more hours of the day than they could count. Kangaroo care, it's called. The mother and the father take turns holding their baby, skin to skin, for as many hours as they are able.

This mother and father were there often to the midnight hour and then back again as early as possible in the morning. They talked to him and sang to him. They read him the messages that were coming in from his new friends all over the world.

And they prayed. 

He grew. And opened his eyes. The respirator was removed, replaced by a miniature version of the nasal cannula his Poppa had used.

He started to be able to nurse.

Tests revealed what we had already suspected by looking into his bright, alert eyes: from what they could tell, the damage at this point was far less than anticipated.

The every-other-day agony of the tapping was reduced to twice a week, once a week, discontinued - Happy Christmas!

Then the supplementary O2 was stopped and he breathed on his own. There continued still some episodes where he would have to be nudged to remember to breathe, times where his little lungs were too exhausted to support the demands of his heart, which was coming along nicely thanks to the love from his parents and all the others known and unknown, and the excellent care from his medical team. He still required a feeding tube, but he was increasingly able to acquire his milk orally.

His doctor remarked that he was extremely pleased with the progress his tiny patient was making.

His nurses were part of his growing fan club.

Until suddenly, inexplicably, the light in his eyes was gone. He could hardly open them, so puffy and painful were they. He had no strength to nurse. He lay there limp and almost unresponsive. His head was filling up with fluid again and the pressure was too great to bear.



A phone call. A stricken father, almost unable to speak from the pain. We're moving hospitals. Immediately. We need to be near neurosurgery.

For some reason it brought to my mind a little refugee family 2000+ years ago, their lives upended, fleeing for the sake of their infant boy. The new hospital would be Levi's Egypt. 

The cry went out again for prayer. Each day people wanted updates; the only news for the interminable week was no real improvement. They have to start tapping his head again. They are taking out double what they were before, twice a day, and still his head is growing by half a centimetre a day. He's barely opening his eyes. He's regressing rapidly.

The dreaded S word. Seizure.

MRIs. EEGs. Physician and nurse advocates. No clues.

The anguish of a mother's heart: "This is almost worse than before, because now I know him and he knows me ..."

Neurosurgery to insert a shunt scheduled for Tuesday of the following week.

And there remained two days until January 20, his due date; two days until the first anniversary of his Poppa's passing from the suffering of this world into the presence of God.

Some of his aunts went up on the 19th, more to see his mother and father than him. We could do nothing for him; but we could remember last year's grief and triumph together and pray that there would be no sorrow added to it this year.

Like our Dad would have done, we brought up Mum's old family china, as well as bowls glowing golden and Dad's Mom's own glasses for the occasion. We found a semi-secluded table just near the food court and set it in a way Dad would have appreciated.

Both Levi's parents were able to join us in a simple meal that said home is truly where the heart is, those broken hearts in need of hope and normalcy to be restored.

The aunties quickly peeked in on Levi just before the scheduled evening tap before leaving for our hotel room, subdued at the change the week had brought.

This 20th morning seemed to crawl by, and then a message from Levi's mum:

Woke this morning remembering how our precious Dad looked so peaceful a year ago. So grateful for the incredible gift of him and the quiet, gentle way in which Jesus called him. Missing him so ... and seeing him in our sweet little boy - the way he sleeps with his hand up by his chin and his crooked little smile.

We needed Indian food to complete our weekend of remembrance. We picked it up and headed back to the hospital. To our delight our same table became available. We set it all up - paper plates and Styrofoam containers would do! - and waited. 

She came alone. Levi had had another tap. After each tap he has to be held for four hours to keep the pressure in his head from building, and it was his dad's turn. But her step was lighter. "No seizures noted during the hour the EEG recorded!" And for some reason, the neurologist himself had come in - on a Saturday! - to meet with them. As he was wrapping up his consult, he somewhat diffidently offered the information that he too was a preemie - "not as early as Levi, but still. And I've done okay ..." - and left the troubled parents with some spark of hope.

After lunch, it was their turn to participate in our treasured ritual of drawing promises for the year. She got Casting all your care upon Him, for He cares for you. He got ...When I sit in darkness the Lord shall be a light unto me. Levi got And you shall seek me and find me when you search for me with your whole heart ...

To me those sounded like promises for a future and a hope.

We had to leave our little family and head home shortly after lunch. Life has a way of carrying on despite ourselves, as we had all learnt over the past year.

I wanted to see Dad, to hear his voice, so I got on my computer and went through picture after picture - until I came across some I had downloaded but had never really looked at. They were of the very last time my Dad would preach in a church, and it happened to be Hanna Alliance Church.

Dad had been born in Hanna; and although he would speak at his grandson's wedding and preach a couple of times to his kids, unbeknownst to us at the time, Hanna was where he would come full circle.

I must have pressed "Record" after I made my way up to the front of the church to play the piano after he concluded his closing prayer.

But now as I listened, I realized that he had given us another gift through this prayer, the word our wounded hearts and broken spirits so desperately needed to hear one year later:

... All of us, many times in life, we come to the end of ourselves

And find that You are all we need.

We know that is true.

You are all we need ...

One last gift, sent at 11:48 on January 20th as we prepared to put this sad, celebratory, sacred day to bed:

Glimpses

"After 6-7 days of not seeing his spark, our boy finally started to wake up a bit more this evening ... locking eyes, cooing, interacting and giving us glimpses of his usual self! ... Cherishing our relationships with Dad and having a glimpse of our bright eyed, content boy made such an impression on me that our Heavenly Father longs for us to communicate with, look into His eyes and engage with Him. How much joy it must bring Him ..."

He still has a long way to go, our valiant boy with the heart of a seasoned soldier. The shunt is still scheduled for Tuesday as the fluid build-up continues. Once a shunt is placed, it is permanent, and brings with it high risks of infection and various other drawbacks. But I am encouraged by the words of a prayer penned January 20th itself on behalf of Levi from Lzchua*, a friend of one of my sister's. The whole prayer is a pure, sweet offering poured out on the altar of faith and trust. I quote the refrain and the conclusion:

Lord, I am Levi ...

Named for your Holy Priesthood

Proclaiming your Eternal Presence

Remembering your Faithful Servant, my grandpa

I praise You

Because I am fearfully

Lovingly, wonderfully made 

In the battle between darkness and dawn, the dawn wins.

Thanks be to God.


-------------------------------------

*Copyright (C) 2018 Liz Chua. Used with permission.

All pictures the property of the owners. Used with permission.

Laying the Year to Rest

What a year 2017 was! With Joy and Sorrow in the balances, I submit that Sorrow tipped the scales.

So much loss: more of my friends than I can mention lost a beloved parent.

Others lost siblings.

Some, their life's partner.

A few, the unimaginable - a child.

Jobs, careers, businesses.

Homes.

Health.

People moving out of our lives who we thought would be with us for the long term. 

Friendships shifting into new shapes or slipping into shadows.

The closing of The Lilac Room.

And as New Year's Eve drew imminently close, I tried to shut my eyes to its looming emptiness, to still the pounding of my heart at the thought that the man who had shaped almost every new year's eve of my life would not be there.

The weather was almost too much to bear in Alberta for the past fortnight. Temperatures hovered between -29 and -35, and then we added on the wind chill factor to that. Extra bedding for the calves; machines all running slower in protest; water holes and stations having to be chopped with greater regularity; animals slipping on the icy slopes.

At 10:30 on Saturday evening - New Year's Eve's eve - the Good Rancher turned to me. "I am so sorry; I simply cannot make it to church tomorrow morning." The tractor would not cooperate, so feeding was going to take longer than ever.

The day more than any other this winter that I needed him - needed him to be by my side as I faced the closing of a year and the promise of the new one without my beloved Dad.

Still. Stiff upper lip and all that, hmmm?

I heard my Aunt Mabel's voice saying that Ironside girls don't cave. And so that night I typed out 60 bookmarks with a different promise from the Bible on each.

On New Year's Eve morning I got ready for church and drove myself in. Henry, my Ford truck, protested mightily and refused to get up to speed even after a prolonged warm-up session.

I drove down the 855 in silence, thinking about the season, thinking about the Baby we had celebrated last Sunday and about discarding the trappings of this difficult year.

As I rounded the second corner of the Correction Line, I saw it. The Star, beckoning to me in the East.

"Come and worship!" it seemed to urge.

In the midst of this -35 tundra, I thought of the magi, following their star, not knowing where, but with hope and assurance.

I at least knew this star - our own beautiful Sun - and I knew where I was going.

But what gifts could I offer on this cold day?

As I drove the stretch of highway near Huttons' I could see their poor tractor, a cloud of exhaust smoke streaming behind it like a bride's veil in the crystalline air. and I thought of the Good Rancher who was doing exactly the same thing. The gifts these two men were offering their cattle stretched beyond the actual feed. Here were two wise men who understood that as stewards of livestock they couldn't be off chasing a star, as perhaps they would like; their duty was first to the animals who depended solely on these men's vigilance and discipline for their very lives.

Chastened out of my self-pity, I passed the tractor and the star loomed even closer, it seemed.

"You too have gifts to bring," it reminded me. "You are bringing the gift of music to the worshipers at church, And you are passing on the gift of a promise for the New Year that your Dad so diligently passed on to you for over 50 years."

The bushes and trees on the side of the road sparkled more brightly than any lights I could have arranged on a Christmas tree - if I had put up a Christmas tree this year. Even that had fallen by the wayside.

But the star atop the shimmering trees bedecked for their own celebration spoke to me of the Light that shines in the darkness, and I felt some of the ice around my heart start to melt.

At the church foyer I was greeted by our pastor's beautiful wife, who whisked me and the promise sheets into the little church office. She cut and I arranged, all the promises face down, with a cut-glass jar holding light to anchor and illuminate the treasure beneath it.

She carried it to the front of the church and set it down carefully as I moved to the piano and began a prelude.

This New Year's Eve service was going to be a bit different, the pastor commented. There would be no formal sermon; we the congregants would provide the sermon. We were invited to share something that God had done in our lives this year; or to choose a favourite song for everyone to sing, and briefly tell why that particular song carried weight; or to request prayer for something that we were carrying into the year ahead.

But first a few songs chosen by the worship leader.

The Doxology opened the time of worship through singing: Praise God from Whom ALL blessings flow!

Then ... And Can It Be? ...  REALLY??? Could It Be?

She had chosen Dad's and my "Theology Song"!

The one song my Dad and I always joked about as being so perfect in every way except for one line in the second verse. He would shake his head. "Charles Wesley, HOW could you have written these words?" he would say, only half in jest.

Here are the words of the verse in question:

He left His Father's throne above

So free, so infinite His grace

*Emptied Himself of all but love*

and bled for Adam's helpless race.

"God did not 'empty Himself' of anything; He was and is and always will be God! What He did when He came to earth as the tiny baby Jesus is He 'took on the form of a servant'. He became man, but it did not make Him any less God - not for a moment!" Dad would state with conviction.

So whenever that song was sung in any church we were in, Dad and I would glance sidelong at each other and hum through the line, trying not to grin, our nerdy inside joke.

And THIS Sunday, of all Sundays, we were going to sing this song? 

Coincidence?! I think it was a little message from God reminding me of the words of comfort Dad's friend Tony Hansen said about Mum at her funeral and which we could apply to Dad and to anyone else we love who has trusted the Lord Jesus Christ to take away their sins and give them new life: that[Dad] is with God, and God is with us, so [Dad] was not very far away at this New Year's Eve service!

What if I hadn't come to church?!

At the end of the service Pastor Paul asked me to explain briefly the tradition of selecting a promise. I said that as I typed out the promises I prayed over each one, that God would guide the hand of the person who needed that particular verse for whatever reason in the coming year. Dad always prayed over the verses as he typed them and over and over again the verse someone drew sustained them through the year ahead.

Instead of writing it all out again, here's a link to a previous Reading the Leaves New Year's Eve musing from when Dad was still with us. How this one has come to fruition in 2017! 

Then Pastor Paul prayed that each person would receive a word from God, because that is what these promises are, straight from His Word. And at the conclusion of the prayer he invited each congregant to come up and select a bookmark as he held the tray.

Mine this year - I chose green, of course, in honour of Dad - spoke straight to the tremendous weight of fear, of anxiety, of depression that I try to hold at bay every single day.

As I go into 2018, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am not alone.

Happy New Year!