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.


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

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