Becca is Six Today!

Is it possible that my Becca May is six today?!  Wow.  I know there has been lots of living taking place in the ensuing six years but it seems like just yesterday we held her our arms as an infant.

May 2, 2014

May 2, 2008

Today, we celebrate Becca’s life.  She is so excited to have a Princess Party with all her friends in attendance.  She will be queen for the day—and shouldn’t it be that way on your birthday. Costumes and tiaras will be worn; pizza and cake will be consumed; too many presents will be received.  In many ways, it will be like any other six-year-old girl’s birthday party. 

But, although most will not be aware of it, someone is missing from today’s festivities. Of course, I’m talking about Becca’s twin sister, Hope Marie.  Today is her birthday too but most probably won’t remember.   Rest assured however, that while Laurie and I don’t choose to make it a point of focus, we are keenly aware of the missing presence today— and at every birthday Becca has. 

The cliché is true: Time does help heal wounds.  The problem is the scabs over this kind of wound never get very thick and it doesn’t take much to open them.  Something triggers a memory and the Great Sadness wells up within me all over again.  In my minds eye, I cannot help but picture what might have been if Hope had lived—e.g., two princesses would be twirling around my living room today in costumes and tiaras.

While we can be sure what Hope would’ve looked like (we say that in Rebecca we always see Hope) we’ll never know who she would’ve been. I think, over the years, that is what I have mourned the most. I get to watch Becca blossom into a beautiful young lady seemingly before my eyes (she is only six but sometimes she seems so grown up already!) but I was denied that opportunity with Hope.  She never even got a chance to draw a breath in this world on her own.  Our only surviving images of her are with tubing and machines keeping her alive.  My last memory is of holding a sick infant as she passed from life support to life eternal—and being powerless to keep her safe in my arms.  

One of our few photos of Hope Marie.

This image haunts me even today. Though my faith compels me to believe that she is safe in the arms of one far greater than I and that some day we will be together again, there can be no denying that the separation has been hard.  

I suppose in some ways the fact that Hope “remains an infant in my mind” is good.  It allows Becca to “grow apart” from shadow of tragedy that surrounds her birth.  But even this grace is laced with tears, for we can never experience a milestone for Becca (e.g., birthdays, school accomplishment) without thinking of the one not here to live it—it is inevitable. While we live out our days and sometimes go a while without thinking about it, there are moments when all of us—even Becca—become acutely aware of how much we miss Hope and how much we all miss because she is not with us. Every time I see a set of twins somewhere I am reminded of the one that is not with me.  Though most people can’t see it, there will always be a missing space in the Ward family photo.

When Hope died we knew we had to make a choice about how we would live.  Would we let tragedy make us better or bitter?  From very early on, we determined to focus on living.  I think it’s actually a series of little choices we’ve made.  At first it was very hard, but with time it becomes easier.  I can’t say that bitter has never won the day, but I hope better is emerging over the long haul.  I left that hospital a different person because of what I lived through those three days.  I’ve spent the past six years trying to figure out exactly what that change means for me.

While six years later, I can say that I have healed and I can even point to good that has come from some of what we lived through, I suppose if I lived 1000 years, I would never forget the events of May 2-4, 2008—I don’t think I’m supposed to. 

Our story testifies, that by God’s grace, even an awful circumstance can become an instrument for good.  I trust in the truth of Scripture: While mourning may last for a night, rejoicing comes in the morning.  

Sometimes the night may seem as if it will never end, sometimes the sun stays hidden for days, but we cling to the promise that even in the darkest night, the Son always shines.  There will be a day when the clouds part and all darkness and sorrow will be gone—forever.  In the meantime, we try and live our days in anticipation of that “morning” that is coming. 

From early on Becca’s life has been resurrection for us; her presence forced us to focus on life in those early days after Hope died, and every day since her strong and free spirit has been a beacon of God’s light and life in our lives, continuing to give us glimpses of that coming day when all things will be set free to “dance” to the music their original created glory.  So while we cannot NOT remember Hope today, our focus is on celebrating the life of Rebecca May. 

It is an awesome responsibility to be responsible for shaping young lives, one that I do not take lightly and cannot hope to fulfill alone.  (I think the feeling is more acute when you have lost a child as we have.)  I work together with my wife, my partner on life’s journey, and we both rely on God to guide us as we raise our children.  The good news is that the responsibility comes along with the great privilege of watching our children grow up.   I am so thankful for days like today when we celebrate their lives. From the moment she was born, Becca has taught me much about fatherhood and I presume that “education” will continue for both of us as we “grow up” together.  

I am forever grateful to God for the gift of Rebecca May Ward.

A Poinsettia That Endures

Believe it or not, I still have a Poinsettia plant blooming at my house. It certainly has lost some of its luster along the way; it looks a bit haggard after nearly four months and will eventually succumb to higher sun angles.  However, unlike the vast majority of Poinsettias that faded weeks, if not days, after Christmas, as of today, mine is still hanging in there.

This Poinsettia has made it all the way to Holy Week!

We often use the term Poinsettia (or Easter Lily) to refer to those who show up at church for Christmas (or Easter) but then disappear about as fast as the flowers that adorn the sanctuary on those special days.  However, the Poinsettia at my kitchen evoked a different image in my mind this morning—one of endurance and perseverance.

We leave the manger in Bethlehem on Christmas Eve feeling upbeat and full of energy and life.  The birth story inspires us, but the ensuing weeks put us to the test. The journey descends into Lent,culminating in Jerusalem with Holy Week. We are asked to follow Jesus into darkness and suffering. It is not a journey for the feint of heart; our true character is revealed.  

In many ways, the liturgical journey we take with Jesus parallels our life’s journey.  It isn’t all that long chronologically (the 116 days between Christmas and Easter this year is actually one of the longer ones possible), but we all know that a great deal of living can happen in the span of a few months.  No doubt we could all name some difficulty, hardship, or suffering we have had to endure since Christmas, something that has tested us during the past few months—whether it be physical, emotional, and/or spiritual. 

As we walk through Holy Week and the cross comes into view, we probably feel a bit like that haggard and faded Poinsettia in my kitchen.  Yes, we made it to Jerusalem—but our bloom isn’t as bright as it was four months ago and our leaves are torn and worn.  It’s a good thing Easter is near, for we surely stand in need of resurrection!

If you feel that way as you reach the end of Holy Week, take heart; know that you aren’t alone.  There are other companions on your journey who are also tired and leaning heavily on Jesus.  Each in our own way, we are all faded Poinsettias hanging in there waiting to experience the beauty of the Easter Lilies.  Walking the journey from Christmas to Easter has taken its toll on all of us, yet there is something we gain in enduring and persevering through difficulty and hardship and choosing to remain faithful—and hopeful—that forms us in a way that nothing else can. 

It’s only as we pass through the darkness, and endure suffering that reaches its nadir at the cross, that we are truly prepared to receive the light shining from the empty tomb and the hope that dawns on Easter morning.

Walking My Way Toward Jerusalem

My Lenten practice this year has been to try and cultivate more joy.  It hasn’t been easy—but maybe that’s not a bad thing as it implies God has to help me do it.  The Lenten/Easter season is always busy for our clergy family; this year is no exception. There's so much to balance with jobs, kids, animals, church activities, etc. I get frustrated because it seems like by the time you finish running around completing the endless list of tasks each day, there's precious little time—and energy—left to pursue one’s passions and dreams.  

I ask God to help me focus less on the task and more on the people, but I’m a task-oriented person and I admit that I struggle to do it.  Experiencing joy in the midst of our seemingly endless to-do list is hard.

Reading the Gospels (especially Mark) I get the sense that Jesus was focused on his task too.  From the moment he descended from the Mount of Transfiguration, his eyes seem fixed on Jerusalem.  While the disciples faltered along the way, Jesus did not. He didn't let his follower’s questions and doubts distract him from his mission. Jesus came to advance the Kingdom of God, which meant he would have to challenge the “normal” order of things.  He knew that would require a trip to Jerusalem—the home of the Jewish Temple and local seat of Roman authority.

By remaining faithful to his calling, by seeing the journey all the way through to Jerusalem and having Rome do their worst, and appear to "win" on Good Friday, Jesus sets the stage for God’s ultimate victory on Easter Sunday.  

Jesus died the way he lived—sacrificially. He becomes an innocent victim of crucifixion, and exposes the "broken" and corrupt Roman system in a way that he couldn't if he had lived a long life or even suffered a less violent death. [See Colossians 2:14-15.]

In the end, even Rome's worse can't overcome God's best.

As we approach the end of our Lenten journey and the city of Jerusalem comes into view with cheering crowds and palms lining the parade route, I wonder: Will I see my journey through to the end—no matter what?  

While the things I do each day aren't nearly as dramatic as dying on a cross, there is something to be said for the sacrifice of "being there".  My choice to marry and have two children commits me to walk a certain way at this time of my life.  For me, faithfulness is found in my willingness to "be there" each day for my wife and family and do what is required at this time in my life.  My sacrifice may be in willingly choosing to lay aside (at least for now) things I would dearly like to have more time to pursue so I can pour my time and energy into those I love.  (I assure you, this "feels like dying" sometimes.)  The fact is, however, though it is certainly a temporary sacrifice, it is not forever; Lord willing there will be plenty of time to focus on me.  My children, on the other hand, will only be with me a few brief years; my opportunity to influence their direction in life is fleeting.  

There is no higher calling as a parent than to try and shape the lives of our children. I don't want to miss the window God has given me to be a positive influence on these young lives; I will never have this chance again.  

Puppy Love

Several weeks ago, Prisca, our beloved dog of nearly 18 years passed away.  Prisca was my wife’s companion all through her ministry.  We joke that, "she had the dog long before she had the husband," so losing Prisca has been especially hard on Laurie. 

Both my wife are "dog people;" we each grew up with dogs in our home.  However, we had been providing what amounted to hospice care for an old animal for quite a while and I have to admit I was enjoying being free of that responsibility for a while. Initially, we both agreed that we would wait a while before getting another animal, but then, about two weeks after Prisca died, my wife came to me and said she wanted a new dog—maybe even two. At first, I said, "No."  I don't think it was because I didn't want canine companionship, it was more about not wanting to "pay the cost" to love another dog—and I mean more than financial cost. 

If we want to love someone or something, it will cost us.  We must intentionally choose to move beyond our current comfortable position and extend ourselves toward the object of our affection. 

I tend to be someone who gets so focused on all the “costs” required to love (e.g., in this case: the adoption fee, the vet visits, the walks, the feeding, the cleaning up after) that I lose out on the opportunity to give and receive love.  I’m not proud to admit it,  but sometimes I think I just decide it's too much of a hassle to love. 

After my initial resistance, my wife challenged me to look beyond the task and open my heart to the possibility of loving another dog.  (This is why I like having her in my life. J) As the week wore on and we kept looking at pictures of dogs in need of a home at the local rescue shelter on the Internet, I felt my heart began to soften.  The following Saturday morning, my daughter wasn’t feeling well, so I stayed home while my wife and son visited some dogs. (As it happened, Dogfest was taking place in our neighborhood this weekend!)  By the time I visited later in the day, they had been adopted.  We took it as a sign we weren’t supposed to adopt yet.  But then came Saturday afternoon; there were a couple of other dogs we liked still available.  So we loaded the family in the car, fought through traffic, and overcame navigational challenges to finally reach our destination: PetCo in Alexandria, VA.  That's where I met Lily and my heart melted.  The problem was the rest of the family felt a similar pull toward Sweetie.

A sentence from the Beloved on-line Lenten devotion on March 10 struck me in light of our canine conundrum:  Opening our heart is always risky, for we cannot open it without being changed. In the face of this, we might well ask, Do I really want this? Opening our heart is never just about the opening. It is about being willing to have our heart become larger as we make room for people [and creatures] and stories and experiences we never imagined holding.

As we wrestled with our choice about whether or not to adopt a new dog, I think it came down to: Are we ready to open our heart to another dog—and all the responsibility that decision entails.  We could say it as my devotion did—Do we really want this?  We didn’t necessarily plan for any new animals so soon, and now here we were with two that we couldn’t (and maybe didn’t want to?) decide between.

So what did we decide?  Well, they say a picture is worth 1000 words, so...  

Meet Lily (lab mix) AND Sweetie (terrier mix), two rescue dogs that we welcomed to our family recently. What a test in loving unconditionally this will be for us…  but what an opportunity for joy.

They seem to be settling in to life in our house!  You'd think they were sisters or something.