I held two long-standing dreams for my 40th birthday.

• Run a marathon
• Take a mission trip to Haiti with my husband

Run a Marathon

I was going to run Grandma’s Marathon in June 2016 or Twin Cities Marathon in October 2016. The dream to run a marathon for my 40th was serious and alive for a few good years until the rubber hit the road and I realized I’d need to actually sign up and start training. When I reminded my husband that this was a goal for my 40th and told him we were approaching the time I’d need to commit, he reminded me that my plate is full, that training for a marathon was super intense, and that I also have a book writing goal, so perhaps it would be better to spend time focusing my efforts on that dream instead.

He was right. His logic made sense. I made a cold and fast decision to drop my dream of running a marathon for my 40th birthday.

Take a Mission Trip to Haiti with My Husband

My husband and I were going to Haiti to visit our sponsored children through Compassion International. Better yet? We were going to Haiti to visit our three sponsored children there, then fly over to Dominican Republic to visit our sponsored child there. It was an idyllic 40th birthday plan in my book. My husband would meet all four of our sponsored children in one week, and we’d plan some sun time for the Dominican side so my husband could get the R&R he needed. I wanted us to take our first mission trip as a married couple. I wanted my husband to see me in my happy place. I wanted him to KNOW that very best part of me. I wanted him to understand why I can’t shake my trips to Haiti, Dominican and Kenya. My dream to make this trip for my 40th was serious and alive for TWO years until the rubber hit the road and I realized we’d need to actually book the trip and start planning all the details.

We had big conversations.

For a period of three or four weeks, it was official! We were planning a Haiti/Dominican trip for my 40th, sometime in the second half of 2016.

But things didn’t feel right. I knew my husband didn’t really want to go to Haiti, and was just agreeing to please me. I didn’t want this to be a check-it-off-the-list experience. I love Haiti. I love it so much I can barely contain my tears writing these sentences. But I also love Kenya. I love it so much that I’d go back today, in a heartbeat if I could. Having said that, I know my heart and I know my current reality. It isn’t realistic to keep both Haiti AND Kenya active and open in my heart during this season of life with three children, ages 13, 11 and 4, at home. I’d consider myself ridiculously blessed if I was able to take ONE mission trip a year until our two oldest graduate from high school. But that once-a-year-dream isn’t realistic. If I returned to Haiti, I’d open my heart up wide all over again, and would want to go back for a third visit. But then there’s Kenya. If I went to Haiti for my 40th in 2016, that would mean Kenya would have to hold off until 2017, more likely 2018. Could my heart bear the weight of that possibility?

I prayed. I thought about it. I knew what was safest for my heart and the best decision given my current reality, finances, life as a mom of three, and wife of a husband who’s crazy busy with work. One late night after the kids were in bed, I requested time with my husband and told him straight up, “We’re not going to Haiti for my 40th.”

I drew Haiti a beautiful little circle on our bed sheets with my finger, surrendered the final 40th birthday dream, and left it there with God. I never said I was surrendering Haiti for good. I’m surrendering it for now.

With tears and Haiti in a bed sheet circle, that left my heart open and committed to Kenya, and Kenya only. For now. For this season. If God sees fit to open the circle for Kenya AND Haiti someday, I won’t be surprised. In my heart of hearts, I see both. But for now, one. Kenya.

And with that, both of my 40th birthday dreams died.

Four to six weeks later, we found out that my dad was approved for a lung transplant. If everything goes as planned, he will be placed on the national lung transplant registry by mid-July, just days after my 40th birthday. My mom is first in care for my dad. But my mom is also first in care for my sister who has schizoaffective disorder – bipolar type; she has two children and lives two blocks from my parents. Since I’m oldest in my family of origin, that leaves me second in care for my dad while he’s going through the transplant, and first in back-up care for my sister and her two children while my dad and mom are going through the transplant.

My husband has an intense corporate job that often requires longer-than-normal work days, occasional work on nights and weekends, and regularly takes him away on business travel.

I’m home this summer with three children. It’s only my second summer home full-time since I became a mom nearly 14 years ago. Our youngest starts kindergarten in 14 months.

I’ve written and thoroughly edited TWO children’s book manuscripts, and have a third roughly drafted. I need to write the series proposal and get it in the hands of a literary agent. After that, I’d like to tackle an adult nonfiction proposal.

I’m EIGHT pounds over my most comfortable weight, and haven’t been able to get the weight off since it first started piling on in January 2015 after my husband’s eye cancer diagnosis. I’m wearing capri leggings every day this summer because I only fit into one of my size 8 drawer full of shorts. And my well went dry last weekend because I haven’t had enough time to replenish my soul these past seven weeks.

The Lord is so wise and graceful with his gifts.

He knows what we need and when we need it.

40-some days ago when I realized my 40th birthday was approaching, my emotions got the best of me. No marathon. No trip to Haiti with my husband. No marking of this momentous occasion. 40 is big to me. If you know me well, you know I’ve been looking forward to 40 forever. I wanted to do something big for my 40th, something special, something to honor who I am and how I want to live the second half of life.

I wondered if there was a way to still pull something off that resonated with my soul. Perhaps a Facebook campaign – 44 days to my 40th birthday – in which I’d collect 440 pair of new underwear for boys and girls at the orphanage in Kenya? Perhaps a party in which we could raise funds for a set of swings and slides for the children at the orphanage?

Creating a new dream out of nowhere was crazy, impossible and possibly stupid. I had a little meltdown on my bed, then headed to the gym with my 4 year old. As I pulled into a parking spot, I looked down at my phone and noticed an email had arrived from wise counsel, someone who has taken at least EIGHT hours solid just listening to me. I hadn’t communicated with this person for a couple months, so she had no reason to communicate with me that morning besides this perfectly-timed gem.

Be Still

You do not have to look for anything, just look.

You do not have to listen for specific sounds, just listen.

You do not have to accomplish anything, just be.

And in the looking, and the listening, and the being; find Me.

Ann Lewin in Celtic Daily Prayer, Book Two, p 1483

Tears. Just tears.

The timing of the email was impeccable. God was clearly speaking. I didn’t have to do anything momentous or incredibly special for my 40th birthday. I didn’t have to find a way to celebrate and express the unique heart He’s given me for life. I didn’t have to prove to anyone except myself and God that I’m heading into this second half of life with passion, fervor, grace and an open heart for whatever He has planned for me.

I don’t have to work for the world anymore.

His dreams are greater than mine.

His plans are greater than my plans.

He needed me to know this.

My job from here on out is to look, listen, be, and seek Him first.

I know I’ll run a marathon someday.

I know I’ll return to Haiti someday.

I know I’ll return to Kenya.

I pray I’ll go on a mission trip with my husband someday.

I know, without a doubt, that I’m going to keep working on those books.

I know I’m home for a reason, for this season, to help my family.

I know I need to take care of myself.

I know God’s timing is perfect.

I know His gifts are good.

I surrendered two 40th birthday dreams. But God’s filling in the gaps with gifts aplenty.

Time at home with my children this summer.

Time at home so our family has a sense of stability.

Knowing and understanding my husband so our marriage can survive and thrive.

Helping my parents with the CaringBridge and Facebook pages set up for my dad’s upcoming lung transplant.

Being available to help my parents when my dad gets called for the lung transplant.

Being available to help my sister and her two children.

Becoming a Facebook page administrator for the nonprofit, Love For Kenya, with whom I traveled last fall.

A photography partnership with a nonprofit that celebrates babies with Down syndrome.

A divine encounter with the president of MN Teen Challenge who confirmed that my idea would be an “incredible ministry.”

Joining a private writing community on Facebook.

“Yes” to an intense, three-day writing workshop in November 2016.

Two 5Ks instead of that marathon.

A compass from day camp with a message from my four year old. “If you don’t remember where you’re going, then you have that to remember. Okay?”

A perfect ending to the last night I could call myself “39” without lying, including a senior photo shoot, three end-of-season clearance outfits at my favorite store White House Black Market (so I don’t have to wear capri leggings every day this summer), and a beautifully-painted sunset to top it all off.

God’s gifts are good.

He knows what I need.

I’m 40 today.

I’m ready.

Bring it, 40, whatever you look like.

It’s a great honor to introduce you to Dawn who’s sharing her unique journey through motherhood as part of our month-long guest post series, Special Mamas. Dawn’s daughter, Taryn, has a rare genetic abnormality which has resulted in severe neurological issues, severe intellectual/developmental disabilities, neuromuscular issues, G.I. issues, common variable immune deficiency, vision issues, and cardiac concerns. Dawn is a strong mama with a big, tender heart. She loves her daughter mightily and has fought to the ends of the earth advocating on her behalf. Dawn hopes that she is “a good enough mom for this precious girl.” I don’t know Dawn, but I can tell you with certainty that when I received this photograph of her with Taryn, I was convinced from the warmth in her eyes and her calm, but confident demeanor, that this is one amazing, incredible woman, one amazing, incredible mama. This is the first time Dawn is telling her story in written form. Thank you, Dawn, for sharing with us. May you be blessed in the sharing. 

Every year, Mother’s Day affects me differently. Some years I embrace the celebration and I love to do all the traditional things – brunch and time together with extended family (mainly my husband’s side) – and other times I struggle with the whole idea and just want low key and no pressure. I think it comes from the fact that I don’t have my own Mom to celebrate, or even the memories of a loving relationship with a Mom to reflect back on. As Mom to my beautiful daughter, Taryn, who has so many complicated medical conditions and intellectual delays, the rollercoaster we are on literally takes me up and down day after day. This year has been a hard year, and I find myself not wanting to celebrate much.

When my husband and I were ready to start a family, I felt excited at embracing the idea of being a Mom, and hopefully to be a more loving and caring one than I had. Our journey took quite a turn though. At 26 weeks gestation, we learned during the ultrasound that our baby was extremely small, had several heart defects and some sort of mass in her abdomen. I was also surprised to learn I had begun preterm labor which resulted in many visits to the ER, a lot of terbutaline shots to stop the labor and eventually an admission to the hospital at 34 weeks for complete bed rest and an emergency delivery at 35 weeks. I realize what a whirlwind it was between the time we found out about our baby’s issues in utero to the delivery that I think I was numb throughout that whole time. I’m not really sure I ever had a chance to process what was happening or what we were about to have before us.

Taryn Joy, our beautiful 3 pound 12 ounce bundle of Joy was here! Due to Taryn’s medical needs, she was assessed in the OR and I was able to see her for just a moment before they took her straight to the NICU. I had already made Chris promise to go with her so he could be there with her and of course report every single detail back to me. Once I was moved to recovery, it felt like forever before Chris returned with the Neonatologist for an update. Taryn was doing well, but they were waiting and watching a lot so we would know more as time went on. My room was three floors down from the NICU and the next morning I was so impatient to get up and see her. I hadn’t even had a chance to hold her yet and it felt like so much might have happened overnight. When I finally got up there, there was a moment of pause. She was so tiny and she had all these tubes and wires, I had no idea how to even pick her up or hold her. When the nurse got her out of the isolette and laid her in my arms for the first time, I felt love I never knew before. Having to learn how to feed her and do the temperature, weight, and diaper change became my new normal every three hours for the next few weeks. We were so thankful that her heart defects did not present as significant of an issue as they had expected, and no open heart surgery was needed. We were mainly focused on her feeding and gaining weight. After spending five weeks in the NICU, we were finally able to bring her home. Little did I know how scary and real it would soon become.

Without monitors to tell me she was ok, I found myself panicked all the time if she was breathing, if she was eating ok, if she was eating enough, if I was able to care for this tiny little person. I also realized how alone I felt. Sure, Chris was amazing. But this is the time new moms have their moms to turn to for advice, support or even just reassurance, and without that someone to turn to I began to doubt if I could be the mom this baby needed. Nobody showed me how to do this, how to be a Mom, much less a Mom to a baby who needs even more love and care than we were expecting. All the books I read throughout my pregnancy did not cover this scenario. This is where I had to turn to Faith and I had to work on my belief that I was given this child because I could do this, or at the very least I could learn how to do this.

I was so grateful I was able to be a stay at home mom because soon our lives became dictated by doctors’ appointments, therapies and surgeries. The first few years we focused on trying to address her medical needs all the while giving her the early interventions to get her development on track. We were heartbroken when it became clear her development was not catching up. We soon learned that there were more issues with Taryn’s brain structure and that her cognitive and developmental outlook were now in question. We intensified her physical therapy, occupational therapy and speech therapy, hoping we could help her learn whatever skills are possible. Despite the struggles, Taryn managed to surprise us along the way and we seized every opportunity to celebrate her achievements – her first steps at age three, trick or treating with neighborhood families and Taryn using a switch device to say “trick or treat,” to her having an augmentative communication device to make choices. When we think about how much is working against her medically, to see her grow, even if it’s small at times, is the Joy that reminds us of the beauty this child brings to the world.

As Taryn grew, we learned that her medical conditions were far greater than we ever could have imagined. We found that Taryn has a rare genetic abnormality which has resulted in severe neurological issues including epilepsy, severe intellectual/developmental disabilities, neuromuscular issues, G.I. issues, common variable immune deficiency, vision issues, and cardiac concerns. We balance visits among 13 doctors, immunoglobulin IV treatments every 3 weeks, several major surgeries and more questions than answers. I have had to learn how to be a strong advocate for her, learning how to talk with medical professionals, navigate insurance companies, manage many medications, find the right school environment, all while trying to make sure I appreciate each precious moment and that in addition to being her caregiver, that I can also just be her Mom. Taryn will need full-time caregiving each and every day for the rest of her life, so we are constantly adjusting our world and life to ensure her needs are met and she has the best life possible.

When I sat down to write this post, it made me take a pause and realize just how much this beautiful angel has tapped into a part of my heart and soul I didn’t realize was there. Her laughter and the love she shows inspires and grows my heart day after day, and without question there is nothing I wouldn’t do for her. There is something so incredibly powerful about her ability to communicate without words. Her touch, her smile, and her beautiful eyes say so much.

I am often told that from the outside, I look like I have this all down and that I make this look easy. I think sometimes that makes it hard for those on the outside to really understand just how hard and challenging our world is. Most of the time I love that I am someone people count on to get things done, to organize everything and who can help problem solve, but sometimes, some days, I just can’t. It’s hard to feel warm and fuzzy all the time when you know in reality that given all the medical conditions my daughter faces, I will most likely have to say goodbye to her. With every new medical problem, that reality comes full force at me and I am reminded every day of the fragility before me. Each day I have to work so hard internally to put forth a strong, happy and resilient front so that we can continue to tackle the hardships before us, while also taking each and every moment of joy and grace that Taryn gives us. Let me just say how exhausting it is to constantly be switching between fear, sadness, anger, joy, gratitude and love every hour of every day. I struggle with having Faith that whatever God’s plan is, that it will be ok. I struggle with understanding how my own mother couldn’t find a love in me like I have with Taryn. And every day I hope that I am a good enough Mom for this precious girl.

But then, like I have most of my life, I pick myself up and I use my hurt, anger, fear and LOVE to drive me to do everything I can for Taryn. Because the truth is, Taryn has given me more in her 11 years than I ever could have imagined. She has given me purpose, taught me a level of patience and perseverance I had no idea I possessed, and opened my heart and soul up to a love I have never experienced. I watch her struggle every day to do basic functions and adapt because there are a lot of functions she cannot do. She endures pain beyond what we can imagine, and more medical interventions than most people do in ten lifetimes. Yet she is so happy and loving and she touches those around her in so many ways. I am constantly in awe of her. I truly am grateful to have her and for every moment, the good and the hard. My husband has been a huge blessing and support in his unwavering commitment to our family, his love for Taryn; his Faith is what I turn to in order to draw strength and comfort. I often wonder if God knew I needed Taryn more than she perhaps needed me, and I try to hold on to that feeling when I am faced with the worry of a life without Taryn.

So this Mothers Day, I relished in Taryn’s giggles, savored the hugs and kisses and embraced the rare day of calm.

This post is part of a month-long guest post series titled Special Mamas. The series runs all May and is in honor of moms who have unique journeys to and through motherhood. To read all 10 posts in the Special Mamas series, CLICK HERE and you’ll be directed to the introductory post. There, you’ll find all guest posts listed and linked for easy reading!

It’s an honor to introduce you to Lisa who’s sharing her unique journey through motherhood as part of our month-long guest post series, Special Mamas. Lisa is a mom to three boys. Her oldest son, Micah, was born with a rare metabolic disorder. As you can imagine, it’s incredibly challenging to communicate a life-changing medical diagnosis in one short blog post. So today, Lisa’s journeying back to Micah’s infancy, recalling the earliest of days when he nearly lost his life. Lisa met the challenge with an incredibly intimate, honest and hopeful post. Soak it all in and send Lisa a special word of encouragement for her unique journey through motherhood.

My husband almost shouted at the lady behind the glass window. She stared back, deadfaced, then chomped her gum. “It will be at least thirty minutes.”

It was the third time we had received that same answer. Somewhere behind that door to the right was our six-day-old son who had just arrived by helicopter. I’ve always heard that giving birth is the hardest thing I’ll ever do. I believed it until I stood outside the ER and watched him being put onto that helicopter. Watched it take off without me.

Sometime later a solemn nurse led us back to his room. There were tubes and wires everywhere around his bed. A doctor, with an accent almost unintelligible, mumbled facts about a condition we had never heard of and we weren’t sure he had either. He handed us a stack of papers and left; we never saw him again. That same solemn nurse told us, fumbling for words, that Micah wasn’t doing well. I wanted to scream at her, Tell me something I don’t know. Can’t you do anything?

I sat in the rocking chair and stared at his bed. There was no offer to help us hold him and what little I knew of motherhood seemed ripped away by this unexpected day. It wasn’t a family-friendly hospital: we couldn’t just stay in his room and breathe the same air as our baby. They closed down the unit when they did surgeries or brought new children in and parents had to leave.

I could walk you to where I was sitting in the waiting room when my parents arrived. They had left work as soon as Justin called them and driven the four hours to the hospital. My dad hugged me and we sat and waited while Justin went for some food. I think he needed the fresh air and space more than the chicken.

The main hallway marched through that floor of the hospital and intersected with a perpendicular section where one side led to the doors of the NICU and the other side had parent rooms and a bathroom. While I stood in that dull hallway trying to resign myself to my baby dying, a family with a little girl pushed a new mom in a wheelchair through the main hallway in front of me. I had already figured out that you didn’t want to ask about anyone else’s story; you didn’t have enough emotional energy to carry that too.

I pretended to sleep that night in a tiny, uncomfortable bed. Some stuff, most of which I didn’t need, was spilling out of a suitcase in the corner. We had gone home and packed a suitcase before we had followed the helicopter up the interstate. We had touched all the baby things in our apartment wondering if we would still need them. We even debated making a Facebook post to notify friends and family. We didn’t because we realized we didn’t know what to say. In that crowded room with faded carpet I relived the day’s events and tried to surrender my baby to God. The night dragged on but the sun finally rose and I could see out the window, across a roof, and into the pharmacy where employees were changing shifts.

That morning was a lot like the previous afternoon except they had intubated Micah during the night. One more tube snaked its way into my little boy’s body in an effort to keep him alive. Around lunchtime I sat in a booth at Fazoli’s and stared across the parking lot at a maze of flowers that decorated the front of a nursery. It was beautiful, full of life and spring, and I felt like I was dying inside. My food sat untouched except for a few bites that I ate to appease Justin.

After we visited Micah for a while I was standing in the back hallway of the NICU when a door opened and I realized that same mama with the little girl was holding her new baby while the little girl danced around. They had unplugged the baby to let the mom hold him while he died. I cried for her, my heart splintering, while I wondered if that was in my future.

A new resident came on shift and asked us to sign paperwork for a transfer to another children’s hospital. “There’s nothing we can do here except wait and see what happens. It won’t be good.” We signed the paperwork and sat with our pastor and his wife while they made the arrangements. When I stepped out for some water Justin told them how small the chances were that Micah was going to live. A nurse came and told us we could go see Micah before they prepared him for transport. The unit was closed because of a surgery but his chance of survival was so small they took us in the back way to see him one more time.

I stood and stared at my baby in that bed. Tubes covered him; he was so puffy from fluids that he didn’t even look like the child I given birth to less than a week earlier. I sobbed into my husband’s chest and realized I wasn’t the only one crying. The resident who had arranged for the transport stood in the corner of the room with tears running down her face.

As they prepped him for the move and started transport we walked through the parking garage for the last time. They listed him as ‘unstable and nonresponsive’ and we strapped on our seat belts. That morning we had paid for a week’s worth of parking not knowing we would be leaving four hours later. We drove down the interstate. Somewhere in front of us our child was surrounded by strangers and dying.

Micah has Isovaleric Acidemia, a rare metabolic disorder which causes the body to be unable to break down the essential amino acid leucine. Thanks to the work of the talented staff at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital he did survive his metabolic crisis. We spent an agonizing month in the hospital with him as they performed a risky dialysis procedure to remove toxins from his bloodstreams and then allow his body to adjust to taking in food on a controlled diet again.

Anyone who has been in the NICU knows it’s a rollercoaster of emotions, a seesaw of good news and bad news. Right before we were scheduled to be released he developed pyloric stenosis and we stayed another two weeks for diagnosis and surgery when they also placed a g-tube. (A g-tube is a feeding line that is inserted directly into the stomach through the abdomen.) It was originally intended only for emergencies but he refused to drink his medical formula until he was over a year old and I fed him through his g-tube most of the time. It was a blessing and a nightmare.

We visited the ER several times a year because of g-tube complications until he was almost five and it was taken out. It came out frequently and if we found it immediately we could replace it ourselves but a g-tube tract closes quickly and we needed medical assistance if it had been out for more than an hour. More than once, we have stood in the ER and explained to a doctor how to insert a new g-tube. We actually had one doctor refuse to replace it because he had no experience with pediatric g-tubes.

Because Isovaleric Acidemia is so rare, we know more about it than any doctors we see besides metabolic specialists. We have learned to advocate for Micah’s care because his disease is so hidden. Twice this year he has been hospitalized for complications of contracting a stomach bug. Our local hospital has been amazing dealing with us but we have had to explain the urgency of getting him treatment, which can be difficult when you arrive at the ER with a five-year-old who has thrown up three times. However a phone call from a specialist at a children’s hospital helps. Thankfully the same physician’s assistant has seen him almost every time we’ve been to the ER so we haven’t had to start at square one very often.

Micah turned six in April 2016 and one of the biggest challenges we have faced in dealing with Micah’s IVA has been not making it his “thing” yet taking it seriously. I don’t want him to use IVA as his excuse or see it as his defining characteristic. He drinks a medical formula and eats a low-protein diet as treatment of his IVA (because the amino acid leucine poisons his body in large amounts). While I count his protein now we will be starting to teach him how to manage his own diet. There are a lot of things he can’t eat – meat, dairy, and other high-protein foods – but he loves the foods he can have.

God has blessed our family with amazing people to help us care for Micah. About a year ago, my husband looked up that resident who arranged to have Micah transferred to Cincinnati Children’s and called her to thank her. She remembered Micah and said she often wondered what happened. She was thrilled to hear he was doing so well.

Lisa Hensley is a writer and podcaster who dabbles in other creative pursuits. She and her husband have three boys and live in small-town Kentucky. Her online space encourages women to know Christ and embrace their work. You can find her at her blog www.lisahensley.me/blog/, on Instagram at instagram.com/delighting_days, Twitter at twitter.com/delighting_days, and Facebook at facebook.com/delightingdays.

This post is part of a month-long guest post series titled Special Mamas. The series runs all May and is in honor of moms who have unique journeys to and through motherhood. To read all 10 posts in the Special Mamas series, CLICK HERE and you’ll be directed to the introductory post. There, you’ll find all guest posts listed and linked for easy reading!

As I drove east that Friday morning, I couldn’t keep my eyes off the sky.

There it was.

A big “A” painted across the golden sunrise.

Perhaps it’s narcissistic to believe in a God who paints initials in the sky. Perhaps I’m a dreamer. Perhaps I’m desperate, seeking signs anywhere, anyhow.

Perhaps God moves mountains, levels valleys and paints the sky to show his love afresh and mercies new. He’s behind us. He’s with us. He’s for us. In and through it all.

My “A” faded as the spring sun rose higher and higher in the sky.

As I made my way further east and closer to the University of Minnesota, it occurred to me that it wasn’t just ANY Friday, it was GOOD Friday.

Good Friday, the Friday Christians mark as the day Jesus died on the cross to save humanity.

Good Friday, the Friday I happened to be joining my parents for one final day of appointments that ultimately determined my dad’s candidacy for a lung transplant.

For the most part, we don’t get to choose our hardships, our struggles, our burdens here on earth. They’re offered to us as an opportunity to draw closer to God, our Heavenly Father. Whether we like it or not, whether we accept it or not, His goal is to develop a relationship with us. He loves us, and will literally bend over backwards to draw us in, nearer to Him, this way or that way, whichever way He deems fit.

Sometimes it’s beautiful.

Sometimes it’s painful.

Always, it’s for our greater good.

For God works ALL things together for those who love Him.

Rain or shine.

Sunrise or sunset.

Seen or unseen.

He’s working. Rest assured.

I parked.

Got turned around on my way down.

Came out the wrong side of the parking ramp.

But I wasn’t late.

My parents were waiting on first. I passed them unknowingly and went straight to third. A few texts and a couple redirects from the happy, shiny, high-tech medical people holding iPads for check-in, and we were united on third, right where we needed to be for appointments one, two, three and four on this good, Good Friday.

Appointment 1: We sat at a long, rectangular table with Amy, the respiratory therapist. There was my dad with his oxygen, my mom and me. Then there was another lung transplant candidate on oxygen, and his sister. My dad and the other candidate shared their stories. We talked about exercise, “prehab” and rehab and how they’re supposed to get 30 minutes of exercise 4-6 times a week even though their lungs are failing, they’re on oxygen and they can barely walk down the driveway or take a shower without losing their breath. We talked about all the respiratory rehab they’d need post-lung transplant. Amy demonstrated a bunch of exercises they could do between now and transplant. She was energetic, and I could tell she’s great at her job. I know my dad is active and faithful to get as much exercise as he can, both now and post-transplant, so I’m not worried about that at all. It was good and hopeful. But if I’m completely honest, the contrast between this and my Africa mission four months prior, was stark. Africa and Lung Transplants. Night and day mission fields. (Or maybe not?) I don’t appreciate this mission field nearly as much as Africa, God. I don’t really want to be here. I don’t really want my dad to NEED a lung transplant. But here we are. Here I am. I will serve with all my heart.

Appointment 2: We sat at a small, kidney-shaped table. Just me, my mom, my dad and the lung transplant team’s dietician. I’m sorry, I don’t remember her name now, but just to give you an idea she was 32, smart, lovely and also clearly skilled at her job. We reviewed numbers, data gathered from blood draws earlier in the week. Everything looked good. She got out a 4-page brochure for review. Rest assured, we’ll get the big binder of dietary suggestions and requirements when we’re in the hospital, post-transplant. NO cold deli meat post transplant; must be fully steamed prior to consumption. High-potassium foods may be restricted. Absolutely NO seafood for at least one month post-transplant; it’s deadly for lung transplant patients. Food safety is of the utmost importance. And NO ALCOHOL post-transplant. Ever. For the rest of your life. Never. Ever. Oh boy, my dad’s pre-dinner rum and Diet Coke enjoyments are in jeopardy. He wasn’t too happy about that, but we joked and had fun. Even still.

Appointment 3: We sat at a round table. Just me, my dad, my mom, a transplant social worker sitting in, and my dad’s transplant social worker, Liz. Let’s just put this out there. Liz was amazing. Lia IZ is amazing. LOVED the woman. ADORED. We talked for a long, long time, completing a case history, a current life status, or something of the sort. We talked about everything from my dad’s lung disease diagnosis of hypersensitivity pneumonitis, to past and current work, hobbies, things my dad can no longer do because of his lung disease, and things my dad would like to be able to do to after his lung transplant. We talked about my sister who has a diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder – bipolar type, and her two young children; I assured the social worker that I think she will RISE to the occasion when my dad gets his transplant, and be able to manage without the usual level of support she receives from my parents. It was Good Friday, after all. We must believe in RISING to any occasion, otherwise what’s the use of hope? Did I mention Liz was amazing and that we talked about a million things? Let’s just say there were some reminders about that “no alcohol ever again in your life” rule. The way Liz looked at my dad when we were talking about the alcohol situation – the way she whole-heartedly understood that his rum and Coke is a simple life pleasure here and there before dinner – was priceless. She got it. She understood. She reminded him he’ll have to find some other simple pleasure to replace the rum and coke after golfing with the boys. And that’s when I could have lost it if I hadn’t a grip on my emotions. Liz with her head tilted, eyes glistening, smiling at my dad sweetly, assuring him he’ll indeed, find another simple pleasure. God knew we needed more than simple earthly pleasures. Good Friday, indeed.

Appointment 4: My mom and dad sat on one side of a small, rectangular table. Me and Diane, my dad’s transplant coordinator on the other side. We stared at a big screen on the wall; a long list of tests and labs ran down the left side. Diane reviewed each test, each lab, with us quite extensively. No need to labor over the results again. Everything looked good except the heart and lungs. No surprise, but good news for lung transplant candidacy. After we reviewed all the data, Diane urged my dad to get a new style of oxygen tanks. She didn’t like the way he looked when he walked down the hall into the office. “You look a little blue,” she said. She’d brought in a bigger tank, he’d been using it all appointment and felt much better by the end. Diane assured my dad she’d get doctor’s orders for increased oxygen, that he should arrange for new new tanks by early week. She told us the team would be meeting to review my dad’s case six days later, and that she’d call with news. YES or NO, he’s a lung transplant candidate.

My parents received word from Diane late Thursday afternoon, March 31, 2016, that YES, my dad was determined to be a candidate for a lung transplant. He had a tooth pulled last week, and will have surgery to place heart stents on April 18th. One month after that, he will be officially placed on the national lung transplant registry.

Good Thursday.

Good Friday.

Good every day that we are saved.

Good every day that we are given the choice to ACCEPT or REJECT the life we’ve been given on earth, the life in eternity we claim through Jesus.

God will reveal His majesty, His plan, His bountiful blessing however He deems necessary.

Life is hard.

Life is easy.

Life is ugly.

Life is beautiful.

Life is disgusting.

Life is inspiring.

Life is downright mean.

Life is kind.

Life is distress.

Life is peace.

Life is confusing.

Life is clear.

He writes our names in the sky through it all. God, our Heavenly Father. He promises the ultimate hope. On earth, as it is in heaven. Both here, and there.

He has a plan. Life is no mistake. It can’t be.

He’s writing my name. He’s writing your name.

It is written. It is written, indeed.

Live every day as if it is your last. ACCEPT what you have been given. Receive it as a gift.

Breathe it in.

Breathe it out.

LIVE.

Other posts in this series:

Who Is Your First Responder?

How I’ve Been Doing the Past Three Months

The Consequences of Letting My Tank Run Dry

It’s Okay to be Mad at At God

I’m Gonna Have to Sit this One Out for Now

This is the first post in a series titled “The Ultimate Hope: A Lung Transplant for My Dad.” It’s similar to the series I’ve been writing through my husband’s eye cancer journey, but different in that I won’t be writing as frequently, and posts will be much more personal than medical because we have a separate CaringBridge site set up that will detail medical updates. If you would like to follow my dad’s medical journey, click here and sign up to receive CaringBridge updates via email. This is my journey, as daughter, through my dad’s lung transplant. My goal with these posts is to process my personal experience through writing which is always a release for me. But I will also be looking beyond my personal experience for big-picture implications and inspiration, and hope to share insight with those of you who follow along. Thank you for joining, and thank you in advance for your grace. My words may not always be perfectly poised, as life is not perfectly poised right now. May my words communicate what they need to communicate. May my life communicate hope, help and love.