Thorn in the Flesh

I went to a conference two weeks ago with the Senior Pastor and Associate Pastor of my church. It was a work thing, a bonding experience between us, and we enjoyed a couple days fellowship as we listened to some preaching at First Baptist Atlanta.

Now, if you’ve never been to a Bible conference (and honestly, how many of you who aren’t vocational ministers would?), don’t fret; if you’ve been to any kind of professional conference, you know what it was like. There were vendors, booths, giveaways, breakout sessions, main sessions, heavy hitters and up and comers. It was, I must say, a fun time for me.

But the Friday of this conference was particularly interesting, because two different men stood and spoke on the exact same Scripture passage and the exact same theme. Identical. The second preacher joked that he was facing the “worst nightmare of any preacher” but plunged ahead with his message. I’m glad he did, because I needed to hear both sermons.

The passage they spoke from was 2 Corinthians 12:6-10, on the proverbial thorn in the flesh of the Apostle Paul. I won’t take you through a rehash of the exegesis, but suffice it to say, both men who spoke that day were supremely convinced that Paul had a real affliction in his life that challenged his very sanity; that pushed him to the limits of his considerable intelligence and faith. And both preachers were completely convinced that it was the design of God for Paul to be afflicted.

Now, I know I’ve lost some people by now – talking about my faith on this blog tends to drive people away. But if you’ve stuck with me this far, I hope that you’ll hang with me to the end.

I have to confess that I have a thorn in my flesh, one that drives me insane, and produces a mixture of helplessness and rage unlike nothing else I know. I’ve begged God to take it away (as Paul begged God to do for him; see 2 Cor. 12:8) and nothing happens. It remains, to the consternation of both myself and Rachel.

The difference for Paul and I, is that my thorn isn’t in my flesh. It’s in my daughter’s lungs.

We’ve spent the majority of the weekend trying to stave off Ella’s asthma. It’s hasn’t worked. Even right now, Rachel is with E at the doctor’s office, getting yet another examination to tell us what we already know: she has a sinus infection that’s led to an ear infection that’s led to congestion in her lungs that’s triggered her asthma and made the poor child miserable. It’s the same freaking thing every fall, winter and spring, and it’s why we spent a large sum of money this summer to have Ella’s adenoids removed. We want this phase of our daughter’s life to be over with. We want the asthma gone.

But it persists. Much like dumb political strategy in Washington D.C., Ella’s chronic sinus and ear infections continue unabated, meaning we have to spend many days and nights giving her steriods, albuterol, ibuprofen, and whatever else we can think of to keep her semi-well. And whenever this happens, my anxiety – and really my anger and fear – go through the roof.

I’ve lost one daughter. I don’t want to lose another. And while I don’t honestly believe that Ella will die young, I didn’t honestly believe that Ruthanne would never draw breath either.

So I get scared.

I like to think I’ve made my peace with God over Ruthanne’s death. I’m okay with His Sovereignty. I understand that He decides the time and span of each person’s life. I get it, I believe it, and in many ways, I’ve no issue with it.

But when it comes to my daughter…man, it’s my weakness. It’s where I’m vulnerable. It’s the chink in my armor, the lapse in my faith, and it’s something that comes to the fore like clockwork every year for the past four years. Even now, as I’m typing this, I’ve just gotten a message from Rachel:

Ella is getting X-rayed for pneumonia. She has freaking pneumonia.

Part of me wants to cry. Part of me wants to toss my Bible across the room and scream, “There is no God!” Part of me wants to curl up in a ball and just cry, because we’re so tired of our little girl not getting to live a normal life.

And I know there are others who have it far worse than we do: childhood leukemia, cancer, HIV/AIDS, SIDS…I know there are people for whom “normal” will never be an option, and I feel for them.

But part of what makes Ella’s case so maddening is that she gets to be normal some of the time; she gets to be a regular kid for a few weeks or months, before the weather and seasons change and she suddenly morphs into this sickly child for three months. You can see it in her eyes: the defeat, the tiredness, the sadness. And as a parent, it makes you want to eat barbed wire or take a hostage. You feel like grabbing the doctor and threatening bodily harm unless someone can cure your kid.

You feel like falling to your knees and begging God for a miracle, but you don’t because you don’t feel like you deserve it and you’re not sure you’d get it even if you did.

This is my thorn. This is the battleground for my soul. I can feel the helpless anger rising in me as I type. I’m trying to ask God for help, begging Him to just make it all better, and I keep coming back to those messages and that passage of Scripture. It’s on a loop in my head and it won’t stop:

“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”

This is my weakness. Having lost one child, I’m terrified of losing another, and despite my faith, despite what I know in my head and my heart, it is a fear that has staggering power over me. And that fear is compounded by the financial strain of having to pay for what insurance doesn’t cover – and friends, much like lingerie, insurance doesn’t cover a whole heck of a lot. All of this combines to push me towards bitterness and anger and rage and hate. And it’s so much easier to give in to it, to just let all of that wash over me instead of taking it to God in prayer. And even when I choose to pray, there’s this voice screaming in my ear: “It won’t matter! He doesn’t care! He doesn’t even exist!”

What started out as a typical Monday has transformed into yet another low-tide in my soul. I’m choosing, by sheer will and nothing else, to trust that God will provide. That God will hear and answer prayer. That God will, in some way, deliver.

There is no other alternative. At least, none that will accomplish anything more.

Pray for me, for my daughter, and for the wisdom of God to be made clear. And that His power will indeed be made perfect in this.

What the Picture Contains: Family Photos and the Essence of the Soul

Last Thursday night, long after the family had gathered and shared a meal, long after the lights in all of the neighboring houses had gone out, my grandmother and her children sat down to discuss the future. My grandfather’s funeral. His burial. His estate. Well into the early hours of Friday they discussed the things we’ve all been avoiding, and came to the hard but necessary decisions.

Each family member will have his or her own role, but when I spoke with my father about mine, he told me it was simple: deliver Pop’s eulogy and make the video memorial for Pop’s funeral service. I’d already taken my grandmother’s photo albums, in the hopes of scanning in some pictures for a book I’m working on, so adding in photos from other family members isn’t such a big deal. And, if you’ve ever seen the cheesy way some funeral homes do those memorial videos, I’d much rather save the money and do it myself.

But that being said, it’s not easy to consolidate a lifetime. How do you take over 85 years of a person’s life and turn it into a meaningful 15-20 minutes?

Harder still, how do you consolidate that same 85-plus years as seen and experienced through different sets of eyes? It’s not like one photographer followed my grandfather around all of his days; everyone close to Pop has some sort of picture of him, and each of those pictures represents a moment in time that that person saw something unique to him or her. In that regard, every time I come across a new photo from a different source, I’m staggered by the reality that Pop’s life – and my own – is lived through one lens but viewed through multiple, so that our lives don’t belong merely to us, but to everyone we love.

In essence, our essence is born up in the hearts of those around us. We are fragmented people.

Think about it: a photograph isn’t just a generic memory – it’s encoded with the photographer’s mind, so that when the photographer looks at the picture, he or she can say, “This is what was going on at the time…”

Our lives are much the same way – when our relatives or friends look at us, they see something different from what we see. Thus, who we are is not merely what we think in our own heads, but also how other people see us.

It’s fascinating to think about, as I look through hundreds of old photographs and see my grandfather, or my aunt, or my late uncle. They exist one way in the picture, a separate way in their own consciousness, and yet another way in my mind. I’m not deep enough or skilled enough to really dig into the philosophy here, but there’s such beauty in realizing that we are trusted with part of what makes another person themselves. When you think about it, no one can claim to be an island, because the very circumstances of birth dictate that there is at least one other person on this planet who holds a piece of you. And if no one is an island, what could that do to our social values, or political process?

These are the things you think about when you spend hours scanning in and labeling specific seconds of a person’s life. The thoughts come unbidden, and ramble around like old-school tramps looking for a comfortable freight car headed west. I’ve seen so many different versions of my grandfather, each one distinct, many unfamiliar, and I don’t know whether to rejoice over discovering these things or cry because I’ve missed out on so much.

But of all the pictures I’ve scanned in today, only one really resonates with me. I knew I’d come across it sooner or later, and have been preparing myself for it’s appearance. Once I flipped it over, I felt my stomach sink. I apologize, but the image is startling and might be disturbing to some. If so I ask for your forgiveness.

My dad's older brother, Terry. He was killed three months after I was born.

I first saw the photo when I was seven or eight years old, and it made my heart seize. I thought it was my father, and for a split-second it felt like an alternate universe. I ran screaming to MawMaw’s side with it and asked her to explain.

“It’s your daddy’s brother, uncle Terry. It’s from when he died.”

I can’t remember if I’d known about Terry or not, and I guess it’s not really relevant. There, in black and white (the photo I saw was from a newspaper obituary) was a face so eerily familiar that it filled me with anxiety until I saw my dad that night. Once I was able to hug him, to put my hands on his face and know that he was all right, I was able to let the image fade from my mind.

But like all children, I had a curiosity that couldn’t be satisfied. MawMaw kept Terry’s picture tucked into the frame of her guest bedroom mirror, and when the family was over, or when I was spending time at her house, I would sneak into the guest bedroom and just stare at that picture. It took me a long time to work up the nerve to read the actual obituary (it was fairly standard), and even longer still to pick the picture up again and really study it. But the more often I stole away to look at it, the more it made me think about mortality and death and specifically just what I would do without my father.

In all those years, however, it never made me ask what it was like for my cousin to grow up without her dad. Today, I look at that photo and, while my initial reaction is still to freak out over the visual similarities between Terry and my dad (and now apparently, myself; Jonathan looked at this, turned to me and said, “Daddy?”), my main thoughts turn to my cousin, Chasity.

I look at this photo and think, I wish I could’ve known my uncle.

Chasity might look at it and think, I wish I could’ve known my dad.

I’m blessed that my father is still with me, that I see him every Sunday, that I can call and talk to him whenever I want, or solicit his advice when I need guidance. Chasity was blessed with a step-father who has been good to her, but it just tears me up to sit here today and actually realize just how empty and confusing it must be to never know your dad. To have to construct him out of other people’s memories.

Which brings me back to what I was saying at the beginning: Chasity knows what she knows about her dad because he lived on in the hearts and memories of other people. She knows something about him because she can sit and stare at a photograph taken when he was younger and discern things about him from what that captured moment reveals. She can see the kindness in his eyes, or the legendary sense of humor in his smile, or (in one of my other favorite photos) the way he kicked back against his father’s car, tilted up a bottle of Coke, and drank every last drop to his own satisfaction. She can, in some ways, interact with him, and get to know him a little more.

And all because someone pointed a camera at him in that moment and said, “That’s so Terry.”

All because someone loved him and carried him forward in their heart and photo album.

One day, my children will look back through all the photos I’ve scanned (and will soon scan) and they’ll be able to construct the people of their lineage out of what pictures I’ve assembled. Jonathan won’t be able to remember Pop Harold; what Ella will remember is no certain thing. So I am grateful that I will be able to introduce them to their grandfathers (both of my Pops), as well as the other people they may not have known, through pictures.

It’s funny, but once upon a time, some people were afraid to have their picture taken, believing that the photographed image would capture the subject’s soul. The first time I ever heard that, I thought it was the stupidest thing in the world.

Now, I think it might be one of the most beautiful.