Realizing Provision

First, a note:

Dear Reader,

If COVID took your decision-making anxiety about whether or not to attend social functions to a whole new level, if you second-guessed your health or the health of your children and worried about the consequences of your decisions, if you debated whether or not to tell the person you were meeting about your maybe-symptoms but didn’t want to put the pressure of the decision on them, I feel you. (And that’s not even considering how all the differing opinions on government mandates played into decision-making.) If this was you, I just want you to know that I think you’re brave and I wish for you that you will keep growing in grace for yourself and for others.

Second, an introduction:

2023 has been quite the year. I had some warning that it would be. It’s hard to imagine a low-key year when your brother and his wife announce they are expecting triplets for the beginning of the year and a couple months later your sister tells you she’s having twins.

In January, I wrote a few lines called “The Week Kayleen Was Hospitalized, We Went Back to School, The Triplets Were Born, the Christmas Program Happened, and We Had School the Day After the Christmas Program.”

The next week, Kayleen’s twins were born at 29 weeks. So many prayers have been answered in the arrival of these tiny miracles and and their ability to fight and grow.

Now, all the babies are getting close to 6 months old and experiencing good health. We are so very grateful.

I visited the twins several times when they were in the NICU in Pittsburgh. The following post is from a time in February when the gratitude and the struggle intermingled in my reality.

Finally, the post:

If I would show you pictures from my weekend you might think that I am the luckiest aunt, and in my opinion, I am.

But you wouldn’t see the whole story.

I would show you pictures of being with the triplets at Rolin and Joy’s on Friday night.

I would show you a picture of me smiling down at my first niece.

I would show you a picture of me intensely focused on giving a bottle to my first niece.

I would show you pictures of my trip to Pittsburgh with Ricky and Jasmine the next day. You would see us in the waiting area of the NICU in a hospital in Pittsburgh where we got to visit my sister’s beautiful and tiny twins who have been thriving and growing slowly but surely.

I would show you a picture of Ricky, Jasmine, me, Kayleen, and Carlin beside a yellow Pittsburgh arch bridge on a beautiful sunny day in Point State Park.

And these pictures would tell a story of blessing and beauty and gratitude for all the miracles in my life.

And that story would be true, but it wouldn’t be all the truth.

Lives have layers, and most of the layers don’t show up on our social media pictures.

Perhaps hearing the layers beneath the photos can remind us that we are not alone in our longing for wholeness.

Therefore, in an attempt to impart the whole truth, I offer the parts of my weekend that can’t be seen in photos, from the perspective of one who struggles with obsessive thoughts and the need for certainty—from the perspective of one who is still reaching toward wholeness.

Mom took a picture of me giving Piper a bottle, but I don’t have a picture that shows how flustered I was when I was trying to feed her.

It can’t be that hard to give a baby a bottle. But can I make it hard? I can. I’m quite capable that way.

I tried to keep all the steps in my mind:

1. Hold the bottle so the nipple is half full.
2. Give the baby a break when she stops sucking.
3. Do not take the nipple out of her mouth or she will fall asleep completely. Alas, I had missed that instruction in my effort to get her situated to the right angle for feeding. (Anybody who has witnessed me trying to have a deep conversation and drive a consistent speed at the same time knows I can’t multitask.)
4. Lay her down, tickle her feet, or somehow wake her up so you can get the rest of the milk into her.
5. Try both methods of burping for a long time and then give up, hoping that the one tiny noise you heard was a burp and not your imagination.

It is hard to be an inexperienced, anxious aunt. The pictures don’t show that. Being an aunt is also the best thing in the world, and I’m glad the pictures make that clear.

I don’t have pictures of my swelling tonsils, (and you can thank goodness for that—I dare say tonsils were not created to be photographed) or the anxiety swelling within me as Ricky and Jasmine and I got closer to Pittsburgh to see the Atkinsons.

Is this sore throat just in my head because I’m worried about getting sick?

 I can’t go all the way to Pittsburgh and not see the babies!

But what if this is real and I will expose their vulnerable bodies to sickness?

Why does this happen every single time I’m worried about it happening?

If I’m getting sick right now, did I expose the triplets to something when I held them last night?

I tried to reassure myself.

We can’t all see them today anyway, so I will just stay in the waiting area today, see how I feel tomorrow, and talk to Kayleen about how I’m feeling and make a decision about seeing the babies then.

I don’t have a picture of a sign posted outside the NICU waiting area, which says you must not enter if you are experiencing any of the following symptoms: fever, cough, runny nose, congestion, SORE THROAT, etc.

The words “sore throat” jumped out as an indictment against me. The guilt pierced through me as the clear glass doors swung open and I followed my family past the sign into the waiting area. When Kayleen said that they were going to ask if all three of us could see the babies the same day, I quickly tried to explain the situation to her. I then worried about how she must be so sick of hearing these woes from me because she’s witnessed most of my getting sick decision-making drama in the past year.

She listened and said I could think about it and decide while Ricky and Jasmine went to see the babies.

I waited and wondered and worried by myself, and hadn’t really come to a conclusion when they all returned.

But I found myself saying that I wanted to see them and asking if Kayleen was comfortable with me going in. She was. I decided to go but not to touch them.

Kayleen took me in and I scrubbed my hands and arms, then saw the little darlings squirm and stretch and sleep. They looked bigger and healthier than the one other time I’d seen them, but I couldn’t shake the fear that my being in their rooms could be dangerous for them.

I don’t have a picture of the tears that rolled down my cheeks and landed on my rollaway hotel bed—tears of disappointment, fear, and anger at God for allowing sickness when I just wanted to be there for my sister and her babies without adding more stress to their lives.

I don’t have a picture of myself sitting alone in the hospital cafeteria the next day when the rest went to see the babies again. I felt worse and didn’t feel comfortable going to the NICU.

I don’t have a picture of the doctor who, a couple days later, took one look at my tonsils and called it strep.

There they are—the layers that the pictures do not reveal.

Have I now told the whole truth?

Perhaps not.

I would like to know how the beautiful pictures and broken layers work together to form a beautiful and redeemed whole truth. I would like to know that everything happens for a reason. I don’t know if it does. I would like to know that even when I make mistakes in decision-making, everything will be ok. I don’t know if it will.

I do know, however, that in the uncertainty and the anxiety of the weekend—in the things I hated and wanted so much to change—I was still loved.

I was loved through a sister who assured me that she didn’t think I did anything wrong, that she was so glad I came, that she didn’t want me to feel guilt or responsibility if she or Carlin got sick, and who believed that everything would be ok when I didn’t.

I was loved through my other siblings who listened to my fears and cared about my disappointment.

I was loved through a mom who believed in the care and presence and peace of Jesus for me when I didn’t.

I was loved by a God who comes close even when I can’t feel Him.

So there it is: all the truth, all the layers.

There are miracles, and I have been given so much.

I am broken, and I struggle to be human in a world that is not safe.

I can’t always reconcile these two realities.

Still, I am loved.