Letting Go

    I remember being a child and always looking for opportunities to let go. I wanted to let go of a parent's hand when walking through the parking lot. I wanted to let go of the handle bars of my bike as I pedalled faster and faster down my street. I wanted to let go of the swing to see how far I could fly before finding the ground again. And eventually, I wanted to let go of childhood and race into the great unknown of adulthood. I couldn't wait to reach the next level of, well, everything. Then it happened. I no longer found the thrill in letting go. I had settled into married life and had started a family. As far as I was concerned, time could stand still for a while. I had found something worth holding on to, and nothing or no one could loosen my grip. Or so I thought.

   It might sound silly, but letting go as an adult is both thrilling and terrifying. The moment I let go of my child as they took their first steps was exciting and concerning all at the same time. I was cheering them on as I quietly scanned the room for objects that could cause head trauma if they fell down in the wrong direction. When I let go of their bicycle seat for the last time as they zoomed down the road on two wheels brought me tears of joy and tears of sadness. It was one more step toward growing up, but also another step towards not needing me. Those might sound like trivial moments of letting go, and they are in the grand scheme of things. Since then, there have been much greater and scarier seasons of letting go that God has faithfully brought me through, and realistically, there are probably many more to come.

    Like many others, we have to had let go of dreams, loved ones, stability, friends and family. We have grieved the loss of those loved ones, the loss of "normal," the loss of the way things once were, and the loss of future plans. I have even grieved the loss of my sense of control. Of all the things to grieve in life, that is not one that you think would make the list, but it did. It's funny how much we think we are in control until we aren't. 

     I never considered myself a control freak. That is, until God started bringing me into season after season of letting go. He has, and is, bringing to light the areas that I am still grasping for control in. By grasping for control, what I'm really grasping for is unsurrender. If I'm honest, there are areas that I don't fully trust Him in, nor do I want to surrender. It's in these areas where I find the darkest nights of the soul. It's where worry and doubt and fear reside. Most often when the dark corners of my heart are made known, they are usually hiding the well being of my family and the safety of my own soul. Whatever your most vulnerable parts of the heart are, there you will usually find a locked door. Naturally, God wants the key. He knows what lies behind them, and He wants to cast out all fear and angst that may be preying there. It is for our best because He loves us more than we could ever imagine, but it's still super uncomfortable and wicked annoying. 

    As we have all experienced, letting go is never easy. It requires obedience and sometimes painful sacrifice. Letting go of our loved ones, our futures, our jobs, our families, our homes, our lives, and our dreams demands that we let go of control. In the present season, God is moving our family to a different state, a different city, a different job, and a different home. This wasn't in the plans. At least, it wasn't in ours. Once again I am faced with surrendering the darkest corners of my soul. I am faced with the matter of trust. Do I trust the Lord with our lives? Do I trust Him enough with my children's lives? What about the emotions that will arise in their hearts? Do I trust Him with those too? I want to say an immediate "yes" to all of those questions, but I can't. I am checking off the boxes as He continues to work daily on my heart. Then just when I can check all the boxes, seasons will change and we will start over. That's just how it goes. He loves us enough not to leave us where, or as, we are. 

    We all are letting go of something. Some of us are moving, or walking through disease, or transitioning out of early motherhood, or maybe entering into older age. All of these are entirely different seasons, but we all have one thing in common -  we are all letting go of life as we know it. The future is uncertain, and that alone can be scary. But there is one thing I can promise you. You are not alone. God has gone before you and will be with you every step of the way. He is faithful and will never leave your side. There is hope because He is our hope. There will be joy once again because He is our joy. So open your hand and let go. He's got you. And He's got whoever and whatever you've been holding onto also. 

Until next time...

Rejoice In The Mayhem

     

  MAYHEM. A noun meaning violent or damaging disorder; chaos. I don't know about you, but sometimes this is my life. This is definitely sometimes my life as a mom of 6 kids. I can honestly say that, yes, the environment can be violent or damaging especially when a teenage wrestling match breaks out, a toddler gets a hold of a sharpie, when your tweenage daughter has a sleepover, or when your 8 year old son runs you over on his motorized dirt bike. That actually happened, last week in fact. 

     I decided that since it was a beautiful afternoon I would go out for a relaxing run in my neighborhood. I put on some of my favorite music and went outside to prepare for my run. My two little girls decided they wanted to come, so a little less relaxing, but totally okay. I was on a mission to enjoy the day. My son decided he would zip through the neighborhood on his little motorized dirt bike as well. Great! The more the merrier! It was that kind of mood. I made it all of about 1/4 of a mile when my son took off and ran right into the back of me. As he slammed into me, the back of my calves took the impact. As I was falling backwards, he was flying forwards. We collided and somehow managed to stay upright. He immediately started panicking and crying. The girls stood in horror. I stood holding back the tears from the pain in my legs. I turned to the kids calming them all down. I told them to look me in the eyes, I was okay. I sent them home, and then I hobbled home after them. When I got home I started laughing. Honestly, I laugh at almost everything. My kid had just hit his mother with his dirt bike! So much for a relaxing run.

     I am totally fine. After that, I was sore for a few days, but life continued. The older I get, the longer I stay sore from minor injuries. It's ridiculous. The following day I took the kids for a walk. He rode his dirt bike. Needless to say, I would periodically give him the side eye and give him a hard time for running his mom over. In case you don't know us very well, we joke. A lot. It's part of our love language. And that poor kid will never live this down. He's loved that much. 

     In my morning devotions that week I read a verse in 1 Thessalonians 5. It says, Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus. I did not feel like rejoicing as I hobbled back home that day. The next day this verse was brought to mind as I walked my sore body back down the street watching for my son on his bike. As I watched my son zip around, my soul started rejoicing. This is the same boy I was praying over last year as he lay in his hospital bed with a shiny bald head while tons of medicines got pumped into his little body. He was dying. I didn't know if he would make it to Christmas, let alone his next birthday. But here he is riding and playing as he thrives this year. I was challenged last year with those same words from scripture. It was my goal to pray and give thanks no matter what. I didn't do it perfectly. I know that. I still don't. But those words are not conditional. It doesn't say rejoice, pray, and give thanks if life is going well. It's not suggesting that it's a good idea to rejoice and pray and give thanks. It is imperative. We are to rejoice, pray, and give thanks in ALL circumstances. Why? How? Because this is God's will for you and for me in Christ Jesus. 

     I remember this time last year, and this year has been an amazing year. Not in every way, but what year is? I know for some of you this year has been really hard in many different ways. My heart goes out to you. I know what hard and devastating seasons feel like. I also know what it is to rejoice, pray, and even give thanks during those seasons. It can be done. Jesus is the why and the how. If we set our eyes and stay close to Him in all circumstances, it is possible. Friends, I challenge you with this as I have been challenged. Whatever your circumstances, let's rejoice always because He makes a way where there is none, let's pray continually because He has given us access to His heart and healing, and let's give thanks that we are never alone. For this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus. 

Until next time...

Shattered Expectations

      

         It's been a long while since I've posted on this blog. Twenty-twenty rushed in like a flood, and hasn't stopped. I'm going to get right to the point. This year has failed to meet my expectations in so many ways. I had so many hopes and expectations for this year that I can't even count them all. Last year our son got so sick. If you've followed his journey, then you know how 2019 went for the Schultz family. If you're new, the short version is that my son battled two diseases and ended up going through a bone marrow transplant. 

     Among the many twists and turns of last year was the cancelling of many plans and a few awesome trips. Greece, to be exact. My husband and I were heading to Greece to study Paul, eat amazing food, and see breathtaking sights. Instead, we were living at the hospital while our son battled for his life. We were separated from our children, friends, family, and what felt like the rest of planet earth. We made it back home for the holidays, so I was content with the closing of a totally stupid year. Needless to say, I had high hopes for the new year, and it was going to deliver big time. Wrong! Or was I?

     Our son's progress was not as expected. Shocker. He has been slow to heal. He had a lot of trouble the beginning of this year. The doctors tested him for lymphoma as well as antibodies that could be fighting the success of transplant. The days were long and the months were hard. However, hearing the good news that it was neither cancer ,nor killer antibodies, was relieving. He wasn't where he should be, but he was stable. Stable enough to be let off of our year long quarantine we had been on. April was on its way and we could sense freedom coming. Then COVID hit. What the heck. I refused to be rattled. I refused to start hoarding. (Honestly, how much could a family of 8 stock up on without moving people out of the house? My weekly grocery haul makes me look like a hoarder on any given week anyways.) I refused to allow fear to strip away anymore than it had already claimed the year before. And I refused to let some virus destroy the progress we had made. So back we went into quarantine with a limited supply of toilet paper. 

     I think we can all agree that it's been quite a year. Maybe some of you have had to cancel trips, cancel events, cancel graduations, or have found yourself in situations you would have never chosen. Maybe you are in a rocky season, or a season of hurt or loss. For that, I am sorry. I have been there. Maybe not in your exact circumstances, but I know what hurt and loss feel like. I know what it feels like to not be able to catch your breath, or to feel as though every time you make progress something else seems to pull you back down. It seems impossible and unfair. Everything you had worked towards, everything you had hoped for, everything you had expected, shattered. Gone. For many, that is what 2020 has brought, shattered expectations. But what lies amongst the broken pieces? 

     It seems unlikely to find anything but a heap of crap in the present. Our country has dealt with many upsets this year. People have dealt with so many upsets. People have lost jobs, lost businesses, and lost loved ones. We have cried, yelled, raged, mourned, and have battled fear and depression. Hopefully though, there have been moments of laughter and signs of life that have kept us afloat. Hopefully you have still been able to find joy and hope even in the hardest of times. There are still things to be celebrated. You just might have to dig through the rubble to find them.

     Our son has turned a corner just in the last month. We are seeing positive gains that we thought we would never see. We have continued to wake up each day with air in our lungs and purpose for our lives. Even if we don't feel like it, we do. And so do you. God wasn't surprised by my son's diseases, or his progress, or by Covid, or anything that you might be facing right now. His expectations are never shattered. He is never taken off guard. He is constantly moving and working things for good. He is faithful, and we have seen that more than ever in the last two years. Good has, and will continue to come from 2020. We just might have to search to see it.

     I will leave you with this, it is one of my absolute favorite verses. It is found in John 16:33. Jesus is talking to his disciples about his time on earth coming to an end. He explains to the disciples that though he will be leaving them, they will go on to do great things and will see him again. He states that their grief will turn to joy. When He's finished, He leaves them with this verse, "I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." 

     We all have had shattered expectations, but take heart my dear friends. He has overcome. He has overcome sorrow, loss, devastation, disease, addiction, sin, failure, and so much more. He has overcome the world. 

Until next time, Beautiful...

How I’m Doing...Really

     I was asked the other day, “If one photo could sum up the year, which one would it be?” As I looked through photos, I found the last family photo we took before transplant. It was a great pic, but we are not the same people we were in that photo. I scrolled back to even earlier 2019 pics, and I felt like the further back I scrolled the more unrecognizable we became. Then I remembered a day back in May, or maybe even June. I passed a framed picture that sits on my dresser. It is a funny pic of my brother and me for National Sibling Day. I am smiling and joking in it. I remember feeling the same way I do today - I don’t know that woman. She’s gone. I grieved the woman in that photo. For months, in fact. I remember thinking, “No one has died! How can I be grieving?!” What I eventually realized was that though I hadn’t died, I could never go back to being that woman in the picture. Life as we knew it was gone. It had changed.
     As I wrestled with grief, fear, and faith, one of our dear friends who had battled cancer said something that challenged me to my core. He said, “If you can walk through this, and allow it, you will be a better person on the other side.” I couldn’t see it. I was afraid of who I might become. I didn’t want my kids to look back and think, “My mom was never the same after our brother got sick.” Every plan, every ounce of control, every routine was gone. My sense of invincibility, gone. My ignorance, gone. The person in the photo, gone. My son was sick, my family was being affected, my focus was now channeled into one lane, and my plans, my dreams, were spiraling. How could this make me a better person? Sickness and disease are a result of living in a world affected by sin. It didn’t seem fair that this sinful state could take the life of my child.
     Then it came. The calm still voice that can quiet the fiercest of storms. “I understand. I know how you feel. Sin DID take the life of my child.” This truth pierced my heart. It didn’t bring guilt, or trump my grief. Conversely, it brought an overwhelming reminder of the love of God. The perfect love that he has for me, and the perfect love he has for my children. It brought peace, and in the months to come it drove out the spirit of fear time after time.

     These paragraphs written above cover only moments of the last year. They convey my weakest moments, my greatest fears, and my deepest hurts throughout this season. They have been brief, and I’m thankful for that. God has immediately met me in that place of fear and pain. He has shown me the love he not only has for me, but for my children. He has been faithful through the storm. He has been the strength in my weakness. He has opened my eyes and brought joy in what should have been a devastating trial. I’m not the same person I was. None of us are. Our family is forever changed. We can’t unsee the effects of disease. We can’t take back the days we were a part. We can’t go back. Our friend was right. If we allow it, if we embrace what God can do in such trials, we will become better people. I have held my child through chemo. My children have watched their brother deteriorate, and then be brought back. My husband has caught me as I buckled from the weight of motherhood. We have cried with other families and we have rejoiced with them as they walk similar roads. I have shared my faith more in the last year than ever before. We have grown closer as a family. We cry more and laugh more; we play more and reflect more, and we celebrate each day together because the reality is that we don’t know when that will change. The truth is, we aren’t promised tomorrow, and life’s too short to not live it well. We are still fighting the effects of disease. We are still searching for our new normal. We are still reaching for healing. But I will say this, what we have found is the faithfulness of God. We have found that letting go brings freedom. We have found strength in surrender. We have found joy amidst sorrow. We have found peace that is unshakable. We have found each other. We have found hope.
     So, how am I doing? Well, I am doing great. I have all six of my children under one roof. I have an amazing husband who sits next to me as we watch our kids play and laugh and learn what life is truly about. We have friends and family who have supported us and prayed us through the hardest thing we have ever had to walk through. And we have a God who loves us perfectly and completely. Do I still cry? Yes. Do I still get scared? Sometimes. The difference between me and that woman in the picture is that I can now rest in the evidence of God's faithfulness. I can rest knowing that whatever happens, in life or death, He loves us and will be there no matter what. I don't have to worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will take care of itself. And that, my friends, brings a smile to my face and hope for the future.

Until Next Time...

 

Reaching for Daylight

 

     Humans have the innate ability to take things for granted. What does that mean? "Take things for granted." It means to accept or view said noun as a right or privilege. I'm not being unkind, but truly there are so many things we take for granted. I am realizing there are more things than I can count that I personally take for granted. We walk through life expecting certain things, and things go unnoticed because they are the standard - the baseline to life. I know that as life continues on, I will continue to take many things for granted, but I don't want to.

     We have been on 5200 going on 4 weeks now. That's nothing compared to some here, but a lot compared to pretty much everyone outside the unit. We have been separated from our family, our jobs, our lives, our dog, even the sun. Yes, I said the sun. Our son has been in this hospital unit being torn down and put back together. He has handled it amazingly well, but he has still missed being with his siblings, friends, dog, and yes, being outside. I will catch glimpses of him staring at the sky, or even out the window of our corridor. (Which, I'm pretty sure has scared the crap out of people passing by. Which I find quite funny. You have to find the humor in this place, or you won't make it. More on that another time.) We have come to realize that our lives, and the way we live them is not our right - it's a gift.

     Nothing showed me that more, than the experience we had yesterday. Yesterday, our son received a pass to go outside of the unit. He has been doing so well, that the Dr. decided he could go off the unit for 2 hours. He had been reaching for daylight since we got here, and now he was about to touch it. When we opened the door to exit the unit, Fenix slowly stepped across the threshold. You would have thought he was taking his first steps on the moon. In his mind, it probably felt like that. He turned to look at me, and I could see the smile behind the mask. I held back tears as we changed our shoes, and took our son to the elevator. He smiled the whole way down to the first floor. We walked to the door leading outside to the courtyard, and swung it open. The fresh air and sunshine blasted us in the face, and Fenix's smile got even bigger as he quietly said, "I'm outside!" He didn't care about the looks he got, or the smiles of sympathy given, our son was outside. Again the tears tried to block my view. Rude. I pushed them aside again and again as we made our way through the hospital campus. Just before going back to 5200, we decided to go up to the 9th floor to look at the helicopter on the roof. We saw one take off, and the other perched there looking quite heroic. At that moment, a woman walked in from the pad. She was so kind and welcoming. She checked a few things on the flight schedule, and then asked if Fenix would like to go out to sit inside the helicopter! I don't think she even finished asking before he blurted out, "YES!" She spent at least 20 minutes showing us the helicopter. She fastened Fenix in the seat, then let him wander about for a bit. She showed us the city from the rooftop, and when it was time to go, she gave him the sweetest hug as if to say she was sincerely glad she had met him. I think she was, and we were certainly glad to have met her. As we walked back to the elevators, he let out a huge sigh of sheer euphoria, and whispered under his breath, "That was so amazing!" Que the tears...

     We have been waiting for engraftment, which he achieved, waiting for healing which is in the making, and waiting for daylight which he found yesterday afternoon in all its glory. To say we take things for granted seems like an understatement to me these days. Our days and nights on 5200 has shown me that. I walk around completely unaware, or even worse, unappreciative of the life I've been given; unaware of the gifts that are bestowed on us each day we draw breath on this planet. I am choosing to pick my head up. I will choose to look and find the beauty in each day given. I will choose to see the mercy in the mess. And I will choose to find the joy amongst the pain. We have been given life. Some of it we have squandered, and some we haven't. My question is, "What are we going to do after 5200? What are we going to do when there's no more disease; when there is nothing holding us back?" The answer? We are going to live, and live well. We are going to run our race like we want the prize. And we are going to wake everyday reaching for daylight.

Until next time...

 

 


  

 

                     
 

 

And last, but not least...

                                                       

The sad, but possibly scary pic of a child peeking out of the “Restricted Area” corridor. 

P.S. The next big test is his chimerism. The engraftment says he has survived transplant. The chimerism tells us how successful it was. Prayers welcome!

Worship in the Waiting

                                                                         
     There is no better place to worship than in the dark. I don’t necessarily mean the physical dark, though you could. I mean seasonal, spiritual, or emotional darkness. Worship takes the focus off of the darkness, and invites the Light in. It changes our posture from being dominated by our circumstances, to being surrendered to the One who can carry them. Imagine being in a dark room. Once you draw back the curtain, not only does the light dissolve the darkness, but there’s a view of what lies beyond the dark room you’re standing in. Worship is that window to hope, perspective, and the light. It allows us to see past our hurt, our fear, or our circumstances, and see truth.

     Today is day +11. Fenix is doing very well. In fact, he’s doing so well, that the nurses and doctors are quite surprised. However, we have seen rougher nights. He has had nights of severe stomach pain when all he could do is lie in a ball and cry. He has had bouts of puking that have lasted all night long. There have been fevers. He has had fits of rage from the misery of taking meds and doing mouth care because it makes him feel worse. He’s now losing all of his hair. All this to say, he is still doing better than most. It goes to show how dark circumstances can get surrounding disease and treatments. The worst of nights he just had me crawl into bed and hold him as he suffered. Those nights I would just sing. As I sang I would worship the One who entrusted me with such a gift; such a calling. I would thank Him for my child, and even for the journey. I would sing, and as I sang our son would fall asleep peacefully. As the days got rougher, he started to ask me to pray with him each medicine he would have to take, or each mouth care he would have to perform. We would pray for the doctors and nurses, and for each child and family here. We would pray for healing and hope; blessing and favor. He is learning that even though there is pain, and even though there are things that he doesn’t want to go through, he can hold onto God. He can have hope. And he can even have hope for others.

     The truth is, we weren’t created to stay where we are. We weren’t created to remain hurt, broken, or carrying the burden of darkness. That’s not our bag to hold- it’s His. We were created for a purpose; for a mission. We were created to shine, and to reflect Him.

     So here we are - waiting. We are waiting for engraftment. We are waiting for healing. We are waiting for daylight, and we are waiting for the future. While we wait we will worship, because that’s what helps light up the dark, that’s what helps find truth, and that’s what helps employ strength. We were designed to worship, and so were you. Whatever you are waiting for, wherever your journey is taking you, you are not alone. We are all waiting for something. So while we wait for whatever breakthrough is coming, let’s worship in the waiting.

Until next time... “I will lift my hands while I’m waiting. Louder than my fears I will sing. May my heart ever be reminded, You are good, You are good...” - Life Church Worship
   
  https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=yspGtoYLbdE

From Darkness to Light...And the Shades in Between

     What do you do when one of your darkest fears comes to life? If you would have told me a year ago that I would be sitting next to my child while he gets chemotherapy, prepping for a bone marrow transplant, I would have never believed it. But somehow here we are. I’ve had moments of “why us?” and moments of “how did we get here?!” I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been scared or even angered at times by this whole mess. There have been moments when I’ve walked upstairs, my eyes have caught sight of him lying in bed, and I have become unable to move. There have been moments when “normal” has made me cry instead of exhale. There have been moments when I have gotten angry wondering why I am no longer God’s favorite child. I have had to answer the question, “Could I die?” from my son and his siblings. We have had to tell our family-loving children that there’s a big possibility that Fenix will not be able to have children. (We have caught many of their tears over that one.) We have had to reassure them that God has not left us, nor will he. God has not “done” this to Fenix, or our family. 

     In Romans 5 it says that “suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.” I cannot explain the details of how or why this is, but it’s true. I think it plays out differently for each of us. Our family has/is walking through something that has caused a bit of suffering, but has prompted us to press on, while refining our character, and ultimately resulted in hope. Our hope has never been more secure. Or less for that matter. It has just become more realized in this season. The beauty is that while Erich and I are learning how to walk by faith in a season of darkness, so are our children. God has been here. He has gone ahead of us, and he’s been beside us each step of the way. We know it, and our children know it. We are learning what surrender means, and also realizing that surrender is an ongoing practice. I am learning to start my day with surrender. It means that I surrender control, surrender my life, surrender my fears, and surrender my family. I think that last one is the most challenging. I have always considered myself a woman fully surrendered to God, until hardship touched my family - more specifically, my child and children. This season has made me realize surrender is a process, not a one and done occurrence. Every hiccup, every tear, every pain, every insecurity my children stumble upon forces me to resurrender them to the One to whom they belong. 

     This year my children have been thrown into a new level of maturity. They’ve seen their brother go through some scary things, and have been involved directly by being matched donors. They have taken it like champions. I could not be prouder of them. We still have some rocky ground to cover, but we know God is faithful and he is right here with us. 

     So, what happens when our darkest fears come to life? Our faith grows, our family grows, and our hope grows. The darkness doesn’t seem so scary when you shine some light on it, so we will shine on. 

   “Mom, I can’t believe our family is going through this.”

   “I know. It’s kind of a dark time, but sometimes God allows us to go through dark times, so we can shine bright. Remember the Sermon on the Mount? ‘You are the light of the world...’ Where does light employ its purpose?”

   “In the dark.” 

“And where is light at its brightest?” 

   “In the darkest places.” 

“That’s right.” 

   “But what if it gets so dark he dies, Mom?”

“...We keep shining, love. God’s love and His light don’t go out when we die. They go beyond death. Even if that happens, we will keep on shining.”