The Other Side of Stillness

 

My Abba Walk took me to the quiet places, where surrounded by an abundance of towering green, all was peace and rest. Nothing, no one, could touch me here, save God alone. No cultural chaos, calamity, short-tempered person, or stressful daily detail could hamper the soothing stillness where the only sounds were birdsong and rustling leaves. 

God speaks in the quiet places, and I longed to hear Him as I meditated on the scripture I'd read that morning. 

I sat on a stone ledge to soak up the sun and pour my heart out to Jesus. I paused to listen and in the gap, He broke into my thoughts: "I speak in the suffering places, too, if you have ears to hear."

Stunned, my heart lurched. Certainly, the thought of suffering was not a new one. I'd experienced Jesus before in noisy, confusing affliction. Well-fought for closer relationship with Jesus with much grappling but always the richer for it. 

But suffering was not what I wanted to be reminded of on this fine day. "No, Lord, I don't want to hear that today," I agonized. "It's too much of an intrusion on this peaceful place. You don't understand. Nothing's supposed to touch me here in the quiet places with You, not even the thought of suffering. How could you wound me so with these words?"

On the way home, I lingered at my Gethsemane tree to embrace the sacrifice of struggle and ultimately surrender. My peaceful place returned, for it really isn't a geographical location at all but a place deep in the heart. 

Yet the physical trek provides opportunity for a focused heart, a ready heart. Still, the next day I hesitated to take my Abba Walk. I felt offended, shocked even by the Lord's message the day before. Another call to surrender. Once done, I set out, for I cherish the calming influence of creation which frees me from daily distractions that pester like needy children tugging on my pant leg. 

A couple days later, I awoke with a sense of foreboding, which even my walk and talk with Jesus did not alleviate. Returning home, I emailed three women who responded with prayer and encouragement. The nebulous feeling largely lifted. Then turning to Psalms (my go-to book when troubling emotions surface), I came to 3:3: "Oh Lord, You are a shield around me. My glory, and the lifter of my head." Peace replaced panic as God's Word nourished and reassured my soul. 

Another couple days passed. When we Skyped with our missionary granddaughter (Rebekah), we learned she'd experienced a moto accident. Cycle fell over on her. She got back on, caught her foot, and cycle dragged her through the dirt lot before Dad could stop it. Leg abrasion and injured foot. Sore and unsure if broken. 

A few days later, I, too, experienced a motor accident. While driving through a green light, a car ran a red light and slammed into the driver's side back bumper, causing my car to spin. Glasses flew off, I screamed, and then came to a stop in the intersection. Pain ripped through my chest. Dazed, I inched the clinking car across the road and parked in the GettyMart lot. 

I opened the door for air. A couple pumping gas immediately approached me. She on her phone, he asking diagnostic questions. They'd witnessed the whole thing. Thankfully. 

The man went for my husband, Chuck (at home in a teletherapy session which he'd just concluded). They arrived at the scene, along with a neighbor, whom I'd only met days earlier. In kindness, she offered to help. 

The owner of the garden supply store across the street also rushed over. She was a nurse, walked me through deep breathing and assessment of injuries. Chest in great deal of pain. EMT/ambulance arrived and police (gave her report). Jeff (a believer according to Chuck's later report) treated me with such care and compassion as did Marcus, his younger partner on call. Transport to hospital where the PA ordered testing and ultimately diagnosed an upper chest contusion. Rest, ice, compress, elevate on Day one, followed by rest and heat thereafter as needed. At home, we called our herbalist who prescribed additional supplements to support self-healing.

Now to get strength back and renewed courage to get behind the wheel again (Joshua 1:9) when I'm physically able. 

The foreboding? Perhaps God's way of preparing me with prayer and scripture. Such peace knowing He is my shield. Yes! For the event could've been so much worse, as was true for Rebekah. In her case, a later x-ray showed no broken bones. 

The Lord is indeed a shield around us. How many times He'd spared me, us, from accidents, either at the hands of others or due to our own negligence. On this day, in the mystery of His workings, He chose not to. And in truth, while I still wouldn't choose suffering, neither would I trade the richer experience with Him in the midst of the suffering. Nor the opportunity to witness of His love to others He pulls around in a crisis that I may never have met otherwise. Not to mention the beauty of the Body of Christ at work ministering to one of its own. 

Yes, the Lord does speak in the stillness and on the other side of stillness, for those with ears to hear. 

A Vet's Caring Gesture

It was 4:30 when we loaded our terrier, Buttons, into the car. A cold misty rain fell, accentuating our dismal mood. My oldest, Rachel, clung to Buttons in the front seat while Michelle and Stephanie sat soberly in the back. During the forty-five minute drive, the winter sky darkened and the rain poured.  A feverish Buttons twisted and turned in Rachel's lap, periodically nestling his nose into her neck. Adjusting his blanket like a mother tending her sick child, Rachel quietly wept, her tears falling onto Button's tousled head. Staring straight ahead, I suppressed a sob.       

A melancholy foursome walked through the vet's door.  I approached the counter and told the receptionist that we had a sick pup requiring immediate attention. The nurse escorted us right back to an examining room. When the doctor came in, Rachel placed Buttons on the table as we all gathered around to observe. She stroked Button's stomach, while Stephanie patted his head. Michelle stood aloof.  I watched, my thoughts scrambling for order and direction.

The vet felt all around Button's small bloated body, starting at his head and working down to his tail. His temperature was 103 degrees. After the customary tacit period of the exam, the vet took a deep breath and spoke.

"Buttons may be suffering from some type of intestinal blockage or tumor. We would have to perform more tests to determine exactly what the problem is. Most likely surgery would be necessary."

I asked more questions to clarify the data, wanting to make sure we understood before making a determination. In the intense pressure of the moment, I knew I bore the brunt of any decision. I also knew the girls were relying on me to do the right thing for Buttons. Looking around the room, I studied each girl's face in hopes of finding an answer.

"Could we have a few minutes alone to talk about this?" I asked the vet.

"Sure. Take as long as you need," he responded, lowering his head and turning to leave.

As the door closed, the girls and I stared at Buttons, then at one another. Rachel and Stephanie continued to stroke Buttons. Michelle hung back. I wondered what she was thinking and feeling.

"Well," I stammered. "We need to decide what is best for Buttons now." I started to cry, which made Rachel and Stephanie cry more, while Michelle stood in her corner observing the scene. "Buttons is in pain," I labored on. "He's thirteen-years-old, has congestive heart failure, and now a new condition on top of that. I think his physical problems are just going to get worse. Even if we treat this one, it's only a matter of time before another ailment crops up. We love him as our pet, but we need to use our best judgment."

 Michelle spoke up from her corner. "I don't want Buttons to suffer any procedures. He wouldn't like that. He's been through enough."

I glanced at Rachel and Stephanie for confirmation. They remained silent and continued to stroke Buttons. I could tell from their demeanors that they knew Michelle was right. They just couldn't verbalize it.

"Well, then," I blurted, beginning to shake with emotion, clutching my sides in hopes of gaining composure. "We'll let Buttons go."

Summoning the nurse from the next room, I told her we were ready for the doctor. After a minute, he cautiously opened the door. With downcast face, he approached the table.

"We've decided to let Buttons go."  The words spilled from my mouth like water from a faucet.

The vet laid his strong, gentle hand on Button's side. Our dog that normally would have scrambled to exit the room, lay still, his anxious brown eyes like wide deep pools, searching ours.

"I understand," the vet sympathized. Noticing our tears, he added, "I'll give you a few more minutes with him." Fully aware that the decision we had made was final, we sobbed, gasping for air with every breath, each in her private world of pain, yet united.

We gathered around Buttons talking to him as if he understood the import of the moment.  I lowered my head, closing my eyes in silent prayer. At last, we called the doctor in. He filled the fatal syringe as Stephanie stood crouched holding Button's head, sobbing and kissing him and speaking to him with gentle reassurance. Rachel and I held each other while Michelle stood against the wall, still observing without emotion. Struggling, I released each girl to experience the hurt in her own way. I was thankful that my teen girls were mature, able to understand the decision and work through the pain.

Right before the injection, the vet again laid his hand on Buttons and asked if he could say a prayer for us and our dog.  Having never received such a request from a vet before, I was surprised, but comforted by his caring gesture. I heartily agreed.

"Dear Lord," he began, "please be close to this hurting family and their beloved pet, Buttons. Comfort them in Your name.  Amen."

I inwardly mused. How like our precious Father to put a praying vet into our lives at just the right moment when we needed a touch from His hand. God was reassuring us that He who made all living things, who notices when a tiny sparrow falls, also cared for our Buttons.

We drove home in silence. Rain was still falling, but it couldn't equal the torrent of tears we had shed. We arrived home with puffy, thick eyes and numb hearts. I called my husband at work, sharing the details with him. Weeping, he longed to be with us,

hold us, and share in our grief. I realized through Button's death that my girls had learned a life lesson--letting go of someone you dearly love and trusting God to take care of the pain. We would have precious memories of Buttons to cherish through the years and God's comfort to hold onto through the tears.

~~

Eileen Rife, author of Second Chance, speaks to women’s groups. Her three daughters are now grown with families of their own. One of her chief joys is playing with her six grandchildren who provided the inspiration for her upcoming gift book, Wit & Wisdom from the Wee Ones. www.eileenrife.com, www.eileen-rife.blogspot.com