Dear Trish

I'm writing this here so that you'll only see it if you want to. I'm also writing it so that I can get some things down that I should've written about a long time ago and didn't. I'm making it a letter to you because it's easier for me to think of the hard things when I have some remote hope of their being an encouragement to someone else. Guess what? You're it. It's no Showcase Showdown, but maybe it won't be too bad.

I read In the Midst of It regularly. Or, as regularly as Sarah has time to string together her very insightful insights and thoughtful thoughts and snarky snarkiness (those are my favorites), but I digress. I read this post, which sent me to your blog to read this post and this post, comments and all :-o. And that's what got me thinking. And, by thinking, of course, I mean blogging.

When I was 22 I got married. When I was 23 I had our first child. When she was 2 months old, it was apparent that she was not okay. Really not okay. My world changed, my vocabulary changed, and my life changed. A "good day" wasn't when she rolled over or reached for my face (those things took YEARS to happen), it was when she wasn't in ICU or quarantined. Bad days didn't mean random fussiness, those were the days - DAYS, as in MORE THAN ONE - when I was advised to "hold her...while you can." On a good day, they got the IV placed in less than 3 tries. On a bad day it took 7.

When I was 24, my husband and I were given the job of making the decision whether or not to have a portion (the size of a man's thumb) of our only child's brain removed in the hope that healthy tissue would grow in its place right on top of the brain stem. I was a housewife with a high school diploma.

I'll probably write more of this some other time, but for now I want you to know that I know. I really know. I've soared to dizzying heights of gratitude, bathed in the absolute security of God's love and provision, and I've sat on the kitchen floor in my robe holding a naked, trembling child who vomited and pooped at the same time and with such frequency that there was not time for diapers or clothing, just a fresh towel from the stack beside me. The people who wanted to tell me what I shoulda, coulda, oughta had. no. idea.

The apostle Paul really said it better than I ever could:

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God. For just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows. (2 Corinthians 1:3-5)

With love from your sister on the journey,

Clem