A Slice of Rhubarb Cake: Contemplations on Loss & Living Faithfully

Three bites worth.
That's the amount of crumbly oatmeal-flour cake, with its moist chunks of rhubarb hidden beneath the golden fluff, I have left on my dessert plate. All of a sudden a wave of remorse overtakes me; I wish that I had eaten my cake slower. I'll have to savor every last bite.

I feel that way right now, as I recall the day's events and ponder what the future will look like for myself, my husband and his family. One of Ken's grandmas is at the hospital and we are unsure as to when she'll be able to return to home, let alone her current state of health. It's a tough situation. Today, upon visiting grandma at the medical center, I felt mixed emotions as I walked through the brightly-lit corridor leading to her room. The hospital where she's staying is so peaceful and welcoming. Likewise, there are Bible verses and references scattered throughout the hallways and waiting areas. I remember being in a place like this one in the not-too-distant past. However, the hospital where I spent my time was not located in Alaska--it was back on Maui. And there were no Bible references to comfort me while waiting in the lobby. The smells of Maui's main health center were quite different than the well-ventilated, fresh scent of the hospital where I spent this morning.

It's crazy how experiences in our everyday can trigger memories from the past. Maybe this is something unique to me. I have always been commended on my ability to recall past events with prolific detail but I don't usually feel that my ability is such a gift. Today included moments like that. Moments when I was transported to a place and a time that felt incredibly real, in its emotion and experience.

All of a sudden, I am back in the Intensive Care Unit at the Maui Memorial Hospital, sitting beside my 74-year-old grandma, watching her body deteriorate--her lungs had collapsed after filling with fluid and she was literally being pumped with oxygen through a breathing machine. My right hand strokes her soft gray hair, as she rests peacefully in a half-propped position. She's in a coma right now and I'm not sure if she can hear me, but I start reading to her anyway. I have some Bible verses that I brought, along with a wealth of stories from my day at work. Grandma loved hearing my stories, I would think, as I now shared them without any type of acknowledgment on her part. I clasp her warm hand and hold it steadily as I whisper into her ear that I'll be back again soon. I love you, Grandma. 

And now I'm back. I realize that I'm not on the little island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean that I called home for so long. I'm actually in the rugged, mountain-strewn state of Alaska. I'm also not sitting with my grandma who is dying of emphysema. I'm with Ken's grandma, and she is awake and coherent, able to respond to my stories and recognize who I am. This is a different situation, although it brings up memories that I had tried to bury so deep.

It's hard watching loved ones suffer and experience pain. I wish that God didn't allow us to walk through such things and yet I believe that one day, perhaps in Heaven, it will all make sense. For now, I can only trust that He is good and place my hope in Him. I still miss my Grandma every day. The hardest part, I think for me, is not being able to talk to her. She had such a funny sense of humor--her Bronx, New York upbringing added to her candor. Quick-witted and extremely wise, Grandma provided a sense of stability in my life. When she died, it took so long for my grief to subside. I still carry with me the invisible wounds of having lost someone so dear.

My emotions are fresh, my pain laid bare before me. As I spent time with Ken's grandma today, I thought back to all the times I have been blessed to walk with people through seasons of suffering: as a Stephen Minister (lay counselor), a Memorial Service Coordinator, and also in just being available for people I've met along life's journey. It's so hard to watch people hurting, but I am thankful for the way it pushes me to see beyond this life, into the hope of what's to come.

So, here we are, now living in Alaska, and pressing into Christ for hope as we walk with family members through the aging process. I am confident that God has us here for a reason. In response to my constant questioning, I've heard Him whisper in my ear, "for such a time as this" (from the story of Esther). I want to be faithful to that calling. Six years ago, if I hadn't moved home to Maui following college, I would have missed the opportunity to walk my grandma from this life into the next. Instead, I answered God's prompt. I'm amazed at what God has brought my husband and me through these past few years of marriage, and I am confident that He will continue to meet our every need.

Oh, June.

Stand up straight.
Chew slowly.
Breathe deeply.

Those three phrases are stacked like bullet points on the torn yellow sheet of tablet paper pinned to my bedroom board. Two prickly pins hold the sheet in place, as if it a sudden gust of wind would knock it down. Looking back, I’m not sure why I chose two pins, when just one is perfectly sufficient. It’s as if I needed to physically affirm the importance of these words. They needn't slip from my mind anytime soon. They are here to stay.

In reviewing my previous blog posts, I recognize that it’s been more than a month since I last wrote. I find writing to be like that sometimes. In seasons filled with extreme flurry, it’s hard for me to sit down and find peace in writing. Writing instead takes on a more stressful attitude; words become a battle, marked by loss.

All that aside, I am here. I can stand up straight. I can chew slowly. And I can breathe deeply. At least right now those three phrases bring me back to a concrete place, where my mind is not racing between our upcoming move and the loss of proximity to so many friends and the city--with all its tantalizing tastes, sights and sounds at my doorstep. In remembering to practice the simple things, I recognize my intense longing for stability and a sense of home.

 Since I wrote last, so many big changes have taken place or are in process. Ken and I officially gave our move-out notice and later this month, we will walk away from our second apartment we've together called home. Weekly community group meetings at our place have been a delight and also an opportunity for relational and spiritual growth. Yet, our time with our church group is coming to a close. Likewise, I have mixed feelings about leaving Seattle. While I tire of my many walks along the urine- and vomit-stained sidewalks here in our district, I must admit that being so close to such depravity has opened my eyes to the world that I live in. I’m recognizing that while safety and comfort rest easily in the suburbs, pain and brokenness lie awake in the city. It is here that Christ’s plan for the world takes on a fresh meaning for me. Here, in the city, where drivers outside our apartment slam on their breaks and barely bypass accidents, and occasionally scream obscenities to the wind, I see something that I've missed my whole life apart from the city. It’s a kind of stark desperation that can be witnessed by living here. By partaking in the clutter and messiness of humanity.

In a few weeks, my husband and I will leave this area. We’ll close this chapter on what has been four years of time spent developing friendships, living intentionally, and pursuing community. But in faith, we both believe that God is calling us to someplace new. Someplace different. It is in this hope that we venture out, in certain ways willing to compromise and leave behind some of the expectations that once felt so significant—such as being someplace that is warm year-round, close to a big city, near to my dearest college friends, and brimming with obvious opportunities. Instead, we are choosing to pursue proximity to family, specifically Ken’s family. In late July, we will take all of our belongings and drive the Yukon to Alaska. It is there that we hope to put down some roots, at least for a time. A time that is yet to be determined. We’re excited and also scared. OK, maybe I’m the scared one. But I think part of being honest is admitting my fears. I’m afraid of a big move. I’m worried about saying goodbye to so many friends. I’m scared that maybe it won’t work out. And still, I keep moving forward, pressing into God for a faith that rests assured. A faith that is marked by seasons of waiting and seasons of action. Our time to move forward seems to have come and I look forward to sharing how God speaks to us in this new adventure. Until then, I recall my small note stuck to my cork board: Stand up straight. Chew slowly. Breathe deeply.

I don’t need to figure everything out. It’ll come. In God’s time.

Frannie and Friday

Bursts of light. That’s how I described the clouded winter canopy, as I scribbled my thoughts on paper Friday morning. I woke up early to the soft tapping of rain and cozily sat beside our balcony door, gazing at the dark clouds dancing in the wind, sweeping gracefully along the skyline. While most Seattle mornings consist of a thick grey mass overhead, these fluffy and airy puffs of white moved along swiftly, hurrying to and fro. Pockets of light glittered in the dawn sky, as the clouds flew along freely. This morning was different, I could tell. Change was taking place—there was movement in the sky, and it was fantastic and beautiful to watch. 

In the days leading up to Friday last week, I felt overwhelmed, trapped and scared. Each of the weeks prior had brought news of immense hardship from family and friends. In shouldering this pain, along with our sense of security breached from recent theft, I was emotionally and physically raw. Then came the news about Ken’s biggest scholarship. We lost it—the money wouldn’t be coming, and evidently, that loss started a chain reaction of withheld funding. I didn’t understand what happened and neither did Ken. We were scared of what that meant for us. In haste, I restructured our entire budget and went into “survival mode” for a few days. No extra expenses. No extra giving. We had to buckle down and do it quickly. Last Monday, being in a place of fear and helplessness, I decided to start praying. Ken and I both did. Together. Separate. With others. I also started fasting. I gave up my need for comfort and security. Tangibly, I decided that I would fast desserts and sweets for the next month, until Christmas, so that every time I reached for physical comfort and satisfaction in dessert I would be reminded that instead, I needed to go to God in fulfilling my deeper longings. If you’re wondering what fasting has been like, it’s hard. Especially so, if you give up something that constantly vies for first place in your life. Food is like that for me. I go there first for comfort, and find immense pleasure in its constant companionship. That’s how I know it’s dangerous, and worth swapping out for more directed prayer time.

Besides our own attempts to meet with school advisers, counselors and administration officers, we asked our families, close friends and community group to pray for us. It was awesome. I felt genuinely supported and loved by the ladies in my Stephen Ministry group. They came alongside me, cried with me, and prayed for us. That God would give us hope, when it seemed so very distant.

We received our first ‘burst of light’ on Wednesday afternoon, when we met the sweetest, 60-year-old African-American lady, who works at the school office. She reminds me of my grandma—witty, sweet and fiercely persistent. I’ll call her “Frannie.” Frannie listened attentively to our story and how we were shocked that we didn't receive Ken’s engineering scholarship, especially when it was promised to us. She nodded often and focused on every word we shared. Frannie wanted to help us, it was obvious, and she told us that. She directed us to the next person we would need to talk to, a lady in the finance department who wouldn't be back in the office until the next day. We thanked her and said that we’d be back. Thursday, around 10 a.m., we returned to the finance department and were met with a big smile from Frannie. She welcomed us in and walked us to the financial lady who she thought would be able to help us. After 20 minutes, it was clear that the lady we were meeting with couldn't do anything. Something about how her hands were tied until the scholarship’s coding was changed. Without that electronic revision, no one could help us. She seemed quick to hurry us out of her office and directed us to yet another person.

At this point, Ken and I were disappointed and frustrated. Our time felt wasted. We started to wonder what the next person would say, and the next…How many times would we get the “run-around”, we wondered. But Frannie wouldn't let us despair. She saw our frowns, as we walked toward the door. She grabbed our attention by saying, “You don’t give up, you hear? You need to march into that department and believe that you are going to get that scholarship. You have to be optimistic.” And that was our ray of our hope. Frannie believed that change was possible and she was willing to rally for us. Ken and I turned to each other, encouraged, and ready for the next obstacle.

That Thursday afternoon, Ken knocked on doors and waited to meet with the department facilitators who would be able to help us. He made phone calls and was persistent in sharing his story. The next person he met with had to call another person, and then that person helped the first person change the computer coding. It’s a long, drawn-out process and I’ll spare you any more details. The praise is that Friday morning, the change was finalized. We would get our money. In just a few days, everything changed—for the better.

In reflecting over last week’s challenges, I am reminded of a story I’ve heard many times. It’s a story about a widow and a judge. The widow was a woman who by society’s views was quite helpless and perhaps fearful. She had an adversary and wanted justice for their wrongdoings. So she sought the help of the judge. The judge didn’t care about the widow and refused to help her day after day. But the widow, in persistence, would not give up. She kept seeking justice, with fierce determination. Finally, the judge granted her justice because he did not want her continual plea to wear him out. This story intrigues me. It speaks of a world that I am not entirely familiar with. A realm where persistence in prayer and bringing our requests before the Lord is honored. Faith, despite all odds, is commanded. On these words, I stand completely convicted and humbled. I want the faith and persistence of this widow. At the same time, I feel incredibly blessed with the series of events I’ve been privy to enter into lately. It is through these experiences, where I cannot make things happen on my own, that God is able to work. I’m giving him the space that’s rightfully His.

I treasure Frannie’s words to us last week. She reminded Ken and me of our call to be people of hope and faith. To never give up. Thank you, Frannie. This blog is dedicated to you, and the spark of hope that ignited our faith that God was working in our situation, even it when felt most bleak.


Then Jesus said, “Did I not tell you that if you believe, you will see the glory of God?” John 11:40

Two Years in the Making

Today marks our second anniversary, and what a wonderful day it has been. Ken is working hard in the kitchen kneading a sticky loaf of dough. As I glance over, I notice the dark Kalamata olives peaking through the white bread base. Mmm. We are hosting our neighbors for an early dinner before we head to a ministry meeting at church. Our friends who live downstairs are moving out of the building in the next few days and we hoped that this meal would be a way to support them amidst the busyness of packing and relocating. Ken and I agreed that our homemade taco soup sounds rich and hearty, and the bread he's making will be just perfect in soaking up every drop of soup in our bowls.

In reflecting over these past two years of marriage, I can't help but smile and laugh. "Rich and hearty", just like the soup we're making, are apropos in describing our marriage and the journey that has brought us to this point. God has been at work in our lives and our marriage in ways nothing short of miraculous. I can't even put into words how much I love Ken--each day my love for him grows. It's hard to express the numerous quirks we have developed in being so close to each other, in proximity and in relationship--those little expressions and jokes that we indulge in daily. Brimming with adventures, big life changes (i.e. when I quit my job last summer to pursue something new, us moving to a new neighborhood closer to Ken's college, etc) and unexpected health and family issues, these last two years have been rich and also challenging. I suppose much of life's satisfaction is best enjoyed when you've worked hard to reap the fruit of your labor. That's what's marriage has taught me, in a sense. Love is worth fighting for, protecting, and pursuing. At times, Ken and I have walked through trials of misunderstanding each other or ourselves. In these situations, I've been humbled and challenged, as God uses our marriage to teach me how to love another person, including myself, well. Love is hard. But it's beautiful and substantial, if cultivated on "good soil." I'm reminded of Ephesians 4:1-2: "Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love." I look forward in hope to the many years ahead, as Ken and I continue to seek Christ together, as teammates, allies and best friends.

Cheers.

Here are some snapshots of the past four years we've known each other: 

(More photos can be found on our Facebook Album)