Goodbye Old Year

2010 has contained a lot of pain for me. Physical in nature, for the most part. I'm not sad to see it go. But every new year, I wonder, what have I done? And I think, what will I do now? Why does this night seem different? Why do I feel some need to "start over?" Me and the rest of the world....

Each morning should be like tomorrow morning. Each new sunrise should make me think about my resourcefulness and usefulness - what did I do with the passing day that was worthwhile? It should make me realize that I have one more opportunity. To be kind, to love, to make a difference in someone's life. To make a difference in my own life.

So, apart from learning to write a new year when I date things, perhaps tomorrow should hold no other charm for me, but a new sunrise, more breath, more heartbeats (however fast and wonky they may be). And I should just start from there.

Happy New Year.

Happy New Day.

In Pursuit of Palpitations

I have become too aware of my heart
Beating, Pumping
I seem to notice everything now
I wait for it to make itself known again
and realize that for so long, I barely knew it existed.
Sometimes I am surprised by my own heart
as if it lays in wait to jump out and scare me,
to take my breath away.
As I wait, I wonder
What of my other heart?
Am I aware of how it is growing or dying?
Growing by loving others
Dying by hurting them
Have I been attentive enough
to its continual need of change?
I have allowed physicians to meddle
with my heart of flesh.
Have I allowed The Great Physician
to cure the heart of my soul?


December 10, 2010
Naomi G. Martinez-Goldstick

The View From a Bed

I was recently put to bed
By my misbehaving heart
And doctors, nurses rushed about me
Asked me questions
Questions
Questions
And on they went
Parading by my bed
Stopping for a moment
To poke
Prod
Listen
Stopping to administer
Record
Feed and water
And moving on again

But there were some
A very few
Who stopped to talk
And laugh, even just a little
Who reminded me
That I am a person
As real as they are
And I could see them
In my mind’s eye
At home, in their car,
In love, afraid,
Weary, brave, and laughing
Just like me.

My frustrations
Melt away as I see the hands
Of another human
Not a doctor,
Not a nurse,
A human being, much braver than I
Here with me
And my misbehaving heart.


Naomi G. Martinez-Goldstick
Dedicated to
Melissa and Brent (CRMC)
Josh and Dr. Tendler (SWEP Clinic)
October 8, 2010

What Beauty Runs Before Me

I get to see beauty, to touch it, to hear it. Every day. Her laughter rings through the air, mixing and turning with the sounds of a bow across strings. Her moral fiber and unquestionable faith weave a miraculous tapestry highlighted with wit, charm, and humor. The depths of her empathic love crash like waves over all she touches.

How is it she has only lived nine years? As I reach out to stroke her hair, as if to try and catch her, I marvel at her. Me? I'm the one chosen to be her mother? It seems I have always known her, and yet, I am voracious for knowledge of who she will be.

She runs and the wind sweeps her hair and her giggles trail behind her like bubbles. How can I hold her? How can I keep her? How can I let her go?

Please, please, Lord. Please help me to at least remember every brush stroke, every note, every word written. Help me to keep each laugh, bottle each hug. Help me to understand, to love the way she does, unwaveringly and without reserve.

What beauty runs before me, what treasure reveals itself day by day.

Change

Our little family is facing a big change.

We are about to buy a house. A real house, with a driveway, 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, a fireplace, a garage, a walk-in closet. It is everything we have needed for so long. And much of what we wanted. God has blessed us and my husband has worked so hard to put us in a good financial position so that this is possible. I am thankful to both.

My kids finally get their own rooms! So long overdue. They have big plans - and even a few fears. Mom gets to finally find out who the real slob is! haha. Yikes. Perhaps it is both of them!

My husband gets to have his dream of a yard to putter in, grass to cut, bushes to trim. My children will know the joys of having a garden. I still remember the radishes, cucumbers, and carrots I grew as a child. Our lives will spill out into a yard that is more than a covered concrete porch. I get to gaze out at our lush green back yard from my dining room bay window. I get to watch the hummingbirds come and greet me.

I relish the thought of being able to sit and study my Bible at my bedroom window with a view of that beautiful back yard, listening to the birds singing up a storm in the bushes. I long to spread out in that big master suite and not worry about space (at least for a while...).

I can't wait to inhabit the kitchen and decorate the great room, to have a party and throw open the french doors to the back yard, to sit on the porch in the rain and enjoy the peace and quiet.

I nearly cried last night when I realized that next Christmas I will have a fireplace from which to hang our stockings. That's just priceless to me.

We found the house after weeks of online searching and one day of visiting (our decision made easy by school district boundaries and our desire to keep our commutes in the same range) and we fell in love when we walked in. We offered, we inspected, and now we wait and pack.

But as I pack up this old tiny townhouse, I find myself fearing the change. This is where my baby girl took her first steps. The small common grass area right beside our house will always be "my own backyard" which is what my 4-year-old son exclaimed when we came to see this house back in 2001. It was never really his, but we've kicked many a ball out there and even had Hannah's 2-year birthday party there.

I will miss this kitchen, small as it is. Completely torn out a few years ago due to mold and then rebuilt again. We built each cabinet with our own hands (and the help of the cute little Ikea man on the instructions), We replaced the sink and dishwasher with the help of a dear friend. So many memories.

This fridge, the backdrop of ever-evolving artistic abilities.

This living room, where my daughter first drew a bow across a violin.

We have built and rebuilt our lives here. The first place we called our own. It will be hard to leave.

We will still own it, so it's not like it is lost forever. We are renting it to a relative, so we can come "visit" our memories. But it won't be the same.

Is it possible to be homesick for a place you haven't left yet?

Still, in my mind's eye, I find myself already looking out windows that I don't yet own. I see myself sitting in front of a fire not yet lit. I see my prized R.C. Gorman print hanging over the mantle. I see our cats excitedly watching the birds from the dining room window. I see our children sleeping in their own space. I hear music echoing off the vaulted ceiling. I see my car in a garage (a garage!!!) And I know this is the right thing.

Change is exicting and hard and good and bad and painful and fun. It is all those things. And I am ready for it.

Oh, and to those ladies out there - packing up your bathroom is a good time to use that peel-off-mask you thought you lost and found again. And your kids will get a kick out of mom's "plastic face". :-)

10 years

I woke up this morning and realized that 10 years ago I was waking up about this time in a completely different world. 10 years ago, I woke with fear, dread, horror, and crushing stress.

You see, in a few minutes I was about to stand by my son’s bed and watch him have a seizure – how many had it been by this date? I couldn’t tell you. We were about to hand him over to a surgeon and give him up for a horrifying surgery . My husband was home with a raging fever and pneumonia. I had told him to stay home so that he could come later, when the surgery was over. My parents, recently divorced – who saw each other again for the first time in that hospital room – were sucking it up for our son’s sake. I hadn’t slept in my own bed in months, I was used to the smell of a hospital, I had seen our doctor just stand and stare and sigh and finally speak “Okay… I’ll see in you in the morning…” I had seen parents pushed from the room next door while the staff rushed in to try and save their child. I had heard one doctor say “If we don’t do this surgery, this is going to kill him” and the other tell me, “It’s only a matter of time before he codes on us”. I had watched helplessly as our son came so close to the edge, seen the concern on nurses’ faces, learned how to wake up from a deep sleep to the sound of a seizure, and I had made the awful, yet easy decision one day to stop counting seizures after we hit 300.

But there was hope, just a kernel of hope, that helped me get out of bed that day.

I held him and told him it was okay, that he wouldn’t have to do this anymore. I clung to that hope and maybe it was really more a prayer, a begging of God Almighty to come down and put his hand on my son. And I handed him over, kissed him and let go, all hinged on this kernel of hope, this thread of mercy and grace, clinging to that verse that hung over his bed: “’For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’” –Jeremiah 29:11

What I didn’t know, was that that was the last seizure I would see. What I didn’t know was that my son would laugh and talk and walk again. What I didn’t know was that he would come up to me and put his arms (yes, both arms) around me and hug me so tight that it hurt and then laugh about it. What I didn’t know was that he would get sassy and naughty and funny and bright. What I didn’t know was that he would learn to swim and play the trumpet. What I didn’t know was that God would take normalcy and half his brain away, and give back a miracle.

But on this morning, I had hope. These facts I have just listed weren’t even in my dreams that day. I only wanted him to be alive, in the very basic sense of that word. I had no earthly idea how much he would actually live.

And on this morning ten years later as I wake up and start my day, my mind runs over all my stress, my concerns over my son’s new set of struggles, money, housing, all the little worries that nip at your heels. I realize, like the people in the V-8 commercials, that there is always hope, that God still works miracles, and that He will provide what we need.

"A hope and a future."

Healing

Have you ever been told to rest for weeks at a time? It is difficult, isn't it?

In this fast paced life we can barely comprehend "recouperation" and "rest". We get just barely enough sleep, sit only as long as it takes to eat a meal, perhaps we spend way too much time at the computer, but that is not restful. Even dozing on the couch in front of the TV is not really rest.

And so a doctor - or sometimes life itself - comes along and prescribes TIME.

What is that? You mean that slippery commodity we always lack, can't keep track of and mourn bitterly? TIME? You mean you want me to sit and do nothing? Lie down in my bed for hours and not feel guilt? Eat well? Drink plenty of fluids? REST?

This is not an easy perscription. Over the last few weeks I have felt as though I was going to have to tie myself down. And the times I ignored the orders and went out anyway, or walked that extra bit just because I could, or did that extra task because it didn't seem to matter much, my body let me know about it.

Bodies understand time, even if brains don't.

The other day, I decided it wouldn't hurt to load a few dirty dishes in the dishwasher. Well, that was so easy, I thought it wouldn't be too bad to just hand wash a few things that didn't fit. And after that, well, the sink needed cleaning. Looking at the clean sink, well, the counter just was out of place, so I cleaned it too. Then I turned around and saw that the stove and counters over there needed wiping too. Oh my, what have I done? I'm exhausted!!

There is no getting around it, you have one chance to heal and your body really won't let you do much about that fact.

The heart heals in much the same way. It can suffer injury or insult just the same. And we want it to heal quickly, to not bother us anymore with it's pain. Only to find ourselves suffering more when we ignore it's needs.

And what is the perscription for a healing heart?

Love, mostly. Perfect Love, found only in One place, in one Person. Because in Him is perfect nourishment, perfect peace, perfect rest. And we must spend TIME there, feeding off of His comfort and restoration. We must be patient and diligent to fill ourselves with His Word and surround ourselves with His Truth.

I know it to be true.

3 weeks? 6 weeks? 10 years?

Our bodies and our hearts heal at different paces, for sure, and surely, scars remain. But as we run our fingers over those rough spots, we can see how far we have come, understand that it hurts so much less today than it did before. We can be astonished at how quickly TIME has passed and how those wounds we thought would never heal are distant memories.

Are you healing? Take your TIME.