Separation

On June 11 my son Ethan and I got on a plane and headed for Northern Ireland for a week of ministry. As most of you know, travel is a regular occurance of my ministry. Luella and I are both used to my leaving home to speak at various places around the world, but there was never a moment where leaving was harder than on that day. In all of the deep daily helplessness that you feel when you are watching a loved one suffer with a broken body, you experience a strange sense of comfort in being near. Nearnesss makes you feel as if you are "with" the person in their suffering and gives you the sense that you are doing something, even when there is so little you can really do. Although we enjoyed the multi-layered green of Northern Ireland, the day-by-day separation from Nicole, was very difficult. I found my mind again and again taken way from whatever we were doing with internal wondering about Nikki and how she was doing at that moment. The phone calls almost made it worse. I would hear Nicole's voice, without its strength and luster, and I would long to touch her hand or kiss her forehead.

Yesterday we finally arrived home. I couldn't stop putting my arms around Nicole and touching her head. It was wonderful to see Luella and Nikki again and to hear how well they had done while I was away, but I was slapped in the face once more with what she is facing. As she would call for help or ask for assistance, I was hit again with how broken her body is and with how little she is able to do for herself. Nicole's days are spent in a hospital bed in what was once our breakfast room, a room that forever will have new meaning. She literally invests her day managing the severe pain of her injuries and doing about anything she can to past the unbelievably long hours of inactivity.

When I arrived, Nicole was not in very good spirits and It was not until late in the evning that we came to understand what she was dealing with. Chick, a dear friend for years, had come over to discuss with Luella the possibility of installing a wheelchair ramp. Because of how our house and the steps are positioned, they were not able to come up with an easily doable plan. This was a huge disappointment to Nicole. She had gotten very excited at the thought of going outside into the yard for short periods of liberation from her little room, fresh air, and communing with nature. And she was frustrated that we seemed unable to come up with an easy way to make it happen.

I went to bed last night filled with thoughts of separation, this time not thoughts of my separation from Nikki, but of her almost total separation from her own life. The moment that SUV crushed her body against the wall separated Nicole, not only from her health, but from the apartment that was so special to her, from her job, her daily routine, her circle of friends, and her investment in the hopes and dreams for the future. It took away from her the ability to run down the steps to meet a friend. It separated her from her walks through beautiful Rittenhouse Square on the way to work. That moment took away Nikki's ability to care for herself. She has been robbed of her ability to plan and to do. She has lost both her independence and her daily community. She has been so fundamenatlly separated from her life that she grabs hold, with both hands, to the smallest potential for mobility. Although the new routine is now familiar, each momentary aspect of it only serves to force Nicole to face how much she has lost. And in such total separation, it is impossible not to be defeated by contemplation of how long the separation will be and if there will be aspects of the separation that will last forever.

Perhaps one of the harshest aspects of suffering is separation. We all tend to find such security in the comfortably repetitive regularity of daily locations, relationships, and routines. We all tend to live each day with the unspoken expectancy that what is will always be. We all tend to define ourselves and the meaning and purpose of our lives by that regularity. We all find respite in the way days cascade upon days with predictable similarity. We depend on this regularity so much that even the smallest interruption of the routine (traffic, a flat tire, a missed phine call, etc...) can wreck a day. But in a fallen world, where we are not in control, there is no guarantee that today will be repeated tomorrow. At times this means we are required to deal with momentary hassles of life that we wish we could avoid. At others times we are forced into such a total separation from our regular routine that it seems as if we have been robbed of life itself. There are ways in which this is suffering's harshest blow. In such complete separation, it is hard each day to get up and do hand to hand combat with the demons of discouragement and anger. It is hard to run from frustration and self-pity. It is hard not to demand answers for unanswerable questions. It is hard to be at peace with what you would have never wanted and definetly did not choose.

Pray for Nikki and for us that as we help her through these days of separation we will all fight the right kind of fight. And pray that, in all of the loss, we would all have eyes to see the good things that we are daily given, and that we would be thankful.