One year ago, we were picking up Avram's fancy new helment. Many people have asked me how long he ended up wearing it and if it helped since I did a poor job of reporting on it. He ended up wearing it for a little over three months, and then his seizures started. We just didn't feel comfortable putting it back on him after that. The doctors were confident that the helmet didn't start the seizures, but it made us feel better leaving it off nevertheless. Although, looking back over pictures from October through January of last year, I can tell what a huge difference it made. His head was looking pretty funky, and it's so beautifully round now.
But like I was saying. It was October last year that we were picking up Ave's helmet. We may need to rename this month Orthotics October or something like that, because I just finished scheduling a fitting for the buddy to get some ankle supporting-booties.
Since he started cruising a couple months ago, we noticed that his ankles turned in pretty significantly, which is actually not that uncommon in little tikes standing independently for the first time (especially kids with low muscle tone, like the buddy). But, unfortunately, Ave's ankles have not corrected themselves. We head in on Halloween morning for a fitting for a fancy pair of these.
(Think they'll mind if we come in costume?)
Good news is that he only has to wear them when he is awake (three cheers for not having to sleep in uncomfortable plastic junk, like that stupid helmet--hooray!). We actually get to pick out a cool pattern for his new shoes, too, which I'm pretty excited about since we didn't get to do that with his helmet. It's not a forever thing, just a strength building thing. And, probably the best news of all, is that these cool new shoes will help his balance and coordination so much.
Bad news is...well, actually, I don't think there is any bad news. I think I've come to terms with the fact that Avram is just going to need some things that other kids won't need, and I'm just done being upset about it. I've fought God on so many things he has needed: his surgery, therapy, his helmet, and it has all done nothing but helped him. So, I surrender.
At least for now.
So, back to his balance and coordination.
A couple weeks ago, Ave had a bad case of Extreme Vomiting. I don't know what else to call it, because he didn't have a fever or loss of appetite. Not even an ear infection.
Just...vomit. Lots of it.
(aren't you glad you read my blog today?)
Fearing it was something to do with his shunt, our pediatrician sent us over to Parkview for a CT Scan (which, by the way, holy cats, that place is GIGANTIC).
In many ways, Avram getting sick that week turned out to be a blessing in disguise. For one, it got us in the system at Parkview. So now, any time we need to go, they already have all the information on the buddy that they need. Secondly, it calmed my anxiety about moving hours away from Children's Memorial. I love Children's Memorial, but I had such a positive experience at Parkview North that week. They moved quickly, were super organized, went out of their way to make sure Ave was comfortable, and kept me posted on everything. Phew.
Lastly, and maybe most importantly, it let to a possible change of Avram's diagnosis.
This is going to sound a little strange.
After the CT, I was called back in to the Radiology Department to speak with a neurologist. He asked me what we had been told concerning Avram's diagnosis, and I gave him the whole story about all the ultrasounds and and MRIs and yada yada yada and how they finally said he had Hydrocephalus and Schizencephaly.
The doctor sat there for a minute, then told me that based on the scans it didn't appear that Avram had Schizencephaly, but Dandy Walker Variant.
This was pretty bizarre to me, of course, because that's what my doctor said at our 20 week ultrasound, but then was later told after the Fetal MRI that he didn't have. No one has ever mentioned Dandy Walker again.
As he began to tell me the symptoms of Dandy Walker Variant, it just seemed to fit Avram so much more than Schizencephaly. When I read about kids with Schiz, they don't sound like our buddy at all. They have breathing problems, many can't eat solid foods, never walk or crawl (and if you know our little guy, you know that eating is definitely not a problem for him).
There are three kinds of Dandy Walker: Dandy Walker, Dandy Walker Variant, and Mega Cisterna Magna. Avram appears to have Dandy Walker Variant, which is the mildest form of the three.The biggest problems kids with DWV have are balance and coordination (sound familiar?), especially with fine motor skills (totally our little buddy). They tend to have at least average intelligence and do really well overall. It just fits so much more.
It's like everything suddenly just made sense.
Before I didn't really think that a name or diagnosis mattered that much, because whatever challenges we had we were just going to face them. But putting a name on it has, oddly enough, brought some peace to this mama's heart.
All the grandparents have suddenly jumped into Christmas mode around here, asking for lists and ideas and most-wished-for toys. I have had a hard time coming up with a list for myself, of deciding what I want, because really the only thing in the world I could want or wish for is for Avram to walk. He is so close, and working so hard.
I want him to fly, to take off, to experience his first rush of crazy independence.
I want to run him down in the grocery store and chase him around the house before bath time.
I want to be exhausted at the end of the day, to only be able to wear my gym shoes during the day just to keep up with him.
That's all I want for Christmas: so bring it on, little plastic shoes.
Bring. It. On.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
{requests of my memory}
Most days I am anxious for Avram to move on to the next milestone, to achieve new things. I am ready for him to be just a little bit older, to be able to do just a little bit more.
But then, there are days like today, moments like this morning, when I wish I could just freeze him in time. Moments I pray that my mind will serve me well and manage to wholly preserve.
These mornings are filled with images I pray my memory will keep close by: The moment I pick Ave up out of bed in the morning, and he wraps those little arms around my neck so tight. The serious-browed, puckered-lipped face he makes as he decides which piece of banana has the honor of being the first bite of breakfast. The tiny grunts and focused, busy hands as he tries to figure out a toy, the shriek of joy when he finds himself in the pantry (Where the Cheddar Bunnies are, of course. Who wouldn't shriek for joy?). The giddy smile on his face when he sees his dad's picture on the refrigerator, the happy "ba's" and "blllppss" I hear on the monitor when he wakes up from a nap, the loving reflex of running his chubby little fingers through the hair at the nape of my neck, his uncontrollable giggles when Dad does something funny.
My only request of my mind, my memory, is that in it's hustle to move past the pain and frustrations and anxiety, that it remembers the good, the cuddles, the after-bath smell, the big sloppy kisses. So, someday, when he is walking and talking and graduating and shaving, I can call back not only all the bad times and hard work that it took to get us there, but all of the good times and happy days, too.
But then, there are days like today, moments like this morning, when I wish I could just freeze him in time. Moments I pray that my mind will serve me well and manage to wholly preserve.
These mornings are filled with images I pray my memory will keep close by: The moment I pick Ave up out of bed in the morning, and he wraps those little arms around my neck so tight. The serious-browed, puckered-lipped face he makes as he decides which piece of banana has the honor of being the first bite of breakfast. The tiny grunts and focused, busy hands as he tries to figure out a toy, the shriek of joy when he finds himself in the pantry (Where the Cheddar Bunnies are, of course. Who wouldn't shriek for joy?). The giddy smile on his face when he sees his dad's picture on the refrigerator, the happy "ba's" and "blllppss" I hear on the monitor when he wakes up from a nap, the loving reflex of running his chubby little fingers through the hair at the nape of my neck, his uncontrollable giggles when Dad does something funny.
My only request of my mind, my memory, is that in it's hustle to move past the pain and frustrations and anxiety, that it remembers the good, the cuddles, the after-bath smell, the big sloppy kisses. So, someday, when he is walking and talking and graduating and shaving, I can call back not only all the bad times and hard work that it took to get us there, but all of the good times and happy days, too.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
{the speed of ten thousand horses}
We are, finally, back in the swing of things. After mountains of paperwork and lots of phone calls and weeks of waiting around, we are back in therapy. Avram qualified for Physical, Occupational, and Speech Therapy through First Steps here in Fort Wayne, so he is back in full Baby Boot Camp mode.
The first therapy appointment always feels like a sort of blind date; this stranger comes to your house, meets your family, hears your story, asks personal questions. It's a bit awkward, not knowing what their sense of humor is, or if they will be super personable or a total drill sergeant. It's pretty anxiety-ridden: Will they do a good job? Will they be tough enough? Will they be patient? Will they think we're weird? Will Avram like her?
Every time the door bell rang last week Avram & I sort of looked at each other like, "Well, how do we look? Do we look ok? Please tell me you brushed your teeth."
So far, so good. All three of our therapists seem like incredibly gifted and compassionate professionals. I am always amazed at the suggestions they make, at how changing one tiny thing makes such a huge difference in Avram. Just one small adjustment in how he holds his leg, and all the sudden he's pulling up to standing. Just changing the placement of food on his highchair tray, and he's got the pincer grasp down like an old pro. It's blows my mind. It's freaking magic.
The funny part of it all is how much Avram has changed since our last therapy sessions in Chicago. He was still pretty dependent and generally immobile back then. It's amazing how much our new house has encouraged him to explore (Especially the carpet. Oh, wonderful, soft, fall-buffering carpet! It makes me forgive how industrial-looking you are.) and become independent. I set him down on the floor to play, and bam. He's gone. He's in a cabinet somewhere, or sliding down the hallway on his belly, or sitting at the front door looking at the window, or chatting it up with himself in a mirror somewhere. Just like that, he's all big and independent. I go check on him every few minutes and he always looks at me with surprise, like, "Oh, are you still here?"
Which is wonderful.
Except for during therapy.
Where Avram used to sit and (usually) happily comply with Baby Boot Camp, now he knows he can simply turn the other way and take off. "You want me to do that? No, no thank you. I'll see you later. Thanks for stopping by though. Nice seeing you, really."
Approximately half of our therapy time so far has consisted of me chasing him down and dragging him back to the therapist.
I tell you one thing, you have to have some solid self esteem for that job. Avram is a sweet guy, but when they say "bye bye," he claps.
"You're leaving? Oh thank God! Here, let me applaud you while you exit. I'm so happy this moment has come."
He's just started cruising, he's still army crawling. He hasn't said any words, he can't stack things or smash things together yet. He sends sippy cups soaring across the kitchen. But he's babbling, he's figuring out how to pull back a car and make it go, he's opening up cabinets. He's drinking out of cups (take that, stupid sippy cups). In reality, he's more like a 9-12 month old then a 17 month old.
To others it may seem that we are progressing at a snail's pace, that we are behind. "Delayed," as they're so fond of saying in the medical world. I see the look in people's eyes when we go out, wondering why this big guy isn't walking or doing the other things he looks old enough to be doing.
But in our little world, we are flying at the speed of ten thousand horses, stampeding through fields and woods, jumping over hurdles and roadblocks, running farther than anyone ever thought, or said, we could go.
The wind is at our back again, and the little buddy shall be victorious.
The first therapy appointment always feels like a sort of blind date; this stranger comes to your house, meets your family, hears your story, asks personal questions. It's a bit awkward, not knowing what their sense of humor is, or if they will be super personable or a total drill sergeant. It's pretty anxiety-ridden: Will they do a good job? Will they be tough enough? Will they be patient? Will they think we're weird? Will Avram like her?
Every time the door bell rang last week Avram & I sort of looked at each other like, "Well, how do we look? Do we look ok? Please tell me you brushed your teeth."
So far, so good. All three of our therapists seem like incredibly gifted and compassionate professionals. I am always amazed at the suggestions they make, at how changing one tiny thing makes such a huge difference in Avram. Just one small adjustment in how he holds his leg, and all the sudden he's pulling up to standing. Just changing the placement of food on his highchair tray, and he's got the pincer grasp down like an old pro. It's blows my mind. It's freaking magic.
The funny part of it all is how much Avram has changed since our last therapy sessions in Chicago. He was still pretty dependent and generally immobile back then. It's amazing how much our new house has encouraged him to explore (Especially the carpet. Oh, wonderful, soft, fall-buffering carpet! It makes me forgive how industrial-looking you are.) and become independent. I set him down on the floor to play, and bam. He's gone. He's in a cabinet somewhere, or sliding down the hallway on his belly, or sitting at the front door looking at the window, or chatting it up with himself in a mirror somewhere. Just like that, he's all big and independent. I go check on him every few minutes and he always looks at me with surprise, like, "Oh, are you still here?"
Which is wonderful.
Except for during therapy.
Where Avram used to sit and (usually) happily comply with Baby Boot Camp, now he knows he can simply turn the other way and take off. "You want me to do that? No, no thank you. I'll see you later. Thanks for stopping by though. Nice seeing you, really."
Approximately half of our therapy time so far has consisted of me chasing him down and dragging him back to the therapist.
I tell you one thing, you have to have some solid self esteem for that job. Avram is a sweet guy, but when they say "bye bye," he claps.
"You're leaving? Oh thank God! Here, let me applaud you while you exit. I'm so happy this moment has come."
He's just started cruising, he's still army crawling. He hasn't said any words, he can't stack things or smash things together yet. He sends sippy cups soaring across the kitchen. But he's babbling, he's figuring out how to pull back a car and make it go, he's opening up cabinets. He's drinking out of cups (take that, stupid sippy cups). In reality, he's more like a 9-12 month old then a 17 month old.
To others it may seem that we are progressing at a snail's pace, that we are behind. "Delayed," as they're so fond of saying in the medical world. I see the look in people's eyes when we go out, wondering why this big guy isn't walking or doing the other things he looks old enough to be doing.
But in our little world, we are flying at the speed of ten thousand horses, stampeding through fields and woods, jumping over hurdles and roadblocks, running farther than anyone ever thought, or said, we could go.
The wind is at our back again, and the little buddy shall be victorious.
Monday, August 15, 2011
{a good place}
Well, here we are. Back home.
I can't believe it's already been over a month since we moved in. It feels more like, you know, last week. We have managed to get quite a lot done: boxes are gone, pictures are hung, stuff is painted, furniture is placed. It's a little overwhelming to finally have a place to put everything; for so long we have been in compact-living mode. Having too many drawers to choose from is such a wonderful problem.
Jason started back to school today; he is teaching tenth grade English at Columbia City High School. Avram is all enrolled in Early Intervention for Indiana and we find out this week how often he will have therapy. He is feeding himself now, like a big show off, and claps for himself after every bite. Needless to say eating a meal takes a bit longer now. He is still doing his funky army crawl all over the place ( he is fast) and loves to stand up by himself. The poor guy wants to get moving so bad, if only his body would just cooperate. He also figured out how to open cabinets this week. Lucky me.
Our life has grown both quieter and noisier all at once. We still aren't quite used to there not being footsteps over our heads, or cigarette smoke wafting through the airways, or hearing music blaring at 2am. No more loud train rides, or horns honking, or flights of stairs to carry groceries up. It is so quiet, so peaceful.
But on the other hand, we are now adjusting to actually seeing people. Like, in person. Regularly. In Chicago, especially after Avram was born, many weeks the only people I saw other than J & Ave were the people at church. Now, we have grandparents in and out, friends to meet up with, brothers and sisters to go visit. I guess I can't get away with wearing my pjs around the house as much as I used to.
Truth be told, I love our increased social activity, because Avram is blossoming in it. Over the last six weeks he has become this totally different baby. Well, I can't even really say baby anymore, because he is looking more and more like a little boy. He is exploring every inch of our new home, becoming so independent and confident in his Adventure Man skills. He is smiling and babbling and interacting so much more. It's like he's been pushed out on to the stage in front of all these people, and he's so excited to show off his best song and dance. He beams.
All that is so wonderful, but it is also so hard. Like I said, we hardly spent time with very many people in Chicago, let alone babies. Now we have been thrust in to the dang Baby Capitol of the Universe. I swear there are more babies here than grown people. Every where we go, babies. And not just babies, but Mega Babies. It seems like there are suddenly hundreds of babies around, doing all of these things that Avram can't do yet; all these babies running around and saying full sentences and climbing on playgrounds and performing scientific experiments. I have always been aware of Ave's delay, but it has felt a little more...in my face.
My grandma frequently says, "What difference does it make when someone is 20 years old if they first walked when they were nine months old or eighteen months old?" I know there is a lot of wisdom there, and I know that he is going to do all of those things when he is ready to do them. Maybe because Chicago was so diverse, or because we spent so much time at Children's with other kids with big challenges, or because I was in denial, but it feels a little more like we stick out here, like other moms give us the "look" because our big buddy isn't walking yet (and he is BIG. Seriously, like bigger than some two-year olds.).
Despite my insecurities and fears being a little exposed over the last month, I have never been more excited and proud to be Jason's wife, to be Avram's mama. I've been hanging up a lot of pictures the last few weeks. Looking at some of our wedding pictures, I feel like I look so young, so naive, so blissfully unaware of the struggles and sorrows ahead. I hung some pictures from soon after Avram was born, and we look so tired, so fearful, so sad: our eyes give everything away. Then I started to hang up pictures from this summer, and I think I caught a glimpse of hope, of happiness, of peace in all our faces.
We are home,
we are together,
we are in a good place.
I can't believe it's already been over a month since we moved in. It feels more like, you know, last week. We have managed to get quite a lot done: boxes are gone, pictures are hung, stuff is painted, furniture is placed. It's a little overwhelming to finally have a place to put everything; for so long we have been in compact-living mode. Having too many drawers to choose from is such a wonderful problem.
Jason started back to school today; he is teaching tenth grade English at Columbia City High School. Avram is all enrolled in Early Intervention for Indiana and we find out this week how often he will have therapy. He is feeding himself now, like a big show off, and claps for himself after every bite. Needless to say eating a meal takes a bit longer now. He is still doing his funky army crawl all over the place ( he is fast) and loves to stand up by himself. The poor guy wants to get moving so bad, if only his body would just cooperate. He also figured out how to open cabinets this week. Lucky me.
Our life has grown both quieter and noisier all at once. We still aren't quite used to there not being footsteps over our heads, or cigarette smoke wafting through the airways, or hearing music blaring at 2am. No more loud train rides, or horns honking, or flights of stairs to carry groceries up. It is so quiet, so peaceful.
But on the other hand, we are now adjusting to actually seeing people. Like, in person. Regularly. In Chicago, especially after Avram was born, many weeks the only people I saw other than J & Ave were the people at church. Now, we have grandparents in and out, friends to meet up with, brothers and sisters to go visit. I guess I can't get away with wearing my pjs around the house as much as I used to.
Truth be told, I love our increased social activity, because Avram is blossoming in it. Over the last six weeks he has become this totally different baby. Well, I can't even really say baby anymore, because he is looking more and more like a little boy. He is exploring every inch of our new home, becoming so independent and confident in his Adventure Man skills. He is smiling and babbling and interacting so much more. It's like he's been pushed out on to the stage in front of all these people, and he's so excited to show off his best song and dance. He beams.
All that is so wonderful, but it is also so hard. Like I said, we hardly spent time with very many people in Chicago, let alone babies. Now we have been thrust in to the dang Baby Capitol of the Universe. I swear there are more babies here than grown people. Every where we go, babies. And not just babies, but Mega Babies. It seems like there are suddenly hundreds of babies around, doing all of these things that Avram can't do yet; all these babies running around and saying full sentences and climbing on playgrounds and performing scientific experiments. I have always been aware of Ave's delay, but it has felt a little more...in my face.
My grandma frequently says, "What difference does it make when someone is 20 years old if they first walked when they were nine months old or eighteen months old?" I know there is a lot of wisdom there, and I know that he is going to do all of those things when he is ready to do them. Maybe because Chicago was so diverse, or because we spent so much time at Children's with other kids with big challenges, or because I was in denial, but it feels a little more like we stick out here, like other moms give us the "look" because our big buddy isn't walking yet (and he is BIG. Seriously, like bigger than some two-year olds.).
Despite my insecurities and fears being a little exposed over the last month, I have never been more excited and proud to be Jason's wife, to be Avram's mama. I've been hanging up a lot of pictures the last few weeks. Looking at some of our wedding pictures, I feel like I look so young, so naive, so blissfully unaware of the struggles and sorrows ahead. I hung some pictures from soon after Avram was born, and we look so tired, so fearful, so sad: our eyes give everything away. Then I started to hang up pictures from this summer, and I think I caught a glimpse of hope, of happiness, of peace in all our faces.
We are home,
we are together,
we are in a good place.
Photo by Betsy King
Monday, June 27, 2011
{the best of times, the worst of times}
And just like that, Moving Week is upon us.
Last week we found out we were moving back to Fort Wayne, just the other day we were celebrating Avram's first birthday, yesterday we were packing for vacation. Or so it seems. Was my last blog seriously in May? Where has June gone?
Just two more days of being Chicago residents. Two more days. We tried to make a list of things we wanted to do in the city before we made the big move back home, but we ended up simply shrugging our shoulders indifferently. We really have done everything we would want to do in the city: ate at great restaurants, went sailing on the lake, toured all the museums and zoos, shopped downtown, rode the bike trails.
As excited I am about moving back to our hometown, there are definitely things I will miss about the city. The lake (I need to live by water again at some point in my life), great stores (Whole Foods, Trader Joes...just to name a few), the world-class museums, all the gorgeous parks, the diversity, being able to walk almost everywhere I need to go, the good friends we've made here.
But there are things we will not miss. In any capacity. Ever.
Like the constant linger of cigarette smoke, having traffic as life's soundtrack, psychos dropping cement blocks off our apartment rooftop onto innocent cars below (true story), cars exploding into flames outside our front window (also, true story), seeing more airplanes than stars in the sky, having my husband trapped on Lake Shore Drive, paying 10.25% sales tax, sitting next to a guy smoking pot on the train...
I could go on, but I'll spare you. Also, I have more boxes to pack.
We had some tough times here, probably our toughest times, but I think I will always remember our time here fondly. This is where J & I became our own family, where we first lived together, where we had a baby, where we paid our own bills. This is where our "mines" became "ours" and our "I's" became "us."
And for that, I will always love Chicago.
Indiana, we'll be home soon.
Last week we found out we were moving back to Fort Wayne, just the other day we were celebrating Avram's first birthday, yesterday we were packing for vacation. Or so it seems. Was my last blog seriously in May? Where has June gone?
Just two more days of being Chicago residents. Two more days. We tried to make a list of things we wanted to do in the city before we made the big move back home, but we ended up simply shrugging our shoulders indifferently. We really have done everything we would want to do in the city: ate at great restaurants, went sailing on the lake, toured all the museums and zoos, shopped downtown, rode the bike trails.
As excited I am about moving back to our hometown, there are definitely things I will miss about the city. The lake (I need to live by water again at some point in my life), great stores (Whole Foods, Trader Joes...just to name a few), the world-class museums, all the gorgeous parks, the diversity, being able to walk almost everywhere I need to go, the good friends we've made here.
But there are things we will not miss. In any capacity. Ever.
Like the constant linger of cigarette smoke, having traffic as life's soundtrack, psychos dropping cement blocks off our apartment rooftop onto innocent cars below (true story), cars exploding into flames outside our front window (also, true story), seeing more airplanes than stars in the sky, having my husband trapped on Lake Shore Drive, paying 10.25% sales tax, sitting next to a guy smoking pot on the train...
I could go on, but I'll spare you. Also, I have more boxes to pack.
We had some tough times here, probably our toughest times, but I think I will always remember our time here fondly. This is where J & I became our own family, where we first lived together, where we had a baby, where we paid our own bills. This is where our "mines" became "ours" and our "I's" became "us."
And for that, I will always love Chicago.
Indiana, we'll be home soon.
Friday, May 27, 2011
{the mezuzah}
The boxes are really starting to pile up around here; it sort of feels like we're living in a giant refrigerator box. I can't believe it's been three years since I was packing up wedding presents in cardboard boxes, counting the days until our big move to Chicago. That seems like just yesterday.
With packing comes the task of pruning, of purging things we no longer use, or like, or want. Every last scrap of the apartment is put through the fire: "Have we ever even used this?" "Are you really ever going to read this book?" "Can we even fix that?"
There is an entire closet full of things that didn't pass the test, and will soon be on their way to new homes (which, if you're interested, I have wine glasses, lamp shades, craft stuff, etc etc etc if you'd like to buy them on the cheap. Sorry, shameless plug.). As I've been shuffling through all the stuff and carrying loads of junk in and out of doors, I happened to catch a glimpse of this:
It's been on the post of our front door ever since we moved in. I always had it in the back of my mind that I would look up exactly what it was, but that's exactly where the idea stayed...in the back of my mind. I decided today to ask my friend, Eric, if he knew what it was. And, being the good Messianic Jew that he is, he told me.
It's a mezuzah. In Jewish homes, the mezuzah is placed on the doorpost as a fulfillment of the Torah's commandment to inscribe the words of the schema "on the doorposts of your house" (Deut. 6:9). The mezuzah is a small case with a piece of parchment inside with the prayer Schima Yisrael written: "Hear, O Israel, the LORD our God, the LORD is one."
Pretty cool.
Then I started reading about how the mezuzah is placed at an angle, with the top pointing inside the door, signifying that the Lord's presence is entering the household. I looked up what the inscription on our case means in Hebrew: the writing, שדי, is an acronym for Shomer Daltot Yisrael, "Guardian of Israel's doors."
Sorry for the lesson in Jewish traditions, and I'm not trying to say I'm an honorary Jew or anything, but when I read that "Guardian of Israel's doors" has been posted on our door frame for the last year, well, it just...stopped me.
The Lord is guarding our door. Nothing is allowed in or out without His permission. No sickness, no hurt, no blessing, no person comes through the door of our life unless He allows it. Even when I doubt Him, when I am angry with Him, when I do not sense Him near, the Lord is guarding our door. Even though it feels like pain is rushing in like a flood, He is, still, always, guarding our door.
Our year in this apartment has been chaotic, frustrating, scary. I thought I would always remember this place as The Apartment I Called 911 In, or The Place Avram Had Seizures, but I think now I will remember it as The Place The Lord Guarded. Because even before we found this apartment, He knew we would live here, He knew what this year would hold.
He knew, and He guarded.
And He is One: He is the same today as He was yesterday, what He promised to do He will do.
He is One, He is good, and He is guarding our door.
With packing comes the task of pruning, of purging things we no longer use, or like, or want. Every last scrap of the apartment is put through the fire: "Have we ever even used this?" "Are you really ever going to read this book?" "Can we even fix that?"
There is an entire closet full of things that didn't pass the test, and will soon be on their way to new homes (which, if you're interested, I have wine glasses, lamp shades, craft stuff, etc etc etc if you'd like to buy them on the cheap. Sorry, shameless plug.). As I've been shuffling through all the stuff and carrying loads of junk in and out of doors, I happened to catch a glimpse of this:
It's been on the post of our front door ever since we moved in. I always had it in the back of my mind that I would look up exactly what it was, but that's exactly where the idea stayed...in the back of my mind. I decided today to ask my friend, Eric, if he knew what it was. And, being the good Messianic Jew that he is, he told me.
It's a mezuzah. In Jewish homes, the mezuzah is placed on the doorpost as a fulfillment of the Torah's commandment to inscribe the words of the schema "on the doorposts of your house" (Deut. 6:9). The mezuzah is a small case with a piece of parchment inside with the prayer Schima Yisrael written: "Hear, O Israel, the LORD our God, the LORD is one."
Pretty cool.
Then I started reading about how the mezuzah is placed at an angle, with the top pointing inside the door, signifying that the Lord's presence is entering the household. I looked up what the inscription on our case means in Hebrew: the writing, שדי, is an acronym for Shomer Daltot Yisrael, "Guardian of Israel's doors."
Sorry for the lesson in Jewish traditions, and I'm not trying to say I'm an honorary Jew or anything, but when I read that "Guardian of Israel's doors" has been posted on our door frame for the last year, well, it just...stopped me.
The Lord is guarding our door. Nothing is allowed in or out without His permission. No sickness, no hurt, no blessing, no person comes through the door of our life unless He allows it. Even when I doubt Him, when I am angry with Him, when I do not sense Him near, the Lord is guarding our door. Even though it feels like pain is rushing in like a flood, He is, still, always, guarding our door.
Our year in this apartment has been chaotic, frustrating, scary. I thought I would always remember this place as The Apartment I Called 911 In, or The Place Avram Had Seizures, but I think now I will remember it as The Place The Lord Guarded. Because even before we found this apartment, He knew we would live here, He knew what this year would hold.
He knew, and He guarded.
And He is One: He is the same today as He was yesterday, what He promised to do He will do.
He is One, He is good, and He is guarding our door.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
{pieces of heaven}
We are one month seizure-free. Hospital-stay free. It has been the longest stretch of peace (well, medically at least) we have had since February. Let the earth rejoice.
Avram has started this new thing where he runs his fingers through the hair at the nape of my neck whenever I carry him. He is a lover. As soon as I pick him up, he starts to slowly run his chubby little fingers through strands of hair. Every once and awhile, he will turn, beam a big teethy smile, and wrap both of those chunky arms around my neck as tight as he can.
It is, undeniably, heaven on earth.
Avram has started this new thing where he runs his fingers through the hair at the nape of my neck whenever I carry him. He is a lover. As soon as I pick him up, he starts to slowly run his chubby little fingers through strands of hair. Every once and awhile, he will turn, beam a big teethy smile, and wrap both of those chunky arms around my neck as tight as he can.
It is, undeniably, heaven on earth.
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