New Normal

Lots of people say that how you behave in the moment of crisis— those endless seconds you replay over and over again, still feeling your gut twist as the wheels fall off— that define you. Can you keep your composure as the doctor hands down a diagnosis that rips the rug from under your feet? Are you still able to stand when your husband looks you dead in the eyes and says your marriage is finished? Will you stay steady when the phone call with the worst possible news is for you?

Myself, I do well enough in the face of emergent disaster. I’m the mom who can cry silently in the office and still ask questions, the woman who immediately scrolls through a check list of to-do that will carry me past the point of “what’s next?” and get me safely to the other side of “what just happened?”

Some days I feel like the Lord has handed me too many opportunities to use this particular practical skill, and others I feel shamefully free from testing in the face of friends who have memorized chemo protocols or know the phone numbers of their child’s addiction counselors by memory. Sure, I know how to execute a rapid-fire extraction plan from a country, and know how to tell the difference between a seizure (no big deal, wait it out) and a Seizure (big deal, call 911), but what is that?

This is where the Lord always reminds me that we all have our own battles, and we all walk in our own story. And, as it turns out, it’s not those immediate moments of critical mass that really matter in the long run. It’s the days and weeks and months after. It’s the day in and day out after the crisis has faded and the shock and horror have worn off.

It’s the New Normal.

Because here’s the truth: after a trauma, no matter what shape it takes, you either do or you don’t. Sink or swim. Make it or break it. You either look that beast in the face and say, “I choose to do the next thing, thank you very much,” or you curl into a ball and wait to feel the hooves pressing into your back.

Of course, the choice is really something of an illusion. Even if you can’t struggle to your feet and get back to work, life will move forward. Without asking your permission, time will keep marching. And maybe you’ll be able to catch up to it, eventually. With God’s grace, I’ve seen friends ripped to the bone by circumstances who struggled for years to locate all the pieces of their shattered minds, hearts, and souls finally find a place of wholeness again. It can happen. And it does. God is, after all, the redeemer of all things.

But how do we grapple with the fear and the loss and the pain and come out stronger, with renewed purpose, and with a spirit that refuses to surrenders to “what if” and navel gazing in favor of choosing to find blessing in our walk and joy even in the midst?

I’ll be honest, I have no idea how nonbelievers do it. I try to imagine someone with even just a vague cultural Christianity climbing some of the mountains of marital and parenting emergencies that exist, and I tremble for them. There’s a reason the Lord is referred to time and again as a rock, a shield, and a fortress in Scripture… when you carry the stamp of His adoption, you have something so much stronger than your own flesh, faith, or feelings upon which to cling.

For those of us who know where to find eternal refuge, there is always hope. Hope that yes, our situation will be one of the miraculous stories that bolster the faith of others with its supernatural outcome. But if not, hope that our obedience, our trust, and our submission to the brokenness God has allowed will write the same kind of grace into our life, and the lives of our families.

This is me today. Earlier this week, we received yet another diagnosis for Phineas— one that doesn’t add a few more fun acronyms to the medical line, but instead gives us a handful of answers and even more questions about his overall health. After years of pondering, we may have at last found the cause of some of his issues rooted in his kidneys. In true Phineas style, however, it’s a syndrome with a wide range of variables in terms of outcome, and I’ll be honest, I’m struggling to maintain even keel. There are so many possibilities dangling before us, and we have zero ability to steer the ship towards the safe, still waters.

But God does.

So here I sit again, redefining “normal.” Learning a new set of routines, researching pharmaceuticals, explaining to Phineas and his siblings what all of this means and praying, day by day, that as I lean into Christ for the strength I am lacking, I am able to be His hands and feet to the sweet boy I have been given to shepherd through this life. Doing laundry because it hasn’t taken a vacation out of deference to my emotional needs, and feeling beyond blessed by the assistance of my older kids, who run a kitchen like old hands. I’m figuring out how to balance what feels like a dozen new things with the 8 million old ones, and you know, it’s a lot to carry.

I’m glad I don’t carry it alone.

Hear my cry, O God;
Give heed to my prayer.
From the end of the earth I call to You when my heart is faint;
Lead me to the rock that is higher than I.
For You have been a refuge for me,
A tower of strength against the enemy.
Let me dwell in Your tent forever;
Let me take refuge in the shelter of Your wings. Selah. —Psalm 61:1-4