Lent

So. Life hasn't been going as planned.

Why does that always feel surprising? Shocking, even.

You know that old proverb, "Man plans; God laughs."?

We all know it. But it doesn't seem to matter.

I had planned to enter into Lent this year with lots of introspection, fasting on Ash Wednesday, and disciplined scripture reading. I thought I would walk into the Ash Wednesday service feeling emptied out, with lots of good space, ready to receive. Instead, the week prior, I wound up dispensing antibiotics to myself and three kiddos, battling out sinus infections, bronchitis, eye infections, and ear infections. Time slipped by, every so slyly, and there we were. Me, eating breakfast on Ash Wednesday, so that I could take my antibiotic without vomiting. And then, bending over to put on my shoes, I started to see the spots that let me know a migraine is imminent.

Luckily Seth was home to drive Asher to school. I've recently discovered (after 18 years of migraines) that two Tylenol PMs will essentially eradicate my headache pain, leaving me with just a residual ache for a couple days afterward. (I also have my suspicions that Tylenol PM--specifically, the diphenhydramine--causes me to get more migraines, but the jury's still out.) However, the meds knock me out almost completely, and because my migraines come with an aura, I cannot see well enough to drive. If they're not debilitating in one way, they are in another. I'll take the pain-free version, please and thank you.

So I lay on the couch that Wednesday morning and let the younger two watch episode after episode of Yo Gabba Gabba, while they did considerate things like scream, pull all the books off the shelves, and--my favorite--put an armful of Mardi Gras beads in a tin watering can and pull them out of the top, one sonic boom bead at a time.

Everything about the day felt like Too Much.

Too Much noise. Too Much sickness. Too Much to do. Too Much to rest.

Instead of being steeped in personal introspection, I attended the Ash Wednesday service in a faint haze of headache and medicinal hang-over, and I coughed my way through the liturgy. Interrupting the moments of silence, taking out my cough drop to receive the bread and wine.

*

This last week Jonah, still fighting his ear infection, started his third round of antibiotics.  He started the meds on Tuesday evening and woke up Tuesday night vomiting pretty violently for about two hours. Seth and I assumed he was having a reaction to his antibiotic. But we were wrong, come to find out. After so much vomit and diarrhea for two days, he started to be really limp when we held him. He stopped crying real tears. He wouldn't sit or stand on his own. His fever got up to 102.8. We took him in to the doctor's office on Friday, worried he was dehydrated, sleep deprived, so very sick.

The doctor told me she thought it was a virus. She said his mucus membranes were moist, so he wasn't in danger yet. And in her office on Friday, the doctor gave me the choice--get 40 ounces of water into him by 6 pm tonight and if you can't, go to the ER. Or, if you think you won't be able to do that, we will admit you right now for IV fluids.

And that decision felt like Too Much. Too Much pressure. Too Much responsibility. Too Much to handle.

I knew, realistically, he would never drink 40 ounces. He doesn't do that on a good day, playing in the sunshine. So I chose hospital.

Seth called me Saturday morning to tell me Asher and Zimrie came down with it, too. At the same time we got the stool sample results: Rotavirus.

And again, it all felt like Too Much.

Yet somehow, in the midst of that control-less situation, where I was second-guessing all my decisions, I felt a very strong peace. I felt very cared for by our church family. I felt grounded in a supernatural way.

Jonah was in the hospital from Friday afternoon to Sunday afternoon, and he was much improved when they discharged us.

Today we went for a follow up appointment and the doctor finally declared that his ear infection is gone! And this news makes me want to offer up a sacrifice, or something just as grand, but less heretical, because this means it's the first time in about 8 weeks that someone hasn't been sick at our house!

Sick we are not. But rested? No.

*

Jonah is not sleeping. I expected some rough transition, especially from having vital checks in the hospital and from essentially being held by me for almost a week between his fever, vomit, and hospital stay. Plus, his ear infection was waking him up multiple times a night for the six weeks before the latest Rotavirus debacle.

But I didn't expect anything like this.

This. This feels like TOO MUCH.

Jonah will not sleep. He cries. And cries. And cries.

Yesterday, we put him down for his nap. He cried for 3 hours. No sleep. Bedtime: We are estimating that he got about 4 hours of interrupted, non-consecutive sleep. 4. FOUR. And since he was in his crib for about 12 hours, that means HE CRIED FOR EIGHT HOURS.  (We thought Asher was stubborn, but Jonah is a new breed of strong-will. Which terrifies us a lot.)

A baby crying incessantly is maybe what hell is.

It is basically the definition of Too Much.

But here is where I'm going with all of this:

Today I saw a meme. It was a beautiful picture with lovely white script over it. It said:

Today, remember: You are enough. 

But the only thing is, I'm not.

These things feel like Too Much. Because I am not enough. 

I told Seth the other day, jokingly, that since I didn't give up anything for Lent, God decided to take away my sleep.

To which he replied, also jokingly, "Yeah, that sounds like God."

But I actually do think it is like God. Not because God is mad at me, or vindictive. Or out to show me just how good I have it. But because God cares about me. Because God does show us from time to time (or a lot of the time, sometimes), that we are not enough. That we need things. That we need him.

And, honestly, I don't usually feel like I need him unless things don't go according to plan.
Unless I'm worried. Or scared. Or feel helpless and out of control.

Instead of providing me with quiet and stillness where I could faithfully work out my disciplines, God has given me opportunity to cry out for help.

Lent has been like a loud, resounding gong, reminding me that I am not enough. It feels like a scream sometimes. Like it drowns out all the good things I know in my heart.

But beneath that scream is a steady rhythm. "You are not enough, but I am. My strength is made perfect in weakness. Perfect love casts out fear. You are not enough. But I am." It beats always. Consistently. Constant. Always the same. Never changing. And if I am still enough and quiet enough, I hear it. And the beat of it will sometimes match that of my heart.

*

I don't think God is up there pushing buttons to make us have ear infections and Rotavirus and sleepless nights.

But I think God is actively working to remind me that he is what I need. That I could never do enough, be enough, know enough. But that is okay. Because what he really wants is for me to need him a lot.