What the Eyes Can't See

Today I asked my husband, Mike, to write his perspective on caring for Erik.  Here is his post:

Since I've never written a blogpost post before, I'll ask you to allow me to place on the table my apprehensions about writing.  One of my apprehensions is that my writing style is not as conversational and engaging as Liz's.  Liz is casual and joyous while I tend to be a little more formal and serious, but that's ok if you know that up front. My greater apprehension is the topic that Liz has asked me to write about.  We visited Erik today and had a fairly deep discussion afterwards about our thoughts and feelings concerning him, and she wanted me to write about it. So this blogpost may be heavier than normal.  But she's asked me to write, so here I am.  Just consider yourself forewarned.

Today's visit with Erik was a mix of the mysterious, the miraculous, and the mundane.  Erik was sitting on his bed when we walked into his room, legs crossed and upper body bent completely forward as he seemed captivated with something microscopic in the deepest fibers of his blanket. What he sees in his blanket is a mystery to me. Is he fascinated with the blanket's design pattern?  Did he become obsessed with a piece of lint?  Or is something else happening that is completely incomprehensible to me?  I have no clue, but I'll lay odds on the Door Number 3.

He must have heard our footsteps because he straightened up from his blanket, met eyes with me and said, "Hi, Mike."  In case you didn't know, "Hi Mike" is the miraculous part -- he had not said my name in months. I should be grateful for this rare moment of awareness, cognition and verbal-ness, but I admit that his greeting primarily stirred in me a desire to hear and see more. He did manage to smile at me a couple of times during the remainder of our visit, but that was it. I am grateful for this, but I want more than this.

The remainder of our visit proceeded like most others. We fed him a snack. We watched him examine his blanket.  I rubbed his back.  Liz rubbed lotion on his hands. We said kind things to him.  He shrieked a couple of times, presumably from pain that came and went quickly.  After a time, we said our goodbyes and left.  Liz's eyes were red and filling with tears.  I wanted to "fix everything" but felt clueless.

Liz and I talked about our visit during the drive home. We prayed for Erik when got home. And we prayed about our questions concerning the mysterious, the miraculous, and the mundane of Erik's life.  It's a mystery to me, for example, why Erik has to go through such a thick mental fog in the sunset of his life. We believe in a God who can perform miracles, and I sometimes wonder why He has not brought healing and wholeness to Erik. And I wonder why Erik must continue to endure the monotony of a life where the most fascinating thing about it is his blanket. These are my questions, so to be fair, I should say that Liz's faith is much more straightforward than mine. She tends to take the Lord at "face value" and simply believe. I believe in the end, but often have to travel a labyrinth of questions before settling down and trusting God.

We have needed perspective through this caregiving experience, and as Christians we have looked to the Lord for what we have lacked.  He has provided perspective in abundance.  Far more than Erik's fascination with his blanket, life itself is mysterious -- who of us can say we understand it?  Liz and I are trusting the Maker of heaven and earth with the mysteries of Erik's life and health as we care for him.  As for miracles, there is no greater miracle than resurrection.  Liz and I are trusting that Erik's complete healing will come when Erik sees Jesus face to face.  And what of this mundane fog that Erik experiences each day?  Liz and I are trusting that our unseen Father in heaven is doing good through Erik's life in ways we cannot know.  I look around and see the compassion stirred in others because of Erik and know that the prompting of love is the work of God, even if Erik is unaware of how deeply the Lord is working through him.

To some, these thoughts of trusting God will seem like wishful thinking.  For me, they are like the very breath I need to live.  Without this simple trust, I would lack the capacity to love well, and what love I do have could grow cold in the blizzard of Erik's struggles.  Without this simple trust, I would just continue to have questions for which no immediate answers would satisfy.  I'm learning that, at least sometimes, trust is better than answers. Especially when trusting means I've found myself in the arms of our Father who knows us and cares. "See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands; your walls are ever before me." (Isaiah 49:16).  I think that God thinks about Erik all the time and that Erik's name is engraved on His hands, so to speak.  I think that God thinks that way about all of us.

So I end this blogpost with no easy answers about Erik. No "happily ever afters" or a nicely tied bow.  Instead, Liz and I continue to hope in our unseen God and to believe that He is good, even when our eyes make us question what is happening.  And that is enough.