Nicole K. Twedt

Being Brave When Life Is Hard

Archives for April 2017

Writing Anyway

by //

Photo by Tetsuya Tomomatsu, Unsplash

I used to check email regularly.  When an email first appeared in my inbox, it was promptly read, replied to, and deleted.  An email was saved only if it were extremely important, like my correspondence with Seattle photographer Elke Vandevelde.  There’s nothing pretty about my inbox these days.   I don’t know why, but it actually feels like the walls are closing in on me when my emails won’t fit on the same screen, a silly response to a first-world problem.

Email isn’t the only thing I’ve let slide.  This blog, I’m sorry to say, has sat neglected like the cardboard carton of Thai Jasmine rice in the back of our fridge from the last time we had take-out.

You see, it’s been a few months since the morning I met Jody at the Panera at Renton Landing and nicolektwedt.com went live.  I knew then (and I know now) that having a place to write is more important than having a pretty blog.  Even so, I assumed that I would have this blog-thing figured out by now.

Dear friend, I still don’t have my act together.  Perhaps you’ve noticed.  There’s no way to leave comments on this blog.  There’s not even a way for you to contact me.  I still haven’t subscribed to Mail Chimp or Tiny Letter so you can’t read posts when I actually write them.    I wonder at times if I have what it takes to be brave and make this writing place happen.

Ah well, baby steps.

Perhaps being brave in this situation means to keep writing anyway.

There’s more  We’re going through something with our middle guy, Steven.  I’m optimistic about his situation, honestly I am.  All the same, at the end of a long day of parenting a unique child and his sisters, I’m done.  The last thing I want to do is work behind the scenes on this blog.   I just want to write.  Or binge-watch a series on Netflix with Greg.   Our read a few chapters of Yaa Gyasi’s Homegoing while he watches yet another episode of Heartland.

And that’s okay.

This little online place will come together in time.  Thanks for being patient with me.

N.

Edited to add: I don’t know how I did it, but there’s a comment section following this post!  

Random Thoughts On Healing

by //

Here’s the deal:  I’ve spent many years praying for the healing of my hearing loss.  And it’s been hard, really hard.  And harder, still, when I think of how my prayers for my own healing overlap with prayers for two of my three children and their very different losses.

Of course, the intensity of my prayers for healing comes and goes.  There’s seasons when I find myself crying out to the Lord regularly, begging him to make these ears of mine work and make them work already.  Yet in other seasons, healing is a fleeting thought simmering in the back of my mind.  In times like these, the need for healing is concealed by the urgent needs of here and now.  But it’s always there, this longing for something better.

A thought, possibly a divine one, came to me last week through the Holy Spirit, and homework from a Beth Moore Bible study, of course.  He prompted my heart to focus on the promises of his kingdom that are forever, rather than viewing the kingdom and its promises as promises yet to come, like my hearing.  Does that make sense?

Here’s what I mean:  It’s hard for me to pray, day in and day out, season after season, for the one thing that isn’t getting better: my hearing loss.  Especially since my hearing is supposed to get worse.  But, this sensitive heart of mine is encouraged to keep on asking, and asking again, because the answer is guaranteed to come and will never be taken away.

What’s more, does it matter when it’s going to happen? Well, of course it does.  I’m impatient.

I’m going to ramble for a minute, just go with me.  Let’s pretend that waiting for my healing is like waiting for a party to start.  I know the party has been planned, the invitations have been sent out to the heavenly hosts, the venue reserved.  But I haven’t received my invitation, and I’m getting frustrated.  Even though I know in the end it will be a grand affair, worth it in the long run.  For it will be a surprise party, and I’ll be the guest of honor.  And it won’t matter if the big event happens today or tomorrow, next year, or years from now, on this side of heaven or the next.  In the end, I’ll look back and it will not matter.  It’s going to happen all the same.

If it’s not like a party, than maybe it’s like a grand celebration at the end of a race.  Once again, I’m mixing metaphors.

Either way, in just a little while he will make all things new.  All things.  My hearing.  Lauren’s hearing.  Steven’s vision.   It doesn’t matter so much that the healing hasn’t come, since this is all temporary anyway.  Well, of course it matters.  But maybe, just maybe, living with loss or a different sensory ability (never disability) isn’t the short end of the stick that it appears to be.  You’d better believe me when I say that it feels like the short end of the stick.  But is it?

I keep praying, asking, and hoping for the healing now.  But the other side of heaven isn’t so far off.  I know that when we look back, it won’t be.  I say this with trembling hands lifted high in praise.  And of course, I will have to lower my trembling hands from time to time, long enough for me to wipe away the tears.

Because it hurts to wait.

I’m reminded of the wedding reception miracle found in John 2.  I know it’s taking everything out of context, but it’s how my mind works.  Other women can multi-task.  My mind specializes in making random God-connections.  And these connections are holy, for they bring me back to him.

Remember at the reception when Jesus filled the containers that were set aside for ceremonial cleansing, and had them filled with water by the servants to be turned into something better?  The wine was incomparable, a wine above other wines.  The Master of Ceremonies approached the bride groom, baffled really.  How could the best wine be saved for last?  But you see, I never realized it before but the best was yet to come.  It was Jesus revealing his glory in perfect time.

Maybe this doesn’t have anything to do with races and finish lines and surprise parties and healing, but I think it does.

I’m reminded once again that his timing is perfect.  Always perfect, no matter when his glory is revealed.  Even when it hurts.  His timing is perfect, every single time.

He’s saying this to me, more and more.

His timing is perfect.  The best is yet to come.  Hold on, he seems to say, it’s coming.

The Dawn of About to Get Better

by //

There’s a shifting, a shaking, a changing in our family, a change for the better.  And it’s coming soon, I know it.  The Twedtlings and I (and Greg of course), well it’s like we’re living in the dawn of about to get better.  I can almost taste it, we’re that close!  From what I can tell, this change will be an awful lot of work, but it will be worth it.  For it’s already bringing hope to our family, along with peace, love and great joy.

The dawn of about to get better.  That’s a line I wrote at the end of our 2016 Christmas letter.  I don’t know why I added it.  I don’t even like the sound of the dawn of about to get better, it’s so cheesy.  What does it even mean?

Yet I couldn’t bring myself to write a different ending, even when the letter went through edits for the blog.  I didn’t know it at the time, I couldn’t have, but this little phrase was going to be down-right prophetic for our family, particularly one of us.  How could I possibly know that something so big and so terrible was about to get better?  Especially since it was going to get a lot worse in the first few months of the new year.  Nonetheless, something was about to change.

I’m itching to write more.  The whys and hows of this dawn of about to get better, all that’s shifting and changing, and taking new form.

You see, my family and I are setting off on the marathon of our lives.  No, that can’t be right.  What’s about to happen is more like a much-needed pause during the middle of a race.  Not that races have half-times.  I’m not the best when it comes to sport analogies.

I participated in quite a few 5Ks back in college, my glory days.  Or they would have been my glory days if I wasn’t so messed up.   Anyway, I admit  most of the races were all about the free long-sleeve T-shirts, the ones with the name or cause of the race on the front and all the sponsor logos on the back.  I’d proudly wear my race T-shirts on walks or runs around Green Lake.   They made me look the part of the runner that I surely wasn’t.

Back to the 5K.  Most of all, I remember the cheerful volunteers on the side of the road, around the halfway point, holding Dixie cups of cold water or Gatorade for me to grab as I dashed limped by.   Now that I’ve had three babies, drinking anything while running (even before running) is never a good idea, no matter how refreshing it sounds.  Who am I kidding? I don’t run anymore.

Anyway, the Dixie cup of cold water represents the season we’re in, a season of refreshing.  Not to be confused with a season of rest.  There will be no resting in this season.  We’ll be running harder than we’ve ever run before.  But our bodies and souls will be nourished along the way, which makes all the difference.  For nourishment to the soul is what it will take for us to run together and not hold back.

Perhaps a better picture would be of the five of us entering a new race altogether, one we’re equipped to run because we’re learning to pace ourselves.  The race course is new to us, but we’ll figure it out with a little help.  We’re sure to grow tired, we’ll stumble or fall.  But help will come when we need it.

I’m mixing metaphors.  I’m getting tired.

I will write more about this soon, very soon, and with fear and trembling.

For it’s a different kind of story altogether.  It’s not about healing or grieving, or any of what I usually write about.  It’s more of a perspective shift.  And this little shift in perspective has been one of the greatest Ah-ha moments of my life.

O Lord, help me trust you.  Help me trust you as I dwell with my family in the dawn of about to get better.  A new day is dawning, surely it is.  I’m holding onto this promise.   I think of Psalm 92:4 when I think of you and I praise you for it.  For you said about yourself, “He will cover you with feathers.  In his wings you will find refuge.”  How mighty and how beautiful it is to be covered by the feathers of your wings.  Up close, I can see the intricate detail, patterning and glossiness of your feathers, of your glory, your strength.  I don’t even like birds but I have a thing for them because of you.  Help me be brave enough to see your beauty in every point of this new race, even the ugly parts when I’m limping along, out of breath and ready to quit.  But I will keep running because I’m not alone, never alone.  You are here, with every step along the way.

 P.S. You can read about the big ah-ha moment here.  Then everything went out the window with an even greater ah-ha moment.  You can read that essay here.