My Ambivalent Fallout with a Bush: A Story of Unexpected Restoration

Last December, we had our front and back yards turned into desert landscaping. They went from being full of dirt, weeds, a big mulberry tree that pigeons pooped from, and a thorny bougainvillea, to being full of rocks, desert plants, a smaller tree that pigeons disdain, and a wispy bush with orange flowers.

We were enamored.

And then the weeds started. They got out of control. We tried to fight them, but we had to have professionals come in.

We were disappointed.

The weeds grew, and our citrus tree in back died.

We were dismayed.

The weeds grew, our citrus tree in back died, and the plants in front began to die.

We were disgruntled.

And then the beautiful soft bush that had replaced our sinister bougainvillea started to wilt.

I was disheartened.

Attempts to reach the landscaper who planted the bush yielded little result, and our gentle green plant with the orange flowers succumbed to little black dots we learned were called aphids - or the more visceral term "plant lice".

Every day, I could barely stand to look outside at the yellowed, broken carcass. I felt sickened by the sight of it. Since I wasn't comfortable with this sensation, I repackaged it into feeling livid. I felt abandoned, and that bush was evidence of it.

It's embarrassing how long it took me to realize what I was projecting onto that bush. Yes, I was angry that I could not get help for our yard and for this lovely creation that had saved my children from pricked fingers while framing our house perfectly. But it was more than that. While this disintegration of our outside yard was occurring, my reality was being inverted inside our home.

I felt neglected by my own Creator.

But I knew I couldn't let that be the end of the story. He wired me to be too stubborn to let something called plant lice win this battle.

So I declared life over our little dead bush. In doing so, I prayed that my Creator would again turn His face toward me. I reached out to an advisor who assisted me in taking bold and measured steps to get the attention of the landscaper. It worked: he immediately got to work on attending to the neglect. Today, our bush showed these signs of life:

If you look closely, you can see bright green sprouting out of the brown and yellow. It's a true visual of this song.

It's also a reflection of how I'm feeling: I have my Creator's attention, and He is bringing new life out of my former self. At last He heard; at last He delivered me.

I sought the Lord, and He answered me and delivered me from all my fears. Those who look to Him are radiant, and their faces shall never be ashamed. This poor [wo]man cried, and the Lord heard [her] and saved [her] out of all [her] troubles.
Psalm 34:4-6 

In all this, I felt inexplicably compelled to read about how caterpillars become butterflies. We all know they crawl into a cocoon, hang out for a bit, then emerge in flight, right? I even shared one of my favorite quotes about this in a previous post.

Only it isn't true. Well, not for butterflies. For moths and other insects, yes.

But butterfly caterpillars actually harden their bodies into a chrysalis, and then their insides turn into goo. Goo! Here's where it gets even crazier: They have these things in that goo called imaginal discs that use the protein around them to grow into new shapes - legs, antennae, wings. In other words, they were carrying the precursors for their butterfly selves (Version 2.0, you could say) all along. Now that their old selves have been completely destroyed, their new selves can take shape into what they were meant to be all along!

Our Creator doesn't just have one set of 2D blueprints. His blueprints have many layers, and many dimensions. But His vision for us can only be realized when we go through those times of being dismantled, being broken, feeling neglected, crying out to Him. Every restoration story must have a before and a point of change so the after means anything.

I guess this might even require a new term. Because often the type of restoration He has in mind isn't the kind the bush experienced - returning to its previous state of flourishing - but instead into a new form like the caterpillar into the butterfly. So I'm going with a hybrid of restoration and transformation: Restormation.

Restormation is what my friend Rachel in grade school experienced when she lost her straight hair to a disease, and it grew back full and curly.

Restormation is what my friend Aubrey went through when her baby Shalom stopped growing inside her, leading Aubrey to write openly about grief and pregnancy loss to encourage other women broken by this taboo tragedy.

Restormation is what my friend Tammy proclaims as she shares her story of spiritual abuse and gender discrimination, which has strengthened her to be a strong leader and a powerful yet humble advocate for women in ministry.

Restormation is what my friends Renee and Tina and Kit and Brittney and so many many many others live every single day as they declare, "I am a new creation!" and love with the compassion of women who have accepted the reality of their childhood trauma and allowed the Healer to breathe life into the carcass of what was, encouraging countless lives and their own children in the possiblity of what can be.

Whether it's restoration or restormation, we can trust life will come in some way when we seek the Creator and Redeemer. The green will reappear, the butterfly will take flight, the broken heart will feel in new ways. Some work will always be required, and it may even feel like death at times. But our Creator installed His own special kind of imaginal discs in us. Don't you want to see what yours might become?

Presumptive Pain-Sharing

Lesson I've witnessed over and over: It may seem the same to you, but don't assume you know what the other person is feeling. Doing so is like a slap to the face.

Here is the Hierarchy of Face Slaps that tend to commence once someone has made that assumption:
1. They say, "I know what you're feeling."
2. They hijack the conversation to share their story.
3. Their story is nothing like yours.
4. Their story is not nearly as weighty as yours.
5. They try to justify it.
6. You're given the responsibility of ending the conversation they forced upon you.

Pay it forward: Don't claim another's pain as yours. Just listen.

Of Obstacles and Birdsongs

In all my experience with obeying Christ - and with disobeying Him - I have become convinced that when we get serious about following Him, things get harder. Life gets uglier. Obstacles appear out of nowhere, and we wonder if maybe we messed up or maybe it isn't worth it to keep going.

This has become all the more true since I've fully committed to the ministry my Shepherd called me into. A friend of mine recommended I write about it, but I'm in the middle of it all right now, so all I can do is give a brief description of where I'm at in this dark valley.

I had a dream when I was in my early 20s that I had two blond children, a boy and a girl, whom I loved very much. Often when I gaze at my towhead daughter and son, then over at my brunette boy, I wonder where he was in my dream. Perhaps that slight superstition has made me more vulnerable to concerns regarding him, which came to a critical point this past week.

After three weeks of nighttime sleeplessness, crying, screaming, and thrashing about in his crib, last week he developed the inability to walk on his left leg. As a mom getting fewer than five hours of sleep per night - all non-consecutive - I was running out of both sanity and options of providers to visit.

By God's incredible timing, He brought Bob's aunt into town for a scheduled visit just as I was going into a fever, and my parents into town for a conference just as she left. Even when I felt most desperate, I knew I was not abandoned.

And as I futilely tried to calm my sweet, hurting boy one night at 3:00am, I gave up my "Shhh"-ing and "Nighty-night"s, and just started sighing, "Jesus. Jesus. Jesus." And he finally slept. I knew my God was stronger, that He was in control even in this interminable storm.

When the pediatrician announced it was time to admit him to the hospital, I wept. I felt like a failure, but even more so I worried we were wading into an ocean of uncertainty. At least at home we had control over what could happen to him, what we would consider for disorder and treatment; at the hospital, they may want to explore avenues I wasn't ready to walk down.

But it was time. I hadn't been able to fully rest for way too long, and our family's collective health was suffering. So when he awoke with screams and wakefulness just before midnight, I packed up an overnight bag, waited an hour for the police situation and circling helicopter in our neighborhood to resolve, and then drove to Phoenix Children's Hospital. We were a direct admit, and within an hour my boy and I were semi-comfortable in a crib and recliner, respectively.

Over the next two days, I heard a lot of screaming, but I also began to witness healing - for him and for me. After six days of leg pain, he began to walk again. When he awoke at night, there was someone else to help so I wasn't alone in trying to observe and provide care for his ambiguous pain. The hospital provided the food, the cleaning, and the space, and we just had to get better.

I got a text from a friend reminding me to listen to the birds, something I often forget to do when I'm stressed. I stepped outside the cafeteria for a few moments and soaked in their harmonies. "Thank You," I silently prayed.

Bob was amazing with the other two kids, who were also incredible in coping with this strange situation. We were lifted up by family and friends. And when the final test - an MRI of our little man's head - came back perfect, we were able to go home.

He still awoke at night, but it didn't induce a panic attack in me as it had before our hospital stay. I now had medicine and hope. We had walked down some avenues I'd previously labeled "off-limits' and spelunked some dark caves, and I was able to cling to the Shepherd's hand throughout and trust His heart for us.

I've had to put some ministry stuff on hold, but it has allowed others to step into their giftings in my absence. I love that. I love how the Body works together, and it never depends on just one member. I love being part of a system, not a satellite or a cornerstone. And Daddy has been reminding me of this as I have rested and received renewed strength.

There isn't a good way to end this post. As I said, I'm still in the middle of it. It's still messy and uncertain, and I don't have a clean moral to the story. But maybe that's the point. This is where I am simply supposed to "Be still, and know God is God." And then listen for the birdsongs.