Category Archives: Help

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February 23, 2017

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At Home, Heal, Health, Help, Hope, Uncategorized

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Finding the Good

Have you ever had lice?

I hadn’t.  Not until last year.  Christian’s former workplace had given us a generous gift certificate for Christmas a few years back, so I took Hannah for a haircut from the participating vendor (an upscale salon, which will remain nameless).

Lo and behold, she scratched her golden curls almost immediately afterward, prompting me to advise her to shower and wash off all the hair fragments lingering on her neck and hairline.  Nothing more was mentioned.

Two days later as I shampooed Abby, I yelped when I noticed tiny squiggles squirming around on her scalp.  Christian rushed to the doorway and grimaced at the sight.

“This means war!”

Off to CVS he dashed, soon to return with lice kits, extra combs, and lots of shampoo.  All five of us soon became victims of these persistent, itchy little creatures.  Christian dug out his electric razor and rid himself of the beasts entirely.  He also shaved John’s head while we girls watched, coveting, wishing it were as easy to rid our long manes of the uninvited guests.  We scrubbed and combed, scrubbed and combed, combed and scrubbed until our scalps turned red and raw.

I bagged up nearly all of our blankets and throw pillows, sheets and stuffed animals, clothes and towels – thirty garbage bags full – and headed to the laundromat.  Of all times for my dryer to be broken!  The kids fell in love with the laundromat and asked me if we could sell our washer and dryer.

I found myself thankful I’d gone to the laundromat because, as I placed contaminated laundry items into the washer, lice literally hopped from the sheets onto my arm – ICK!  I squealed and shoved the entire mass into the machine, and then I ran to the sink to thoroughly scrub my arms in hot water.

I went home and scrubbed the floors and carpets, curtains and blinds, sofas and beds.  We sanitized the entire house from top to bottom, leaving no stone unturned.

We did NOT want to go through that again.  Ever.

Needless to say, the word lice now has a new meaning in our home, but amazingly, that meaning has morphed yet again.  Last night as Christian and I trained for our upcoming spring triathlons after the kids went to bed (a very fun date night – he runs on the treadmill while I bike – or vice versa), we watched a fascinating documentary titled Corrie ten Boom: A Faith Undefeated on Pure Flix (http://pureflix.com) about a courageous Holocaust survivor.

I love her story.  I’d read The Hiding Place many years ago, and as I briefly searched for the movie, I came across this documentary that showed her real home, the watchmaker’s shop, etc.

Fascinating.

One thing that I’d forgotten and am thankful to have been reminded of as we watched was how Corrie and her sister, Betsie, learned to be thankful for everything.  During their imprisonment, they lived in a barracks that was infested with lice and fleas, so much so that the guards refused to enter it.  They left the prisoners’ food at the door and let them pretty much fend for themselves.

Horrible tales surfaced about what guards had done to prisoners in the other barracks, but thanks to lice and fleas, the happenings in Barracks 28 at Ravensbruck proved vastly different.  Twice daily, Corrie read from a small Bible that the enemy had miraculously not confiscated, and all 700 women prayed together in this small room built to hold only 200.  Thrust together by their dire circumstances and crammed into a filthy hole of a home, these brave prisoners held on, surviving one minute at a time.

As I snuggle up in my soft pillow-topped queen, complete with clean sheets, thermal blankets, and patchwork quilt, I feel spoiled, unworthy, and humbled as the legacy of these incredible saints thunders through my mind.  I loathe my comforts and detest my comparatively complacent spirituality as these women risked their lives for years, hiding and helping those hunted and cruelly sought out, those if caught would be tortured and possibly killed by the hands of an unyielding, voracious enemy.

How my heart breaks for them, these precious sisters, enduring such terrible suffering and horror day after day after day.  And yet, the recordings taken from Corrie’s speeches after her miraculous release reveal a radiant, joy-filled voice so powerful that goosebumps erupt down my arms every time I hear it.  Devotion to God permeated her words and defined her life as she acted without hesitation, reservation, or thought of self-preservation.

Both Corrie and Betsie sacrificed all to save those who would likely be lost had God not used them to intervene on behalf of His people.

I scarce can take it in.

May their example serve as a searing reminder to me that no matter how bad things get, no matter what circumstances I face tomorrow, God will help me find something for which to thank Him.  In the darkest nights, when I’m infested with the lice and fleas of my life, may I fight to find something good, something for which to praise Him, even when I don’t understand the “why” of it all.

Thank you, Corrie and Betsie, for reminding me to find the good and that the Ultimate Good can always be found anywhere.

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November 16, 2016

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Through It All

I had the privilege of spending last weekend on a Ladies’ church Retreat in Long Beach Island, NJ.  What a wonderful time!

We stayed in a large retreat center right on the water.  Our back door opened to a sandy beach and long dock over the water.  The view took my breath away and gave quiet respite to my soul.

Since breaking my foot in June, my leg and foot muscles have not yet returned to their pre-injured state, so I probably should not have eagerly participated in a pickup volleyball game wherein I wrenched my right knee.  It’s slowly healing, but I’ve learned my lesson.  Strength training and toning for me throughout the remainder of the year.

The best part was the testimonies.  Women of all ages and life stages came forward to share how God had worked in their lives over the years and how He still moves hearts and minds today.  Friend after friend got up and spoke about various trials and heartaches, joys and sorrows, pain and loss.  Some had lost parents or children, others homes and husbands.  One woman had been raped at knife point.

Courage and strength shone through their countenances as each described how the Lord had carried them in the midst of suffering.  Some stood in the midst of fire even as their shared, believing their Lord would continue holding them up by His mighty right hand, challenging me to trust Him whatever storms come my way.

I spoke about my family and some of the trials we’ve faced.  Then, my friend Ivette and I sang Through It All, an oldie but goodie by Andrae Crouch.  I’m pasting the link below – may God bless you through its message.

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October 29, 2016

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Love Walking

You would never have known I had purchased the plain black, somewhat saggy umbrella at a dollar store had you seen the radiant smiles emitted from beneath its cover.  My four-year-old and I giggled as I wrapped my arms around her like a mother pretzel and made our way into school all snuggled up, holding hands.

So sweet.

Abby tilted her head to the side and leaned into me, smiling, smitten by the beauty of the moment.  We sauntered slowly across the lot, savoring each step, making a memory.  As we approached the security guard, Abby glanced up at him.   She’d never before uttered a word in his presence, but today, she could not contain herself.

“We’re love walking.”

He had grinned at our approach, but when he heard her explanation, he nodded straight-faced.

“Love walking, yes.  Yes, you are.”

He and I exchanges smiles.  I floated to class with my Abby Mae, not wanting the moment to end.  When we reached her room, she pulled my head down and kissed me fast and firm.

“I love you, Mudder!”

I walked back to my car alone, remembering the countess times I’d crossed a parking a lot just to be with her.  That particular lot never saw rain.

It stood beneath The Children’s Hospital of Philadeplia.

Over the course of several months, this massive gloomy dungeon of a garage bore little light, happiness, or hope.  I will never forget the oppressive, smothering feeling that would overtake me as my SUV lumbered through the entrance, sinking lower and lower into the quagmire of emotion and unknown below.  The dim lighting, bland concrete walls, and blunt yellow lines provided no comfort, serving only to highlight my heartbreaking reality.

Parents from all over the world walked this very lot, not knowing whether their child would live or die.  The unwelcome enemy loomed around every corner, waiting to send families home with empty carseats and devasting loss.  We all prayed that today would not be our turn.

Some have loved and lost.  Some have experienced joyful discharge celebrations and have whisked their child away, never to return again.  Some are still there.

All of my family is finally home, praise God, but I still remember.   Every day I pray for the families going through hospital crisis, praying that one day they would finally cross the horrible yellow parking lot lines and carry their children home.

Yellow is Abby’s favorite color.  She loves yellow parking lot lines and relishes the opportunity to balance beam her way across them.  I find it ironic how her sunniness often defies all logic, the amazing way she brings quiet out of the corner, giggles to the lips of lonely, and joyous song out of sorrow.

Adversity has made her shine.  I checked my watch and sighed.  Only 8:32 am.  It would be a full three hours and five minutes until I picked her up.

May it be raining when I return.

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October 27, 2016

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Back in the Saddle

Good Morning, Everyone,

My husband, Christian, has been gently prodding me to return to blogging.  I’ve missed it and have struggled to return.  I’ve also sought to understand my hesitancy to continue.

Over the weekend, I had the privilege of talking with both Christian and my friend, Kerri, about all of this, trying to wrestle through the muck and search out the reason.  My thanks to you both – the answer has become crystal clear.

I first began blogging while my children were hospitalized, viewing the blog as a necessary tool of communication throughout their stays.  It quickly became the go-to place for friends and family to stay in the loop as things unfolded, sometimes at a rapid-fire pace.

But it became much more than that to me.

Unaware, I began to share beyond the critical updates and information, eventually allowing myself to bleed all over the screen.  God used those 15-20 minutes a day to help me process the painful world around me, and in turn, the shared experience of my family’s journey allowed others to connect with an intimate part of themselves, a place perhaps rarely traveled but yearning to be known.

Feelings, fears, questions . . . nothing structured or pre-packaged, simply words from a mother’s heart, a desperate woman trying to make sense of it all, a human being trying to survive in the midst of raging storms.

Readers seemed drawn to my passionate approach to life and the way I processed each day’s events.  They liked knowing I’m not perfect and have to work hard to clean up my messes.  They stuck with me through not only the happenings but also the details of how God carried us through every minute of those tumultuous times.

The initial audience consisted of some friends and family, but many readers were previously unknown to us, wonderful people who came to care deeply about my husband and family, our circumstances and outcomes.

My audience cared about me.  And I them.  It was a relationship, not an info-blog.

I began drinkingfromthewell.com with more of a practical, help-centered focus for families, desiring to assist people of all ages and life-stages face a variety of challenges.  While I plucked out useful lessons I’d learned and passed on tools I’d gleaned, I felt stifled as a writer.  I found myself struggling to stay motivated and carve out time to post regularly, which stood in stark contrast to the days I looked forward to writing.

It flopped.

I think it’s partly because the type of writing people were drawn to on my CarePages blog wasn’t geared toward providing practical tips, developing a following, or building a writing platform as all of the blogger books recommend doing from the ground up.

It wasn’t me.  I like to touch the emotions of my readers while sharing mine, carefully cultivating a caring and valued relationship.

I also don’t think I was ready.  A lot more healing needed to take place before I could deal with the aftermath of the past several years.  We’d all experienced post-traumatic stress in various ways, and I think writer’s block was a symptom of mine.  Perhaps it was silly for me to try developing a new blog so soon, but the writer in me longed to run free.  After all the years of having no time or energy to type, I found myself paralyzed when the moment finally arrived.

I couldn’t let myself bleed while in desperate need of countless transfusions.  I like to bleed.  I need to be able to allow my thoughts, feelings, emotions, and desires spill down every page, dousing them crimson as they color the sunrises and sunsets of life.

But God has done an amazing work – in New Jersey, of all places!  He moved us here, we have no doubt, to heal us, to grow us closer together and closer to Him.  We stand on the other side of the mountain today, grateful, full of love, and eager to encourage others as we journey on, one day at time.

Together.

I invite you on our new, or shall I say continuing, ever-evolving journey, here at drinkingfromthewell.com.  Thank you for your great patience with me.

Especially my husband, who has often asked, “Haven’t you posted already?”

My response tonight will be, “It’s ablog time!”

Good to be back in the saddle.

Much love to you and yours,

Beth

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January 13, 2015

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CAPTAIN GRUMPY SHEEP

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by Beth Ann Morgan

My children and I are watching The Sound of Music. Again. We must have watched this movie at least a dozen timesover the holidays to the point where I’ve dreamt that I’m wearing a dress made from olive green curtains and singing in a canoe.

It dawned on me only today why my children like it so much. Beyond the obvious beauty of the music and heartwarming story, I believe it’s the remarkable transformation of the Von Trapp Family that has captivated my own.

A devastated widower and father of seven attempts to carry on with life as usual, a man whose powerful position allows no room for grief of his severe loss or compassion for his children’s. Their prolonged pain and obvious dysfunction moved John and Hannah as question after question poured out.

“Mommy, why did their mommy die?”

“Why doesn’t anyone smile at their house?”

“Why is the daddy a Captain grumpy sheep when he’s got so many children to love?”

Over the past several weeks, the sheer emotion of the story served has served as a powerful springboard for much conversation here on Cherry Lane. We talked through the family having to quickly leave their home without warning and how scary that must have been.

We could relate.

We talked about how the children’s hearts hurt terribly, but even though the daddy probably wanted to, he couldn’t help them with their hurts because his heart hurt, too.

We could relate.

We also shared about how confining the convent must have felt to Maria’s spirit, one that simply wanted to run free and sing at the top of her lungs all of the songs she was created to sing. My sweethearts hopped off the sofa and ran around the coffee table, letting loose in a way that restrictive hospital settings do not allow.

So many opportunities to delve into the deeper issues of the heart. Relatable, enjoyable, family-oriented. An all-around winner for any family that needs something fun to do together.

We highly recommend this wonderful classic.

 

Photo courtesy of Profiles in History

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January 10, 2015

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THE BEST CALL

clarita

by Beth Ann Morgan

Ever have one of those days when everything seems to be falling apart, and then, you get “the call”, the one your heart has been waiting for, the one that helps you carry on in spite of the ordeal ahead of you?

As I held my little girl in my arms one terrible spring afternoon, I knew she would not survive until morning. The doctors had run all the tests, knew what was wrong, and needed time to figure out the best way to fix it.

Time was a luxury sweet Abby Mae could not afford.

Tears muddled my window view of the brilliant reds and yellows lining the pavement below. Abby’s breathing sputtered and spattered, her body fidgeting and wrenching on my lap. For the millionth time, I checked my phone.

To my surprise it rang, startling both Abby and I. It was my dear friend, Helen. I answered, relieved to hear her voice. I gave her the quick update and then waited to hear her response. She’s a doctor, so I guess I thought she would say something profound or have a question or suggestion. What she said comforted me more than anything I have ever known.

“I don’t know what to say, my friend.” Pause. “I just had to call.”

We cried together. Neither of us said anything for a long time. The “being together”, experiencing the painful shared burden, no matter how far the distance between us, was powerful. No fancy words, no needless sentiments.

“I don’t know what to say.” She said it again. “I just had to call you – I love you and Miss Abigail so much! We are praying.”

I thanked her as my husband entered the room.

After an emergency surgery at 11 pm, Abigail survived, thank God. The call of my friend was pivotal to my being able to get through the entire situation. Simple love extended when it mattered most.

May God help me be such a friend to others in their times of need.

 

photo courtesy of clarita

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December 22, 2014

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TAKE 20 MINUTES

OTRAS (4)

by Beth Ann Morgan

It’s all too easy to turn into a machine when things get tough. Days can go by without a decent shower, nutritious food, and solid sleep. No time to process the raw emotional journey, no strength to complete more than the most basic of chores. Go, go, go until sheer exhaustion forces you to collapse, only to find yourself waking the next morning with reality thrusting you into the same mode of survival.

I would encourage you to take 20 minutes.

I remember the first time I realized the value of doing this shortly after heading in to see John one day at the hospital. After driving for an hour and 15 minutes, I felt keen disappointment when the unit clerk informed me that an emergency surgery was underway in the pod, and I would not be allowed to see John for at least another 20 minutes.

“You’re free to go wherever and get a little time to yourself. I’ll announce it over the loudspeaker when the procedure is finished.”

I thanked her and then shuffled back down the hallway. All of the rushing around earlier that day and fighting the traffic, then hurrying upstairs . . . and now to sit? I didn’t know what to do with myself. I admit, I was shocked.

I remember heading to the waiting area and sitting for a full ten minutes. Just sitting. I watched the siblings of patients play, parents and grandparents exchange nervous conversation with tissues in hand, anxious bystanders mumbling into cell phones and running their fingers through their hair.

Compassion washed over me as my eyes filled with tears.

I got out my journal and began to write for another ten minutes. I poured out my heart like water by writing my prayer to the Lord, praying for every broken heart in the room, for every sick and hurting child, and for God to help us all.

Your days and nights might seem to run together, but give it a try whenever you can. Set your timer for 20 minutes. Let yourself sit and do nothing. Allow your thoughts to happen. Pray. Journal. Mediate on a Bible verse. Whatever it is that helps you process what’s going on around you.

And when the timer rings, you’re done. I personally find myself refreshed. My circumstances probably didn’t change, but my load has lightened a little.

I pray yours will, too.

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December 11, 2014

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PICK ONE

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by Beth Ann Morgan

Christmas cards. Cookie baking. Wrapping gifts. Trimming the tree . . . the list seems to go on and on. When one feels already overwhelmed by the everyday tasks dictated by survival mode, preparing for a holiday you may or may not feel like celebrating can leave a person befuddled to the point of doing absolutely nothing.

My recommendation? Pick one.

Keeping things as simple as possible is sometimes the best thing you can do to love your family during a difficult time. Perhaps in years past, you’ve spent your holidays like mine, steeped in tradition and wonderful memories, all things you’d love to pass on to your children.

Maybe this year things are different. Your husband is gone. Funds are dwindling. A little one’s in the hospital clinging to life. Close friends or family recently moved out of the area and won’t be able to make it back to be with you this year, a time when you need them most.

Whatever your circumstances, I recommend picking one tradition you want to keep and starting there. We chose the Christmas tree. Grandma baked our cookies for us and cards didn’t go out, but we decorated our tree. We used to go to a beautiful Christmas tree farm and spend an afternoon with axe in hand, riding the wagon, drinking hot chocolate in the cozy craft shop.

My heart broke the first year I realized it wouldn’t happen.

We had dreaded Christmas and knew it would soon come upon us. John had spent about six weeks in the hospital and faced another surgery, which meant at least three more weeks of recovery. We all secretly hoped he could come home for Christmas but didn’t dare voice it.

He didn’t make it home until February 21st.

Hannah had wanted to wait for John to get our tree, but the day came when we had to tell her that we would have to get the tree without him. We all cried. It was hard to let go of a memory we so wanted to make, one that would never be

And this year, there was no fancy tree farm outing – we had to stop at Home Depot because it was right off our hospital commute exit. I was afraid Hannah would completely meltdown, but to our great surprise, she allowed herself a smile, walked up to a Douglas Fir, and called out, “This one!”

We took it home, decorated it, and even though the entire process was far from ideal, she was happy. There would be years ahead to decorate with frills and fuss over details, but that particular year, “picking one” met Hannah’s need to keep an important tradition and our parental need to make our daughter feel special. Best of all, it gave us the energy and freedom to focus on the most important things, the love of our family and the birth of our Savior.

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December 9, 2014

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HOLIDAY SHOPPING IN CRISIS

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by Beth Ann Morgan

The holidays can prove stressful without the added dimension of crisis. When it comes to shopping for gifts, making sure your family has all the bases covered can overwhelm you to the point of creating an incredibly difficult situation.

I remember staying in the hospital with Hannah as an infant over Valentine’s Day, and my husband and I totally forgetting about the holiday. We weren’t in the mood to celebrate while our child lay in bed with an antibiotic-resistant strain of E-coli and a 105 degree fever.

But when more children entered the holiday picture, things changed. They had to.

Our culture starts priming no later than December first. Schools have assigned their book reports on the history of Saint Nicholas. Colorful light displays have popped up all around town, even in the neighbors’ yard, and Sunday schools have sent home all kinds of sticky candy cane decorations and manger scene ornaments. It’s everywhere. To say that kids are excited is an understatement, especially kids whose family is going through a tough time.

Even though presents do not erase the pain children feel, a small gift gives them something beautiful in the midst of tragedy, something to look forward to and give them hope. I saw evidence of this firsthand whenever a loving soul would hand my kids a toy or a coloring book, something to pass the time and distract their hearts from hurting.

The Christmas John had to stay in the hospital, I confided in one of the nurses (I believe her name was Eloise) that I hadn’t started shopping yet, only three days before Christmas. Even though I knew extended family adults expected nothing from us and were extremely supportive, I didn’t want to let the children down, especially Hannah.

She had been through enough. I couldn’t stand the thought of her suffering another disappointment.

Nurse Eloise lit up like a Christmas tree. “I’ll do your shopping for you!”

We continued talking, and by the end, she had encouraged me so much that on my commute home, I stayed out until midnight finishing my shopping. Even though I never took her up on it, Nurse Eloise’s kind offer could have come in handy if I couldn’t have mustered the emotional, mental, and physical strength to complete the task myself.

Planning, shopping, and wrapping gifts are typically not jobs parents want to handoff to someone else, but from one parent to another, give yourself permission to let it go. It can be really hard. Over the years, I’ve gotten really good at delegating, but I’ve finally realized that some things didn’t get done because I wanted to be the one to do them.

Sometimes getting it done is more important than doing it yourself. Christmas shopping for little ones is one of those important tasks, and typically, if you ask in advance, it won’t be too hard to find someone willing to help you shop and/or wrap.

Be careful if you end up doing the shopping yourself. I overspent like crazy the first time I holiday shopped during crisis. Emotion drove me like Mario Andretti his racecar because our degree of suffering was great – my heart leapt on the opportunity to ease the blow.

I highly recommend coming up with a simple budget-friendly list and sticking to it in the store.

May God surround you with much love and richly bless you and yours as you make preparations to navigate the season.

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December 6, 2014

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DIVINE PLAYDATE

divine playdate

by Beth Ann Morgan

One of the beautiful things about being around children at any stage of life, including times of crisis, is benefiting from their incredible ability to simplify the complex.

While my older children spent the afternoon at a recent playdate, my youngest and I took part in a wonderful conversation in the car. Abby’s smile wasn’t as bright as usual, her happy banter nonexistent as she stared out the window.

I couldn’t figure it out. After all, she was my shopper. My Abby Mae has been known to raise her hands and shout, “Yea! Aldi’s! Shopping!” while passing her favorite store, but today, I wasn’t sure she even noticed the colorful sign.

Then it dawned on me.

“Abby, would you like to have a playdate?” Big nod. “With who?”

“God.” Pause. “At His house.”

We proceeded to have a delightful conversation about how God probably has a big playground complete with slides and swings right inside His house. Her faced shone, and she clapped her hands together in delight, pouring out her beautiful two-year-old fantasies. I asked her what she would do first.

“I want to hold Him.”

I nearly ran the car off the road as tears filled my eyes. In an instant, my mind left behind its clutter of cares like the mother who leaves a stack of unwashed dishes on the counter so that she can run barefoot through the field with her little ones to receive a fistful of hand-picked dandelions and glimpse a rainbow spreading across the sky.

I put the car in park and then turned to look my daughter full in the face.

“Me, too, Abby,” I said. “Me, too.”