Shannon S. McKee

musings and moments

Because Sometimes Songs Say it Best

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Yesterday’s post obviously struck a chord. Is it just knowing that we’re not alone? Is it the profound nature of God’s grace? Is it confronting the subtle lie that “You are Enough” because we know it rings hollow? I’m not sure but I do know that a lot of you commented, liked, and shared the post so something definitely resonated down deep. (It wasn’t even some of my best writing so… I don’t think that was it.)

In light of your response, I wanted to share this song with you. It’s by one of my all-time favorite songwriters, Andrew Peterson. (Rick calls him my music crush, rivaling only Fernando Ortega.) I only discovered him a year or so ago but I love the storytelling in his songs. You should go check him out yourself – here or here.

One of the repeated lines in the song? “This life is not long but it’s hard.” So, yeah, it seems relevant. If you’re in a season of treading water, I hope it encourages you and becomes a prayer of yours as you move through your days.

Actually, I’m Not Enough {And, Why I’m OK with That}

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I have sat down more than once in the last few weeks to stare at a blank screen or an empty journal page. Trying to carve out the time to reflect and write. It’s not that I don’t have thoughts – much swirls around in my heart and mind these days. Sometimes I even write a partial post in my mind while I tackle the laundry or cook dinner or when I’m in the car alone. And, then, when I make time to actually sit down and write… nothing. Just that stupid blinking cursor staring back at me.

When I wrote this on Saturday, I was at a local coffee shop with my man. I intentionally did not bring work. Refused to even open my Communique or Trades of Hope email accounts. I just wanted to leave myself time to be forced to sit with the blinking cursor. A bit of stare-down between me and my MacBook {wink}. So far, I’m not sure who won. But, then again, I’m writing. So, maybe it’s me?!?! Yay me. Of course, if the writing sucks, is that winning? I guess you’ll have to decide because I decided to just go with it.

Here’s the thing: the first four months of 2017 have kicked my butt. (There I said it.) For many reasons. It’s not all bad things – some of it has been some meaningful insight and introspection in my own life. It’s just that it’s been a lot. And, there have been some hard things too. Definitely some hard things. A dear friend was having sushi with me the other day and she stopped our conversation mid-california-roll to ask me how in the world I was even functioning right now.

Good question. It’s probably a question I could ask many of you. Because, here’s the thing: I know I’m not the only one who feels like she’s treading water right now. We all have our circumstances that make life feel weighty. I have friends who are bearing incredible burdens and stresses right now. To be honest, I think that even when life is going well, it’s hard.

It’s hard to be married. It’s hard not to be married. It’s hard to raise kids. It’s hard not to have kids when you want them. It’s hard to juggle all the demands of life and work. It’s hard to be out of a job and not have work. Catch a theme there? I think you get the picture.

Life is hard. Can we just get that out there? We live in a world that is in rebellion against the God who created it. And that changes everything. That makes life hard – sometimes we bring the hardship on ourselves because we make stupid choices but other times the hardship just comes to us because this world is not as it should be.

Life is hard. That doesn’t mean we’re not grateful for it or that we don’t want to live it anymore or that there is no meaning in the hardship. But, I think that it’s important to just acknowledge that it’s hard. Because if you just see me on social media, you might think it’s all hydrangeas and cups of tea. It’s not. Because I don’t really stop and take a selfie when I’m arguing with my son about his chores or when I’m glancing fearfully at my daughter because I’m afraid she’ll have a seizure or when I’m playing solitaire on my iPad because I don’t want to read my Bible or when I can’t sleep because I’ve got a lot on my mind or when I fudge the truth with my husband because I didn’t actually do the thing he asked me to get done and now I feel bad.

So, what am I saying here? Why am I publishing this post? (To be fair, I did warn you that the writing might not be great. If you’re still reading, that’s your own fault.)

I’m writing because of Val’s lunch question: how am I even functioning right now? She knew my answer before I even spoke it. Because she just came through a year of treading water herself. My answer is the same as yours. And, I don’t mean to be trite but the answer is simply the grace of God. He carries us. He brings beauty out of ashes and meaning out of hardship. He makes old things new. He takes our weaknesses and brings glory. It’s just what He does. Seasons of barely functioning are not wasted on Him.

And, that means I DON’T HAVE TO BE ENOUGH. Because I’m not. He is.

That is what I’m clinging to right now.

So, take that, blinking cursor.

When God Says No {A New Wrinkle in Our Journey with Epilepsy}

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Nothing could have prepared me for the moment when I watched my daughter fall to the floor in convulsions. Helpless dread sweeping over me, I tried to get across the room to her as I watched her smack her head against the desk and then crumple to the floor. Time stretched out before me as I moved to cradle her and roll her on her side until the seizing stopped. Gently I called out to her over and over again as if somehow I could bring her back to me. And, yet, for those 60 or so seconds – was it really only seconds? it felt like hours to this mamma’s heart – for those seconds, my girl was lost to me. Locked inside a fog in her own head, she couldn’t hear me or respond to my calling.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in all my life.

When the convulsions stopped, she laid there so still. Although it was a welcome respite from the seizing, it was too still and quiet for my liking. I knew that she was still breathing but I had no idea how long it would take before she came back to me. How long would it be before her soft hands uncurled and her long, lean body relaxed and her beautiful, blue eyes opened? I didn’t know. We’d never done this before. Her seizures had always been the “staring spell” kind before.

I know I’ve never been so scared in all my life.

And, yet… God. He made us so that a sort of mommy-adrenaline kicks in and you remember things to do and not to do. Why did I remember to turn her on her side? I don’t know. I just did. A calm, action-taking rationale took over as left her alone for a moment to call 911. Though it was 4:45 in the morning, I remembered our hotel name and room number. I was able to recount silly details to the EMT.

It was just the two of us alone there for a dance competition. My husband was in another country. Her neurologist was over an hour away. And, yet, I didn’t freak out. The calm in my voice surprised me as I heard myself speak to her lovingly and reassuringly as she started to come-to. She was completely disoriented at first and then irrational for a time but I stayed composed. I didn’t lose it when I realized her blood was soaking my leggings from her head wound (she’d need 5 stitches in the back of her head to close it up) or that she’d bitten the heck out of her tongue. God was there with me, giving me speed and clarity as I packed up the room, loaded the car, and checked us out. As we raced across the turnpike to get to our neurologist, I finally realized how tense I had become when I looked down at my hand 45 minutes into the ride and saw that I was still clutching that stupid turnpike ticket instead of slipping it into the visor like usual.

It wasn’t until I was in my car hours later and she was all stitched up and we were headed home that I finally spoke with Rick. As he prayed with me from an orphanage in Costa Rica, I finally cried. There before our Father – miles apart but together in His holy presence – I cried with my husband and best-friend. Hot tears finally rolled down my cheeks, as I let God’s grace wash over me and sensed His nearness. “Not our will but Yours,” we told Him. We would trust Him in the days ahead even though everything about this sucked.

I’m still processing… as is my girl. And, Rick in Costa Rica. And, our son with him. We’re all trying to process it emotionally. As well, there are decisions to be made about our new normal. Medications and protocols and a 504 plan for the school, etc. Lots of unknowns. But there are a few things I can say with certainty in the midst of it.

  1. Being a Christian doesn’t mean we’re exempt from crappy things happening. We live in a fallen world that is in rebellion against the One who called it into existence. Just because we follow Him, doesn’t mean He will spare us from the realities of life here. That doesn’t change the fact that He loves us or that He is always perfectly good. We’ll keep asking Him to take this epilepsy away from our girl but if He doesn’t, we’ll assume that He will make something beautiful come out of all of it. Does that mean we won’t have doubts or questions or even feel mad at Him at times? Probably not. We’re wrestling with all of it. It’s not easy to accept when God’s answer is “no,” as it appears to be right now. But, we’ve got to wrestle in faith, mindful of Who He is. So, for now, we’re trusting that “the steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never come to an end, they are new every morning.” It was true thousands of years ago when King Solomon first penned it and it’s true now.
  2. Having community around you makes all the difference in the world when crisis hits. Our church family is amazing. Seriously amazing. They have rallied around us in every way – both in word and in deed. Praying, encouraging us with kind words, providing meals, stopping by with smoothies since Mad needs soft foods while her tongue heals, running errands, coming to play games with Madison so I don’t have to leave her alone, listening to me process, etc. My own mom lives far away so my MIL readily dropped everything to come stay with us for a few days. My sisters are checking in often. My BIL’s family sent flowers to lift our spirits. It feels good to be wrapped up in that kind of love and warmth.
  3. There is a kind of surrender that happens when you realize you can’t control everything. This is the not the girls’ week that Mad and I had planned while our boys were gone. This is not the dance competition she had envisioned – she never even made it to the stage and her team had to adjust just hours before their performance. This is not the outcome we had expected in relation to her epilepsy. We thought she might be outgrowing her Absence Seizures. This new normal is not something I can control – medication will help but seizures happen and I can’t wrap my girl in a bubble to protect her from every possible outcome. I am NOT enough. Jesus is. And I will surrender my fears and hopes to Him, looking ahead to the joy set before me.
  4. Though I am the mom of an epileptic and there is much comfort in talking to other moms who are in the same boat, that is not my identity. My identity hasn’t changed. It is Adopted Daughter of God, Follower of Christ. My life will change some and I’ll have to manage my fears and realities, but this is not the primary thing that drives my life – or hers. We’ll add this thread to the complex, multi-colored fabric of our lives. But it’s just one more part, not the whole.
  5. Grief and emotional processing comes in waves. On the one hand, we’re all doing really well. On the other, we’re all wrestling with some strong emotions. It’s OK for us to take time to work through it all – especially Madison.

For now, we’re enjoying being wrapped in the warmth and love of the family and friends our good God has placed in our lives.

Amalya: Portrait of an Inspiring Woman

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Today is International Women’s Day. I’m going to celebrate by reflecting on the women who have impacted me. Maybe I’ll even share portraits of some of them here in the coming weeks.

In that spirit, meet Amalya. I only spent a week with her but she left a huge imprint on my life. Her example is especially meaningful to me because of some of the things I’m processing in my own life right now about my vision and calling. I think you’ll see why in a moment…

Her sweet mountain home was small by most standards – especially for a family of six. Chickens pecked around her front yard as she washed the morning’s dishes in the tub outside. The hose stretched just far enough to get the job done. She’d already been up for hours. Afterall, someone needed to begin preparations for the day and start the fire that would warm the tub of water for our “showers.” Her shawl stretched around her shoulders, chasing away the morning chill as she moved from task to task, always a contented look on her face. I watched as she smiled and gave a handful of coins to the older neighbor lady on the road who was bringing her more fresh, corn tortillas. There in the early morning light, I watched and the thought occurred to me that Amalya was probably one of the most beautiful souls I had ever met.

She’s also the primary living example who has convinced me that hospitality is not really about stuff. Amalya and Lencho didn’t have tons of stuff. They lived simply, hanging clothes on the line to dry and working their small plot of land to provide for their basic food needs. Running water was sparse. Hot water, non-existent… unless you boiled it on the fire in the small shower shed which was next to the outhouse. I know they had furniture but I don’t really remember it. I do remember sitting around the kitchen table, talking, laughing, and praying with dear friends. I remember standing in her kitchen when she treated us to Horchata de Arroz on our first night there. I even remember eating fresh mango and squeezing lime on everything as I feasted in her kitchen. But I honestly have absolutely no recollection of what the table itself looked like. And, I’m pretty sure that no one dish matched another dish.

You see, Amalya and Lencho knew something that we have forgotten. They kept it simple, making their lives about loving God and seeking to love people the way He does.

I don’t know that I’ve ever experienced hospitality quite like I did that week in the mountains of Mexico. I don’t speak much Spanish and Amalya speaks even less English; but I felt like my heart was knit with hers by the week’s end. Why? Because Amalya opened her life to us – she invited us in. Not just into her home but into her life. And as she did so, she offered us kindness, encouragement, and warmth.

She invited us into her village and let us glimpse her heart – her love for her people, her brokenness over loved ones who keep God at arm’s length, her tenderness toward her family, her passion for translating the Bible into the spoken dialect of the people – many of whom do not know Spanish.

What’s more, her invitation came at a cost. As the week wore on, we discovered all the accommodations she had made to make room for us – like cramming her family of six into two beds in one tiny room (storage area) so that we would have places to sleep. We disrupted her life in every way. And yet, she invited us in.

Amalya’s quiet, faithful example taught me much that week. She taught me about simplicity and having a servant’s heart. She taught me what hospitality is really all about – an invitation. She taught me about creating the time and the space to say “come on in and commune with us. Just as you are. We want you here. Even if it costs me something. Mostly, because you matter to God; but I want you to matter to me, too. Because you have a story and I want you to share it with me. Come on in out of the storm, hang up your travel-worn cloak, and just rest for a sec… while I get you a cup of tea and a cozy blanket.”

As I think about all the women over the years, like Amalya, who have invited me in – to their homes and their lives – I am grateful. I know am richer for their beautiful offerings.