Holy Beauty:

My sister's story and why I haven't given up the faith

I am a doubter. I have a tendency to question, over-analyze and argue myself out of my own convictions. I am naturally empathetic and that empathy more often than not allows me to see quite clearly the validity of another viewpoint. I question why the Old Testament is so full of violent and abusive/oppressive narratives, I question why good people with strong beliefs who happen not to have heard the gospel might not be saved, I question why certain people seem to struggle with so much while others seem to have everything handed to them. In the end I don't really have answers to most of my questions. I have a fair amount of inner struggle and arguing back and forth in my little overwrought head. I have a lot of unresolved questions and moments of doubting my own faith. There have been seasons where the thread holding me to this faith has felt as fragile as a strand of silk, but somehow it has held strong through all my doubts. The one thing that has anchored me through these questions and unresolved issues, the thing that brings me back to a place of peace every time, is story. The story of a God who cares, who risks everything to bring peace and redemption to a people who are difficult to love, the story of a God who is near, who is present, who is all-loving, all-merciful and who can be trusted. The character of God is real and when I hear the stories, whether through a hymn or a Scripture reading or a soul plunging conversation with a friend, my soul is filled with the recognition of Truth. I know that I will always question, always doubt. And in some ways I think it makes my faith stronger, or at least more authentic. But when my faith feels tenuous I look at the beauty of God's story and the stories that He has written, is writing, in my life and others', and my soul finds rest.

The thing about God stories is they're real. They don't have any guaranteed happy endings and you can pretty much count on some messy sin-nature, pain and injustice. But there is a cord that runs through them. A cord of hope, of redemption, of unwarranted joy. And it is that cord that I find myself clinging to even as my doubting mind runs this way and that looking for the logic of faith.  It is a cord of strength, of hope, of holy beauty. So as I have thought through my sister's story over these past several months, I am gripped with awe as I so clearly see my God's loving hand. It brings me to tears every time. It brings me to the heart of God.

My sister Amanda (left) and me with Cammie in 2002

Her's is a story of reality at its harshest, of cancer involving the most personal pieces of one's body and soul, cancer not just once as a child but again as an adult. Her's is a story of seasons of depression, oppressive thought patterns and attempted suicide. A story of a womb being lifted out of the belly of a 22 year old virgin with a grapefruit sized tumor clinging to it. Her story is not mine to claim.  Though I walked with her, sometimes closely, I have not walked her road. I have not shed her burning tears. I have not felt the pain and helplessness of looking death in the eye. But in her story there is a cord of hope.  A cord of protection, provision and over all love. And that cord is mine. That is my God. And I cling to that cord because it is my hope and my faith. And because He has written me into His story.

So, ten years later, ten years after that second cancer diagnosis and hysterectomy, I get to see the next chapter of the story. The part that seemed impossible from her hospital room with IV poles

and smooth pale head. The part that, if I'm really honest with myself, I did not believe God could do. The joy of family and second chances and miraculous provision. Of twin 8 month old girls

Cammie and Jeremy at the twins' shower after receiving
them into foster care let summer (2012)

received with open hearts of joy last summer. Of watching my sister step gracefully and beautifully into the role of mother. The news of 12 and 14 year old older sisters' stories and lives working their way into my sister and brother-in-law's hearts and their clear conviction that God had opened the door for these too to be their daughters. It has been an incredible story to watch unfold. To see someone beaten down by life in every possible way walk away clothed in joy and peace, without a trace of bitterness or anger. To see your Father respond to every need in a way that so perfectly addresses the intimate details of each void that it leaves you wondering at your own unbelief. To see your sister and dearest friend step up to the courthouse bench, beaming, one daughter in arms and three by her side, stepping into a covenant of love with these four beauties.

On adoption day this October after welcoming the older
sisters into their home this summer (July 2013)

But then there was also the part, earlier on in the adoption process, where the CPS worker looked my sister and her husband in the eye and said "are you sure you realize what you're doing? This isn't going to be your fairy tale ending." And they said "yes we do, and we're committed to these girls."  Because they understand that God doesn't commit himself to us only if we don't have baggage, or thinking this is all going to turn out pretty. That's not how a God story works. It is painful, it is unpredictable, it always involves sacrifice and dying to self, and the ending (on this side of eternity) is not guaranteed.

In the end no scientific argument or logic can create the hope that resonates in my soul that I feel when I see God's redemptive story played out in real lives.  There is a hope that can be trusted. My God is here.

Saying good bye to Grandpa Gordon

My grandparents, Gordon and Elaine Van Rooy,
on their wedding day

If you were to ask me to describe my Grandpa, the memories that would color that description would be the same ones that have colored my general perspective of him. Those awkward moments when he would ask us at the family dinner table if we had any friends who did drugs or how it made us feel when our dad yelled at us. The continual reminders from him that our Grandma was not long for this world (starting about 10 years before her passing). The flowers he bought for her at Costco and then winking at the pharmacy clerk said “I figure she can appreciate them more now than later” (a good year before she passed away). Him leading us in a cheer for my grandmother at her funeral which literally involved having the congregation stand up and repeat after him “Ra! Ra! Elaine!” The inappropriate “we're headed to bed...and what we do there is none of your business” comment from my 83 year old newlywed grandpa a few months after marrying Grandma Bev. You know, the typical grandpa memories.

Not that I didn't love my grandpa, he was a truly kind and jovial man, if not a bit quirky. Then this past Spring as my grandpa's prostate cancer (which he seemed to have had for at least 10 years) metastasized further and he entered into his last days it became apparent that my family wanted me to be there with him. The calls began to come with medical questions and, after communicating with my family that I would be happy to come up if they felt it would be helpful, it became very apparent that it would be. I felt it was right to go up for those last days to honor my grandfather and thought that maybe the idea of having a doctor in the house would bring some peace to Grandma Bev (even though I knew I wasn't going to be of much practical help). It became obvious later on that they did not quite realize how little help I actually was going to be and that what they really should have asked for was a nurse (my sister), but nonetheless they got me.

Hiking through the Himalayas

The realization of a life misjudged (or perhaps under appreciated) came during those three days spent in my grandparents' double wide retirement home as his body weakened and his spirit lifted. Their walls are lined with beautiful paintings of the Himalayas from a time gone by along with family pictures of my grandparents, their 4 boys and adopted daughter, and all of their grandchildren and great-grandchildren. As we entered his room, Grandma Bev smiled at him, put his covers on “just so” to cover his toes which kept trying to peak out, and with a twinkle in her eye said “he is a wonderful, wonderful man.” It was a phrase she repeated often as she arranged his nightshirt or his covers or introduced him to the night hospice “sitter” or just looked down at his frail form while holding his hand.

She was right. He was a boy who grew up in poverty, the youngest of 4 brothers in a two room house. He shared a bed with these brothers and, more often than not, ended up spending the night sleeping on the cold hard floor when there didn't seem to be room for him.  He was raised by a single mother after his mother and alcoholic father separated. He came to know the Lord as a child and fell in love for the rest of his life. He graduated from Seattle Pacific University and went on to Dallas Theological Seminary where he met my grandmother Elaine. They set off to a very remote part of India with their two boys, ages 3 and 1 (my father), an area that required a 10 day hike to reach as there were no roads. He spent 18 years in India discipling Indian and Nepali pastors and creating Bible correspondence curriculum for them. While there, he and my grandmother adopted their 3 year old niece out of the Colorado foster system (a place that had been much more damaging than protective of her little life). During his furloughs and following his return to Dallas he completed his Ph.D from Dallas seminary and later went on to open a counseling facility for those struggling with mental illness.

A view from my Grandparents' home in India

These were all things I knew about my grandpa, but somehow I had missed them. Somehow the quirky idiosyncrasies of his personality had clouded my view of the amazing work that God had carved in this man's life. This man who came from the humblest background, a background that I would probably have written off as not being redeemable, or at least not likely to be.

We spent three days in their home saying good bye to my Grandpa (as I mentioned, I was really quite useless on the medical side of things). My 3 year old daughter came with me and connected immediately with him. She would sit next to him in bed, singing to him, reading him Winnie the Pooh books, handing her dollies to him (which he would sort of halfway flail in the air with his lanky arm until someone took it from him). He made a special effort to talk to her, strained whispers of “I love you” or “hi Corrie”. Usually his only words of the day were reserved for her. She would play in the living room and then get up and decide she needed to go check on great-grandpa and go and sit with him some more.

Grandpa with his second wife, Grandma Bev

Dying reminds me a lot of birth. You know it is coming soon and so everyone is prepared and even expectant but no one knows exactly when it will come. And my grandpa, lying there in his thin linen night shirt, all limbs and smooth skin, was truly beautiful. He was a humble and honest man who loved the Lord dearly and had a heart of gold and a fun quirky side. I am thankful that I was there with him to say good bye. I am saddened that it wasn't until his passing that I truly appreciated his life.

Who else am I missing out on when I allow petty annoyances and irritations or even just quirkiness to take hold of my perspective instead of seeing people with eyes of love? I am trying to be conscientious of this, trying to consciously remind myself of the beauty that God sees in lives that I sometimes want to write off. I am thankful and proud of my grandpa's life. His is a story of redemption. Of God's transforming love writing a story that should be unimaginable.

Grandpa was truly excited to meet his Jesus and yet he often expressed honest fears as well. We headed home early on Sunday morning and my grandfather passed away that evening. The following morning Corrie came up to me and wanted to tell me her dream from the night before (something she has never before done). Hurried preparing breakfast for the kids, I glanced at her and asked what it was. “I dreamt I saw great grandpa's bones, mommy. Because he didn't need them anymore, mommy, because he had a new body. Jesus gave him a new body! And he was very happy.”

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What about you, can you think of anyone that you have misjudged or allowed little personality traits to cloud your view of the beauty that God sees (and is working out) in their life?

On becoming a doctor...and a mom

It was my junior year of college. After years of preparation, I was in the process of studying for my medical school entrance exams and completing my application. At the same time I was wondering whether I really wanted to embark on what I knew would be a long and difficult journey. I don't exactly fit the typical doctor personality. I have had more than one advisor/attending point this out to me over the years. During this same year, in fact, my college pre-med advisor had recommended I pursue an alternate career because he wasn't sure I had the leadership (or maybe “bossing” type skills) to become a doctor. Looking into PA school was something I was actively considering. Not really because I felt I didn't have what it takes to be a doctor. I realize that I am not the typical doctor personality. And even though my advisor's “advice” was pretty brutal and discouraging, it also made me take a good look at the path I was taking and come to the conclusion that I was called to be a doctor because I was passionate about helping others, not because I was passionate about cellular or molecular biology, and not because I enjoy prestige or being in charge of others (I really don't...). And that was ok. The reason I was taking a good long look at the path I had been pursuing since I could remember was that, in the back of my head, I knew what I really hoped and dreamed of most in life was to be a wife and mom.

I knew that the doctor path meant 4 years of med school (did I mention they were kind of long and hard years...), 3 years of residency (ditto) and then a hefty amount of student loans to pay off and a career that, at least until recently, has been generally considered an all-consuming, overflowing into your personal life kind of deal. And I knew that part of me really just wanted to be a stay at home mom. The problem was I had never even held hands with anyone of the XY variety, let alone have any kind of boyfriend or real confidence that that would be in my future. All I knew for sure was that it would be me and God and that He would give me all that I needed and that my heart's desire was to serve Him through missions. When I thought about the real possibility that I could be single for the rest of my life I felt that, even without the dreamed for husband and family, I could find real purpose and meaning in doing medical missions. I prayed a lot about it. I was truly open to switching gears and going towards PA school, but I continued to find a peace about continuing in my original pursuit. And then I felt His confirmation when, after initially doubting if I'd even be accepted into med school, I was accepted to my first choice of medical schools – a school that also happened to be one of the top in the nation. A school that was also in my hometown of Dallas, close to my family, close to my sister who had recently been diagnosed with recurrent cancer. I felt the Lord's confirmation, presence and blessing. And my advisor who had once doubted whether I was really “doctor material” was now kind of bragging on me and my acceptance to UT Southwestern :)

Little did I know that literally just a few weeks after my acceptance I would embark on the beginnings of a relationship with the kindest, most humble, servant-hearted and honorable man I know. We had known each other since orientation weekend, but in the Lord's timing, we didn't actually start dating until the summer before medical school, a point at which I was pretty committed to this path. I look back at this season and it definitely wasn't easy. It felt pretty dark and confusing most of the time. It's one of those times that you look back on and wonder why God doesn't give you a little sneak peak into the future. But he didn't. If I had known then what I know now.... but I didn't. That was my journey in faith, and I moved forward despite a fair amount of trepidation, me and God, knowing He prepared the path that I was fumbling along and that He would not lead me astray.

Fast forward 10 years. I have made it through the 4 long years of medical school, 3 years of intense work and constantly feeling over one's head that is residency and my first year in practice. I have also been surprised by a proposal from the love of my life, a beautiful wedding, a year off of med school in Costa Rica together after our wedding, and the birth of the two cutest little bundles of joy I could ever have imagined. I am doing what I had hoped I could do – serving. I am listening to men and women struggling with depression and anxiety when I know they often have no one else to talk to. I am getting down on my knees scraping off crusted skin from an elderly woman's legs and cleaning wounds that sometimes smell worse than I care to describe. I am the doctor and, more so, the listening ear to a young African American man with HIV who has told almost no one in his everyday life about his diagnosis. Every day I listen, treat, try my best not to run too late on my schedule, research the things I really don't know enough about, coordinate care, laugh with my patients and cry with them. I am not the best doctor. I trained with some pretty amazingly intelligent people and I have a realistic view of the extent of my scientific and medical abilities. But I know that I care, and I can tell that it makes a difference. I watch as my sweet patients, most of whom are on welfare, bring me vegetables from their gardens, a pair of earrings as a Christmas present, a homemade quilting project, and (cutest of all) a miniature homemade armchair for my daughter. I know it makes a difference.

But there's one thing I don't do. I don't stay at home with my kids. I work about 30 hours a week, sometimes more. I don't go on play dates. I don't drop my daughter off at preschool on her first day or make it to most of her preschool parties or field trips. I don't do cute crafty projects during their naps. I don't do MOPS, or mom's bible study or any number of other activities that I look wistfully at. I don't even make dinner most nights. I hardly ever grocery shop or do laundry (ok, can't say that I really miss these, but still, kind of makes one feel like they've lost their “mom card”).

And I really miss it. I came from a sort of “stay-at-home-mom” legacy. So did Brian. That same part of me that once considered giving up on my lifelong dream of being a doctor for the slim possibility that I might get to be a mom instead is still alive and well. And now I have those kids. Did I mention they're two of the most adorable children you'd ever meet? And there's a big part of me that aches to be with them. I believe in the role of a stay at home mom. Thankfully, my amazing husband has embraced the role of discipling and raising our kids with passion and love. He really is doing an amazing job. He is the dad at the preschool party with all the mom's talking about who's pregnant, the dad who knows how to make chicken tikka masala and homemade cookies, the dad who knows the HEB aisles like the back of his hand, and he's the expert on his kids' idiosyncrasies and heart issues. And he rocks it. But I'd be lying if I didn't still sometimes (most of the time?) wish I could do some of that. And I know some of this is a little bit of idealization. Because, the reality is, I've never actually done it. I love my kids, I spend intentional time with them, I know them well, and they know and love me. But most of this time when I am investing in their sweet little lives Brian is around too. He's my back-up when I'm trying to cook and my 18 month old is trying to help, when I start changing a poopy diaper and realize it's much more than I bargained for, or when I am exhausted and really just need a nap or a few minutes of down time. I've never actually done the greuling day-in, day-out, 24/7 job that being a stay-at-home parent is. I know it's not all fun and easy. But part of me still wants to take it on and love on and disciple my kids 24/7 'till their cute little noses pop off.

So this is the part where I look back. Where I remember. Where I am glad that God didn't give me the sneak peak after all and where I'm glad that, in the end, it really still is just me and Him. He brought me here. God knows I didn't make it on my own. I didn't embark on this journey lightly. I didn't run after my dream without stopping to seek and ask His will. Not that I was super spiritual at the time - it really just was such a difficult time that I had no choice but to look to Him in tears, out of my place of need. And so now, finding myself in the middle of “my dream” and still most days wondering why I don't look like every other stay-at-home mom at church whom I so respect and admire, I stop. I don't know why this was His path for me, but I am confident it was His. Our family doesn't really look like any others I know. And I'm ok with that. My hope is in Him and I know that He is faithful to finish the good work He has started in us.