It is remarkable with what
Christian fortitude and resignation we
can bear the suffering of other folks.

JONATHAN SWIFT

Before our children entered their teen years, Ramona began having seizures—grand mal seizures, they call them. I assure you, there is nothing grand about them. A typical episode saw her muscles seize up and her body slump to the floor in a rigid and seemingly lifeless heap. Then would begin a period of violent convulsions during which I held her and prayed my favorite prayer. These random occurrences lasted up to an hour at a time and frightened the living daylights out of us both. Unable to drive, uncertain how to plan each day, Ramona slid into a dark pit John Bunyan referred to as the Slough of Despond.

One doctor informed us that sleep deprivation and alcohol abuse are two major causes of seizures. Then he stopped talking, his eyes darting from Ramona to me.

“I’ve thought of alcohol,” she admitted.

“She’s as dry as my high school teachers’ jokes,” I interjected. “But sleep deprivation, now—you’ve heard of Irish twins? We almost had Irish triplets. She hasn’t slept since 1986.”

The seizures continued to worsen. One night I asked Ramona if there was anything I could do to alleviate some of the pressure around the house. “Hire a maid,” she smiled.

“No, really,” I repeated. “What can I do?”

“You’re going through enough with all of this,” she responded. “I’ll be fine.” Ramona could never be accused of inconveniencing anyone. Lend her an egg; she’ll bring you back a full carton.

“When would you like me home?” I asked her.

“Can you find a way to be here for breakfast and get the kids ready for school?”

I told her I would find a way.

A Franciscan Benediction

May God bless you with discomfort

At easy answers, half-truths, and superficial relationships,

So that you may live deep within your heart.

May God bless you with anger

At injustice, oppression, and exploitation of people,

So that you may work for justice, freedom, and peace.

May God bless you with tears

To shed for those who suffer pain, rejection, hunger, and war,

So that you may reach out your hand to comfort them and

To turn their pain into joy.

And may God bless you with enough foolishness

To believe that you can make a difference in the world,

So that you can do what others claim cannot be done

To bring justice and kindness to all our children and the poor.

Amen

“And how about the rest of the morning, just to massage my feet?”

I told her she was pushing it.

“I just wonder about the kids,” she said, her voice trailing away. “How they’re handling this.”

“I promise you something,” I told her. “I’m not much good with massage, and my cooking needs work, but I will always be here for you and for them.”

Over the years I’ve missed a boatload of deadlines. I’ve hit the wrong net in hockey. I’ve deposited hundreds of golf balls in fine creeks everywhere. But, thank God, I’ve never broken that promise.

Sometimes the children and I enjoyed the weirdest concoctions for breakfast. Did you know that you can disguise almost anything in an omelet? I invented porridge a la mode, much to their delight. Sure, they had stomachaches by lunch, but it’s a happy kind of stomachache best treated with a large bowl of fresh raspberries topped with maple syrup.

Some of my best memories of those years come from taking the three of them bowling after dinner. Or swimming. Or out for ice cream (as if we needed more). Before bed we curled up on the sofa together, and I read a Bible picture book or told them a story of my childhood. I remain convinced that story hour is one of the greatest bonding opportunities parents are afforded. To leave the TV off and read books is the closest some of us come to pure sainthood.

The stories often gave way to discussions and almost always to laughter. And before I tucked them in, I prayed aloud and blessed them and told them that of all the children in the world, I couldn’t have picked out three better ones—and I meant every word.

I have had the pleasure of traveling the world, of attending professional sporting events, of eating and sleeping in the finest hotels, but I assure you that the memory of these pleasures does not bring a smile to my face like the memory of those evenings on the sofa.

A lady with a prunish look once pulled me aside to tell me that seeing their mother have seizures would be hard on children, that I really needed to shield them better. I’m not quite sure what she had in mind—sending them somewhere in a spaceship? (She would really think I’d gone over the edge if she knew that we later invited my parents to live with us.)

Of course I’d love to protect my children from pain, but life happens instead. And as it comes along, so does mercy and—thank God—grace.

I see brief glimpses of that grace in the fact that these three kids still want to hang around us. Okay, not always. But come bedtime most nights, I notice them lingering in the living room like they want me to pronounce the benediction or something. And so, whenever I can, I do. If we have time, I read to them from a rich biography of some great hero of the faith or a quick story I’ve clipped from somewhere. The time allotted me is shorter now because of their schedules, so sometimes we just sit and talk as they munch on their bedtime meals. Just as we did when they were small, we finish our day with prayer. And I tell them that of all the children in the world, I couldn’t have picked out three who eat more.

After months of testing, diagnosis, and the eventual prescription of antiseizure medication, Ramona’s health slowly returned. All of us watched with thanksgiving as she gradually emerged from the Slough of Despond.

I do not wish to trivialize the many lessons we learned about suffering and pain and compassion for the struggles of others. In hindsight, I have not experienced growth apart from difficulty; in fact, I doubt I have learned one solitary thing worth remembering that was not forged in the furnace of suffering. But certainly one of the greatest lessons our family has learned is this: When it comes right down to it, the only way to face a crisis that makes any sense at all—is together. And the only direction to face—is up.