There is a God

This testimony took place in February, a little over 12 years ago.  I was 7 months pregnant at the time.

The phone rang.  It was 6:15 and I was still sleeping.  I ignored it.  Then it rang again.  Groggily I answered it.  It was Joey on the other end, “Ashley’s been shot.  I think she’s dead.  All the windows are shot out.”  Then silence for a moment.  “I’m calling you from the ambulance phone. I have to go to the police station.  I’ll call you when I need you to come pick me up.”  Click.  What!? 

My brain was still slowly waking up, trying to put the pieces together.  I knew Joey had gone in early to the gym that morning.  Ashley was part owner of that gym and would arrive early to open up.  Was this a mass shooting inside the gym?  What windows was he talking about?  What had my husband just witnessed?  I plopped my sore, pregnant body into the bath tub and began to pray.  My prayer was, “God, whatever he’s just witnessed, give him peace.  Protect his mind.  No flashbacks, no nightmares.”

It was hours before he called me again.  I drove down to the New Holland Police Station, hands shaking on the wheel.  When I got there they directed me to Joey.  There he was, sitting on a chair, a bible in his hand.  He was pretty scratched up and his shirt was bloodied, but he wasn’t hurt.  In fact, he looked calmer than I felt.  He told me later that he had been somewhat in shock until he arrived at the police station and asked for a bible.  The minute he began to read it, a peace washed over him. 

After a little while, we drove home together.  It was then that I got the whole story.  That Monday morning Joey had off work.  He wasn’t sure if he was going to head into the gym at his normal early time, but after a quiet time that day felt like he was supposed to.  He arrived at the gym that morning like he did several times a week, turned up his music and waited for Ashley to arrive and open up.  Minutes later he heard what sounded like paintball shots then a scream.  The windows to his car began to shatter.  He ducked (which due to Joey’s excess muscles looks more like a slump and a head tilt).  When the shots stopped for a moment he looked up in his rearview mirror only to see a man with a shot gun in his hand moving from the back of his car towards the front.  More shots, more shattered glass.  He grabbed his keys and quickly threw them into the ignition thinking either he was either going to get out of there or hit the man on the side of the car.  As soon as he began to reverse the man ran, hopped into a van and drove away.

Joey got out of the car, joined another member of the gym next to Ashley, who was now laying in front of his car, and prayed.  A minute later the ambulance and police arrived.  The EMT’s explained that Ashley had died instantly.  There was nothing Joey or the other gym members could have done for her.

Later that day we went back to the police station where I got to see Joey’s car for the first time.    They estimated that approximately 15 bullets went through the car.  There were bullet holes everywhere – through the ceiling, headrests, dashboard, and every window but one.  Joey’s dad took one look at the car and said, “Son, there is a God.” 

It wasn’t until that night, when I laid my tired body down next to his that it fully sunk in.  Joey should have died.  I should have been a pregnant widow, alone in that bed, our 4 year old asleep in the next room.  It hit like a ton of bricks. 

Joey never had nightmares or flashbacks.  Instead, he was able to pray with most of the gym members who happened to be there that morning and struggled with what they had seen.  He knew that God had directed him to be there that morning so that he could be someone for others to lean on during such a difficult time.  He was there to be a light in the darkness. 

One month later I delivered a beautiful baby girl.  Joey was there to hold my hand and kiss his new daughter.  Two days later we drove her home in our bullet ridden car, which my Aunt Lydia appropriately named the “God Mobile.”  I don’t know why God protected my Joey while others have had to walk the path of loss, but I am forever grateful.  “For the Lord is good.  His unfailing love continues forever, and His faithfulness continues to each generation.”  Psalm 100:5 (NLT). 

... but God

I sat beside my husband Joey as we sped into the hospital.  My water had never broken on its own before.  In fact, with all my other biological children the midwife had to break my water and a half hour later I’d be holding new life in my arms.  Because of this, the Doctor had advised us just 15 minutes before to get to the hospital and get there fast.  I was petrified.  I was sure I was going to be the woman who delivered her baby in the freezing cold along the side of the road.  I can’t explain the fear, but it was overpowering, stealing joy with every mile we drove.  This whole process was completely outside of my control.  It wasn’t until we got to the hospital and I was told I was only 2 cm dilated that the fear began to subside.  Seven hours later I held my 5lb 9oz miracle.  A month early, he decided to make his debut on Valentine’s Day.  Little did I know that the season the we were walking into would be the most difficult one of my life. 

I sat in the bath tub, fan on, trying to drown out the screaming.  Ten minutes of peace, relaxation and relief was all I wanted.  Every facet of me was exhausted and at the end of my rope.  Joey appeared through the door with our sobbing babe.  “Nothing’s working.”  Everything in me wanted to quit being a parent, but that’s not how it works. 

I sat across from the Pediatrician as he informed me they found blood in the diaper sample.  I was advised to cut out soy on top of the dairy I’d already cut out.  If that didn’t work we’d go down the list of allergens until we saw relief.  A week into it things weren’t getting better so I cut out all 8 top allergens.  Still nothing.  My diet was cut back to 10 foods, then 8, then 5.  Nothing.  No substantial change, only more hopelessness.  On top of it all I was convinced that I wasn’t producing enough milk on such a limited diet.  He always seemed hungry, but with all his presumed allergies the only formula option was a hypoallergenic one and he wouldn’t take it (after tasting it myself I completely understood why).  The anxiety covered me like a heavy fleece blanket on a 100 degree night.  I wasn’t sure how much more of it I could all handle. 

I sat next to my mom who had come over to hold our 2 month old and give me a much needed nap.  This was probably the 10^th time we had tried over the past couple weeks, but I couldn’t sleep.   I was exhausted beyond anything I’ve ever experienced, but the anxiety tormented me and I couldn’t rest.  I felt like I was stuck in fight of flight mode 24/7, only I couldn’t run away from this.  My body was shutting down. 

I sat on the porch swing rocking back and forth, babe in my arms.  The swing on the porch, hidden under the shade of our large maple tree had become my refuge.  As the breeze would blow over us both I would worship, cry, war, and call out to the Lord.  God continued to be faithful and meet me, blowing little pieces of hope into my heart and spirit.  There was new manna for each day.  I knew that there was a purpose for the season.  God was doing something in me.  I was being pruned, tested and put through the fire.  It hurt.  I wanted it to be over. 

I sat across from Joey and listened to him tell me that this was the hardest season of his adult life.  It made me feel a little better, like it wasn’t just me.  It wasn’t all in my head.  It just sucked and there was no way around it.  Kind of like that kids book about the bear hunt.  “Can’t go over it.  Can’t go under it.  Got to go through it.”  Shit. 

I sat across from the Midwife and listened to her tell me that within 2 weeks I should see a difference on the antidepressant she was prescribing me.  I knew she was right, but I also had an eerie feeling that things were going to get worse before they got better, and they did.  That Thursday, when I woke, the first thought that came to mind was, “I need to commit myself.  I can’t do this anymore.”  As I woke up a bit more I realized 2 things needed to happen:  this child needed to learn to sleep and I needed to put him on formula so I could distance myself from it all a bit.  Everything in me felt too shattered to do either of those things, but I knew they had to happen.  I called my parents who came and picked up the middle 3 children so I could focus solely on Israel and teaching him to sleep on his own.  That day I pressed in like I’ve never pressed in before.  Every time I put my babe down for a nap I worshiped and fell apart on my living room floor.  Never have I been so raw, so depleted, so desperate.  I paced the floor back and forth.  All the anxiety, fear and adrenaline wouldn’t even allow me to sit.  I felt like I was crawling out of my own skin.  As I listened to my sweet baby scream through the monitor I laid all of me out before the Lord.  As the Lord met me I felt Him say, “You’re crowning.  Three more days until the birth.  Give me your little and I’ll make much.”  

I sat with the Lord, well more like paced with the Lord, every chance I could over those next couple days.  I had finally come to a point of releasing all that I was.  I wasn’t fighting the process anymore.  I was too tired to fight anything.  The Lord was speaking many things to my heart.  One of the things He spoke was that our family was to make a prophetic act and march around our house 7 times, giving up a shout to the Lord after the 7^th lap – just like the Israelites did when they took Jericho.  It sounded crazy.  We did it anyway.  Something broke that night, the 3^rd and final night of the birthing process. 

I sat with the Lord again that next morning as He spoke to me about my healing, Israel’s healing and the healing of our family that was to come.  He told me that there would be a 6 week postpartum healing.  In the coming days I found myself grateful for that revelation.  Healing did not happen instantly.  It has taken time, but there has been definite healing. 

Today I stood at the front of our church, babe in hand, family by my side and dedicated Israel David to the Lord – an act I had already done more than once throughout the previous season in private moments.  It also just so happened to be the last day of our 6 month postpartum healing process, a strategic merging of dates that I believe to be orchestrated by the LORD. 

Through it all I have learned that God is God and I am not.  He is forever faithful and good, my shelter in the storm.  He will do what He says He will do.  His joy is my strength and when I have nothing left HE will fight for me.  People will politely say, “God will never give you more than you can handle.”  I don’t buy it.  This past season was a storm I could not handle.  On my own I would have sunk.  …. But God.