Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Big Things, Little Things

I had another blog entry mostly written that I was going to upload this week. It's about my husband, who has been gracious with the knowledge that he hasn't been the focus of too many writings in the past. Actually, I think he's relieved. But something else has been consuming my life of late, and I thought that today was a good day to get it out.

I -- like most of you, although I'm kind of hoping it's pretty much all of you -- have a hard time staying focused on what's really important in life. In my job, we have a saying. When we're preparing for battle (a discussion with a school principal, an employee, a colleague), we ask, "Is this the ditch I'm willing to die in?" I need to do a better job of asking myself that question on a regular basis.

At home, sometimes it's shoes. Shoes end up in every nook and cranny of our home. Under the desk I'm sitting at now (two pairs), under the dining room table (three pairs), in the family room (two and a half pairs ... really). In my better moments, I just deal patiently with the perpetrator. In my so-not-winning-mother/wife-of-the-year moments, my head actually pops off of my body and I convince myself that my house is crumbling down around my ears because there are shoes left willy-nilly about the floor.

I spend some of my downtime on Twitter (@falulaminute, in case you're wondering). A while back, I stumbled across a Twitterer called @liftupellie. Ellie is a beautiful young girl -- eight years old, like my son -- from North Carolina. Her passions were like any young girl's. Disney, girlie stuff, good family fun. A couple of years ago, she was diagnosed with cancer. She has dealt with more pain, misery and suffering than many of us will see in a lifetime. We've all heard of kids like Ellie. We sigh in sympathy, we send up a quick prayer to Heaven, and we get back to whatever we were doing. Like planning summer camp schedules . Or rounding up shoes.

Because of Twitter, however, I've spent a lot of my free time checking in on Ellie. I learned of doctor's visits, her sense of humor, her up days and her down days. I read a post telling us how much longer she might be with us. I read of her trip to the doctor's office two days ago, and how a tumor on her hip burst open in the waiting room. I marveled at her mom's amazing words to calm Ellie's nerves at seeing the blood, because she knew they had a lung scan to get through. I saw the lung scan, and my heart broke in two.

I saw all of this online, or on my phone. I read updates at stoplights, in bed before turning out the lights, or in the morning before turning the coffee pot on. When I read that Ellie's family was counting down their time left with their angel in hours, not days, I wept. I awoke at 2:30 this morning, and reached for my phone. I saw that Ellie's mother was praying for her to finally accept the wings that Jesus was offering to her. And later this morning, she did just that. I got the notification on my phone while I was responding to e-mails at work. And I wept.

Ellie's family welcomed us into their pain. Not to gain sympathy or to "trend" on Twitter. They laid their tragedy out for us to witness. So we could pray with them and learn about other Ellies in the world who need our prayers. And so we could get a glimpse at God's work. We all wonder how God could take a child so young, after so much pain. But that's the miracle of it all.

If it weren't for Ellie, and her story, I wouldn't be contemplating the priorities in my life, looking for imbalance. I wouldn't have had daily conversations with my son, Jacob, about appreciating all of God's gifts. I wouldn't be sharing this with you.

So thank you, Ellie. Thank you for allowing your voice to be heard. Thank you, Potvin family, for letting strangers in to the most painful and tragic part of your world. And thank You, God, for reminding me of Your plan and greatness.

Fly, Ellie, fly.