The Valley of Loss and a Yes from the Depths

In August, I made the mistake of stretching out in the sun one afternoon, breathing a sigh of relief, and saying, "Well, seriously. What else can happen in 2020?" (famous last words)

The year had already brought the death of a friend, a two-week flu, job rejections for both me and my partner, a global pandemic, several months of unemployment, separation from family, lockdown anxieties, and (as for everyone else on the planet) unprecedented levels of uncertainty. Each month had brought with it a new sorrow, and by August I decided I'd had enough. It was time for the year to get good. 

August has long been my favourite month. 'The springtime of the soul,' I call it, revelling in Brisbane's glorious sunshine and swirling winds and new blossoms. The days get longer; a new energy wells up in my hibernating winter heart. In 2020, August meant anticipating better days ahead, free from the shadow of strangeness and loss that dominated the first half of the year. 

What else can go wrong?

Towards the end of August, I began to feel an ominous sense of foreboding. I hate when that happens: I'm usually right. 

"I just can't get my heart to rest," I told Callum one day, "I'm so on edge, so convinced that something is about to go horribly wrong." It made him a bit nervous too - he's experienced my eerie prophetic senses before, and suspects that somehow my pessimism can actually make bad things happen. 

In prayer, the Lord was leading me gently but firmly towards an understanding of the way my path was going: into the Valley of Loss. Even before any details were manifested, I saw quite clearly that my soul's road was leading downwards, towards temporary separation from Callum, towards the shadow of death, towards an impossible descent that would feel like a contradiction of all of God's promises to me. 

"Do not fear what will soon unfold," Jesus said, "Take heart in knowing that you are only a short journey from the summit, and your kindred souls shall not be separated throughout this valley of loss. Do not be afraid of the descent you see before you; my promises will endure."

A week later, in early September, we got the news that Dad's CT scan showed a recurrence of his cancer. I was devastated, but wholly unsurprised. God had prepared me well.

Due to strict border controls, I now faced a choice: go home for three months or longer, via two weeks in managed isolation, in order to be with my parents for Christmas, or stay in Brisbane to keep working and finish my Master's degree and be with my almost-fiancé and, well, live my life. I booked a flight home for mid-October, scared and uncertain, but consoled by the process of making a plan. 

In my heart of hearts, I knew that the Valley would be longer and deeper than I could anticipate. But I could only walk down into it, trying with all my might to be courageous. 

~~~

Simmering away under all this was the awareness that another big change was imminent. I could feel a 'Fiat' brewing, and I knew that it was almost time to give Jesus my fifth 'yes'. 

I had given God four big 'Fiats' in my life. The first was at a Set Free youth conference in 2011, when at an evening rally I gave Jesus my consent to choosing Him fully and following His plan for my life. The second, in 2013, while at adoration in my school chapel, when I said yes to letting the Lord become the bridegroom of my heart and beginning to discern religious life. Two-and-a-half years later, at the end of my second NET year in 2015, I gave Jesus another Fiat while reading Les Mis, realising that nothing and no-one else would suffice for my heart. And in 2018 at Jamberoo Abbey, two-and-a-half years after that, I gave God my yes to becoming incarnate, to choosing Him in the middle of the world and going back down the mountain into ordinary life. 

Each Fiat had birthed a brand new season full of grace and glory: the first, the beginning of my personal faith journey in youth group; the second, my NET years; the third, my single years at university; the fourth, my relationship with Callum.

Two-and-a-half years on from Jamberoo, I could feel in my bones another 'Fiat' on the horizon, an assent to God's love that would shape the character of the next years of my life as all the others had. It was obvious what it was: I knew Callum was on the brink of asking me to marry him. 

"You know what this Fiat is," Jesus told me, "for it is a 'yes' to another as well as to Me. But you do not yet know what it will mean."

When the news of Dad's recurrence came, and with it the knowledge that I must leave Brisbane for some time, I could only see contradiction ahead of me. This wasn't the moment to give a 'Fiat'. This season was too messy, too uncertain, to give a proper yes in - either to God or to Callum. 

But the Lord was faithful in speaking Truth to me. "I have ordained things this way for a reason, my darling. I have always known that this next Fiat would come at the most precarious moment of your young life - the "yes" from the depths that would give you strength to soar to the heights. You harbour a fear that you are living out special moments in a way that is not 'how they were meant to be.' Nothing could be further from the Truth. I invite you here in this storm, when all seems lost, to say Yes to me. I invite you in brokenness and uncertainty and the valley of the shadow of death. For what use is a disciple who only knows how to give a Fiat on a mountaintop? Their faith is tested in the darkest and lowest points of the valley. A yes from the depths is worth two on the heights, for in these moments you have understood my call to take up your cross and follow Me."

In many ways, He was inviting me to give a "yes" that summarised every lesson I'd learnt since Jamberoo: littleness, messiness, humility. Ordinary human life, which is often ugly and always beautiful. The yes to human frailty and imperfection and never knowing what lies around the corner. A full acknowledgement that Glory can only ever be the blossoming of Sorrow, that resurrection is only possible in death. 

It wasn't hard to work out when Callum planned to propose. He had already prayed two novenas for our marriage (to St John the Baptist, and to Sts Zelie and Louis Martin). I knew he'd begun the third, and was fairly convinced that the Feast of the Archangels was going to become a very significant day in our relationship. I loved knowing: it gave me a chance to spend the night before in prayer as a vigil, to go to confession just a few hours before getting engaged, to call my best friend in Malawi for her to pray over me just half an hour before Callum picked me up (and paint my nails hahaha). 

As I waited on my verandah that night, watching the first stars come out and knowing that these were my last moments alone with God before Callum arrived, I prayed for the grace to give this Fiat to both of them. "I promise to be true to him and to You, Jesus, in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad, to love You and honour You in him all the days of my life. Take this moment, Lord, as a sign of my love and fidelity. Here is my yes from the depths; here is my Fiat in the valley."

It was a Fiat I did not understand. I still do not understand it, for the call to be fully united with another in every moment of my journey from this point forward is beyond my fathoming. It was not the vocation I expected, and it took me many of the months we were dating to even know how to rejoice in it without guilt or scrupulosity. But in saying yes to the man kneeling before me on a bridge across a creek, under a bright-starred sky, my heart finally rejoiced without fear. This was a Fiat to Callum and to Christ; the answer they both longed for me to give. 

~~~

And nearly as soon as I'd given it, I was gone. Callum and I only had 18 days in the same city as an engaged couple before I flew to Auckland. Two weeks of hotel quarantine, and then I was with my mum and my dad. His latest CT scan showed fantastic improvement, and we eased into several weeks of quiet home life as a little family of three. We travelled in the South Island, soaking up our first family trip since I'd finished high school. We returned home, and Advent passed by quietly in rhythms of prayer and long-distance FaceTiming with my fiancé, and togetherness with my parents. 

But Dad was starting to get sore. At first he thought he'd pulled a muscle near his ribs; then the pain moved to his back, and then he started getting sciatic nerve exacerbation, leading to pain in his leg. By Christmas he was struggling with movement, and starting to get confused and muddled as well. The theory of different muscles compensating for injury wasn't making sense; a few days after Christmas he went into the emergency department with severe pain and moderate delirium.

We were shocked when the blood work and X-rays came back: hypercalcaemia, evidence of widespread bony lesions, kidney failure and more. Almost certainly indicative of cancer in the bone. He was admitted to hospital immediately, and all of our plans came to a crashing halt. 

Dad got worse before he got better: he picked up an infection in hospital, early-onset pneumonia, and was running high temperatures with almost no cognitive capacity. He was terrifyingly unwell in a perfect storm of things going wrong. 

And I saw each of my hopes come tumbling down in an instant: I wouldn't be going back to Australia; I wouldn't get to travel in Tasmania as planned; it was likely Dad wouldn't live to walk me down the aisle or have that long-awaited daddy-daughter dance; I didn't know whether we could even get Callum to NZ while Dad was still alive. At one stage, I honestly didn't know if Dad would even see in the New Year. December 31st was the worst day of my 2020 - out with a bang, not a fizzle, I guess. 

So this was to be my 'Valley of Loss'. I had no idea it could be so deep. In prayer I could only find consolation in the image of Jesus' crown of thorns: that strange contradiction of beauty in the brokenness, of majesty in the pain. 

And yet the Lord told me not to lose hope, not to stop trusting Him. "I know the cry of your heart," he said, "And I must beg you to trust me when all seems lost. The shadow of death is not yet upon you. Do not lose heart or courage, for I am fighting a great battle. Just keep your heart fixed on Me, quietly confident in My ability to work miracles. I am with you."

New Year's Day dawned with a tiny ray of hopefulness: the fever had broken; Dad was eating and speaking a little again. Over the next few days, his calcium level dropped, his kidney function returned, and his pain finally began to decrease. By the 6th of January, I was feeling hopeful: perhaps this wasn't too big a deal; perhaps it was only a slight change in his cancer that had brought about strangely drastic consequences.

His CT scan later that day quickly dispelled that optimism. It was dreadful: pathologic fractures, damaged vertebrae, bony lesions everywhere. Bony metastasis of his cancer was a fairly obvious diagnosis, but just to be certain our wonderful oncologist ordered a biopsy as well to verify this. She didn't talk prognosis with us - she didn't have to. We knew rapidly-progressing bone metastasis meant weeks or maybe short months. 

But still Jesus asked me to trust, to have confidence, not to despair. Again and again, my rationality told me that I had to accept that this was it, that the house of dreams couldn't stand any longer. And again and again, the still small voice inside me said, "Wait. Watch. All shall be well."

In that time of waiting and watching, I confronted an interesting question: do I dare to trust God with my  little, bold, nonsensical hopes? Do I dare to risk complete disappointment and heartache again and again, the failure of another set of dreams, simply because I long to believe the best and remain buoyed by irrational optimism?

Oddly enough, I realised that I could - in many ways, that I had to. "I can take the fall, Jesus," I wrote, "What I can't take is resolving never to climb again. If I am to be Icarus over and over again, so be it. At least I will know, temporarily, what it is to fly, to believe, to be boundless in confidence and courage."

"This is no naive hopefulness now welling within you," he responded, "This is the true folly of faith, the song of the phoenix choosing to rise against the odds. You are crushed but not defeated; you are the finely-ground wheat ready to be made into the finest loaf. Did I not tell you no real harm would come to you in the Valley of Loss? For what you have truly lost here is fear."

It took two full weeks in hospital for Dad to be well enough to go home, albeit in a wheelchair and on a hectic cocktail of pain medicine. That was on Tuesday afternoon. 

"Do you dare pray for another miracle?" Jesus asked me on Wednesday, "Do you dare to let your faith transcend reason and push you into the realms beyond understanding? Do you dare to claim that I am a God who comes through for you? Then plead. Ask and you will receive, sceptical as you are. Knock and the door will be opened to you, in spite of your reluctance. I promise to come through for you. Do not be afraid."

On Thursday we were due to see Dad's oncologist for the results of his biopsy. I think all three of us were dreading that meeting. The odds felt so stacked against us. It seemed only a question of 'bad' or 'terrible'. My optimism ran out in the hours leading up to that meeting. My faith in the impossible vanished from under my feet. It seemed that my 'yes from the depths' was simply a yes to the depths, to an ongoing valley of sadness and disappointed circumstance. 

And so we sat in the waiting room at the oncology clinic, nervous and not speaking. All of a sudden, another oncologist, who'd seen Dad once in the hospital, popped out and said, "Wow. What an interesting biopsy. Very strange. It's not cancer!" and promptly disappeared.

We looked at each other in shock and utter bewilderment. What?

Finally, Dad's oncologist was free, and we went into her office. "Your colleague spoiled the news," Dad told her, and she swore. After cursing her colleague for stealing her thunder, the oncologist went on to explain this strange turn of events to us. 

The biopsy showed no malignant material. No cancer, just inflammation. After consultation with colleagues and an intense literature review, she had come to the conclusion that what they were seeing was a very rare case of skeletal sarcoidosis. This auto-immune overreaction can sometimes happen as a response to the immunotherapy treatment Dad has been on - but it so rarely affects the bones, that the oncology team had to triple-check to see that it was even possible. Turns out it is. Turns out it's treatable with high-dose steroids. Turns out that sometimes the darkest night comes just before the dawn.

~~~

That was yesterday. Today we are still reeling in disbelief. Today we kneel before God in thankfulness and wholly unexpected relief. (Today my airline also cancelled my flight back to Australia, but that's a problem for another day.)

Today I'm writing - for the first time in months - because my sorrow, my valley, and my yes from the depths have finally sharpened into clarity. Today I'm writing not simply because I have good news after so many months of sadness and confusion, but because I have Good News that has finally given strength to my soul after so long a season of unfathomable weakness.

There are season in our lives that resist description, seasons so full to the brim with fears, sorrows, inexplicable joys, and complexity, that to speak or write about them would somehow be sacrilege. In seasons like these we simply keep on living, keep receiving the mysteries and pondering them in our hearts. 

Yesterday's unexpected good news doesn't mean indefinite health and perfectly-answered uncertainties. But nor does poor health or uncertainty or even death mean the loss of hope. The faithfulness of God finds us in the midst of our realities, as bruised and broken as they are, to offer us Truth beyond our understanding. If Dad had died on New Year's Eve, my soul would still have reason to hope, to give a yes from the depths that, little by little, raises me to the heights. 

Friend, take heart in your Valley of Loss. No matter the outcome, no matter how crushed you are, there is resurrection for your hopefulness. There is beauty in your crown of thorns. And the Fiat that you give to Love will indeed echo throughout this world and eternity. 

All my love,

Kate

~~~

A poem (New Year's Eve, 2020, Tauranga Hospital)

My house of dreams burned to the ground

and so I built a cottage

a simpler place

a humble space

didn't fixate on my losses.

A year or so passed by in peace

I dreamed much quieter dreams

and thought not of

the house once loved

and lived within my means.

And then one night a candle tipped;

the flames rose through the dusk,

and at the dawn,

my cottage gone,

I turned to what I must:

Another shelter, smaller, meaner,

scarce seen by passers-by.

I built again,

forgot my pain,

and hid myself inside.

'Twas no surprise when that too burned

'Twas no great loss to lose it.

I'd readied myself

I'd steadied myself.

Who was I to refuse it?

This obvious, irrepressible truth

that man ought build no home

no shelter find

no hope define

while prisoner here below.

I turned away from ash and soot -

what would I gain to grieve them,

these burned-out dreams,

crushed unredeemed,

before I e'er believed them?

No, homeless I must spend my days,

a wanderer free and fearless.

I shouldered my load 

and took to the road,

un-dreaming, detached and cheerless.

Far in the East I saw a star.

I cared not where it led me,

to Bethlehem

or Hell, again,

I kept its gleam ahead me.

At the end of the earth, where sea meets sky,

I felt the star descend,

in blaze of heat,

my flesh to meet,

to consume, to un-make, to rend.

My last abode, my skin and bones,

burned just like all the others,

until I too

was dust anew,

in lovelessness, unlost to lovers.

And then Love spoke, though not before,

not a precious moment sooner.

The Voice was fire

and new desire

for a home and a dream and a future.

The Voice, to the dust that was me, said, "Come,"

and its breath blew that dust to the West,

past the hut

past the cottage

past the house on the hill

to the mountaintop bathed in the sunset.

And there Love bade me weep for the loss

Love commanded I pour out my tears,

and look not away

from the wreckage that day,

nor that night cease to mourn for each dear-

beloved home, every house built of dreams,

though my hopefulness weaken with grief,

but in anguish to sow

broken love here below,

and in pain to find my belief.

A tear came at last; then another; then more

falling fast on the stoic parched earth,

till a river cascaded 

towards the valleys of Hades

flooding over the lands of my birth.

And I wept for my birth and the earth and my homes

and I wept for the loves that forsook me,

for my failures and sin,

for the loss of my kin,

and I wept till the pain overtook me.

Love stood with me as love I learned

to feel again in agony,

with passion torn,

and crowned with thorn.

He stood with me on Calvary.

I know not when my sight returned,

when blurry tears subsided,

and in shock I beheld 

in my hand what I held

and heard what Love now confided.

Into trembling hands, Love entrusted a brick,

and Love to my heart said, "Rebuild,

not simply a shack,

not a beacon of lack,

but the Palace of Hope I have willed.

"For long have I dreamed for a home for your soul,

a home fit for sorrow and glory,

more beautiful still

than these tears you have spilled,

than the loss that has written your story."

"I have only one brick, and I have not the heart

to lose all again," said I,

"I am failure and anguish

and in brokenness languish.

How do I find the courage to try?"

When Love spoke no more, I turned to the ground

and tenderly laid down that stone.

"Even if that alone

is my place to call home,

I will love it as what is my own."

And there I stayed and slept that night.

Next day Love met me there:

another brick to gift;

another fear to shift;

another day inviting me, "Dare."

Soon winter came and there I stayed,

to shiver in the snow,

 with an unfinished wall

the sole fruit of my call,

and keep working, keep building His home.

Every year that home grew ever-lovelier, grander,

Every year became more of a palace,

but never was done

with each trip 'round the sun,

never could my resolve be less zealous.

And finally when I grew frail and gray

a day came when Love brought me no stone.

"It is finished," said He

and rested with me

in the Palace of Dreams that was home. 

~~~

AMDG