A Christmas Miracle

by Richard Edfeldt

Ten years ago today, we received the call that Jacob was to be the beneficiary of a new heart. On this day in 2004, he underwent his first heart transplant.

Karen and I received the call at 4:00am while we were in the catacombs of Egleston hospital where there were some sleeping rooms for parents. The nurse called to gleefully announce to us that a heart had been located. I figured it was going to be awhile before the donor heart would make its way to the hospital and I knew it would be a long day of surgery so I jumped into the shower to wake me up and to get ready for what lay ahead.  About 20 minutes later, Jacob’s nurse called and frantically said, “Where are y’all?  They’re about to take Jacob away for prepping!” We rushed up to the floor, tying shoes in the elevator, to get the chance to see Jacob and tell him we loved him (and praying it wouldn’t be for the last time). Thankfully, we made it in time.

The rest of the day was a whirlwind of updates and activity around us as the waiting room grew crowded with family and church friends praying for a Christmas miracle. And it came … as you are aware, Jacob successfully received his new heart and made it home a week later. A miracle.

Throughout Jacob’s life, we have been reminded again and again that he was a miracle.

The doctors told us that Jacob’s congenital heart defect was 100% fatal without medical intervention. God sent us to the right doctors and hospitals that were used to bring us this miracle baby.

With each open heart surgery that was performed by Dr. Bill Norwood at Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia and his entire team of nurses and doctors that served Jacob and Karen and I so well, we thanked God for the miracle of continued life for our son.

With each check up and each time he got sick and with each successful recovery and report, we reveled in the miracle we held in our arms.

And with the success of the first transplant (and the second one as well), we once again thanked God for His grace in giving us this miracle.  But we always acknowledged that with advent of our miracle, another family’s life was shattered and their broken miracle was scattered across the floor.

And then on June 14, 2009, our last miracle didn’t happen.

I can hear many of you now saying, “Come on, Richard, you’re a minister. Surely, you understand how this works.” Honestly, I don’t. I’ve read and I’ve studied books about God’s sovereignty and about the power of prayer.  I can give you the ‘book’ answers.  But as a grieving parent, those ‘book’ answers ring hollow. I can buck up my spirituality and quote Matthew 5:45, “it rains on the just and unjust”, but as a parent I long to have my child back with me. 

And I can even grasp the concept that my Jacob is no longer suffering and is in the presence of God with a perfect body … and that does give me peace …. But there are many times, as a parent, my greater wish is to have him around to trade jokes with and to ask about his day.

So, as I have said on numerous occasions, on days like today and other times throughout the year, it is such a quandary of emotions for a grieving parent (or spouse) to deal with as to how to survive the day, especially at Christmas time.

For example, later today Ben and Beth will be arriving with our two grandchildren, Tucker and Libby.  We love them. We adore them. They will be bringing such joy and Christmas excitement with them. We have planned some great memories to create with them.  Then Katie and Andy will arrive on Christmas Eve and we will have “the family” with us on Christmas. That’s every parent’s Christmas dream, to have their family with them.   But it always gnaws on our heart that Jacob will be forever missing as part of our family and we will be missing him and wishing that one more miracle could have happened.  There is such sorrow mingled with such joy.

So as a minister, I know the ‘book’ answers. But as a parent, I’m standing next to the father in Mark 9:24, “I do believe, help my unbelief.” I know that God himself has experienced the loss of a son.  And Jesus, in his earthly body, experienced loss and he also felt the lack of understanding of a plan – but in that lacking still trusted in God’s love and plan. I know God loves me and wants the best for me. But often, in the pain of grief, I feel like I’m living what C.S. Lewis described when, in his pain, went to God and only heard the slamming and bolting of the door and then only silence as he stood outside alone. It’s like I’ve developed a type of spiritual bi-polar disorder. One minute I’m bathed in the presence and love of God and then in the next I feel abandoned.

So for now, even when I don’t see how this is ‘best’ for me and my family, we must trust Him as we journey through this forest of loss, seeking those patches of light that pierce through the darkness of the trees until we experience the final miracle of eternal life in the presence of God and re-united with Jacob and a host of other loved ones.  And that’s what the miracle child of Christmas has brought to us.

Merry Christmas to all!

The family minus one

My Admiration Keeps Growing

by Richard Edfeldt

When Karen and I moved to Franklin, NC, last February we began doing all the things you do when you move to a new residence in a new place.  Since we had already owned our house for several years previously, we didn't have to worry about utilities and things like that. But we did need to do the 'change of address' thing with the post office, get our drivers licenses for a new state, and find new doctors and dentists.  We accomplished all of this over a period of time.

Our new doctor wanted to establish a baseline on us so we had to endure some blood work and other prodding in uncomfortable places (if you know what I mean).  That is when they discovered that my PSA level was too high, indicating a problem with my prostate gland. My brand new doctor then referred me to a urologist who did his own examination (much to my bent over embarrassment) and, after a few "hmmmmms" and ”uh-ohs", said I needed a prostate biopsy to check a nodule he discovered.

I'll skip over the joys of the biopsy experience and get to the results I received last Friday -

I have prostate cancer.

I'm not sharing this to gain your sympathy or to garner your prayers (probably the subject of a different blog).  The doctors have given a good spin to it, saying we caught it fairly early and that it is the ‘good’ kind of cancer’ (didn’t realize that was possible). They have also said I was on the lower end of the risk spectrum and that I have an excellent chance of successful treatment and continued good quality of life.  I loved that he said that I was still a young man and in good shape (I asked him to repeat that so I could record it on my pocket recorder for future pep talks).

But here are the lessons I'm learning.

First, I'm not a real good patient. I've been fortunate to be fairly healthy throughout my life. Of course, I've had my share of colds, viruses, and injuries. I've also had a few outpatient surgeries but I've never had to spend nights in a hospital as a patient. It sounds like that’s about to end … and I’m not looking forward to it. This leads me to the biggest lesson that has come forward ….

My admiration and love for Jacob Edfeldt continues to grow!

From day one in his life, he consistently faced and endured doctor’s visits, consultations, medical procedures involving needles, blood work and the like, surgeries, and extended hospital stays.  As much as I dread what’s coming around the bend for me, I can’t, for the life of me, see how Jacob handled all of those ‘dreaded experiences’ with such fortitude.

I’ve tried to recount what all he went through in his twenty-one years and I become ashamed of my own little bit of whining that I’m emoting about what I am facing.  I’m sure I’m missing some things, even though Karen and I were sitting beside him throughout each experience, but by my count, he underwent five open heart surgeries (including 2 heart transplants), a major thoracic surgery, a pacemaker insertion, at least 40 heart catheterizations, plus your normal assortment of doctor’s visits.

Now don’t get me wrong … he wasn’t a saint about it and he had his share of meltdowns and pity parties … but, for the most part, he understood what he had to face and, somehow, generated the willpower to endure each encounter with remarkable maturity, grace, faith, and even humor.

I am humbled to have been his father and can only hope I can display the same demeanor and courage as my son in the days ahead and with a diagnosis that sounds far less ominous than the one he faced every day of his life. I am a daddy who hopes to emulate his son.

The Exclusive, Complicated, and Unspoken Language of Grief

 by Richard Edfeldt

People who have experienced the loss of a loved one have instantly acquired a new language - the language of grief. It is a language that is not composed of words, but of emotions that is activated by sights and sounds. This language appears suddenly and in unexpected times and places.

The language of grief is an unspoken language but it speaks loudly to those who have acquired this vocabulary. And, through glances to one another, they communicate in this grief language. One of the most amazing aspects of this mode of communication is that people around those using this language have no idea this is taking place.

Let me give you a personal example.

Karen and I went with some friends to watch another friend participate in a dulcimer concert at a well known local landmark.  Given the time of year , the music was comprised of some beautiful Christmas tunes from around the world. We were thoroughly immersed in the glory of the moment, enjoying the music with friends.

The leader introduced each song selection and explained its point of origin. After completing one wonderful rendition of a holiday melody, she announced the title of the next composition- "In the Bleak Midwinter". This was when Karen and I glanced at each other and, in the midst of an atmosphere of joyous holiday spirit, we began to communicate in the exclusive, complicated, and unspoken language of grief.

As the first notes of this beautiful tunes filled the air, our eyes began to fill the tears and our hands reached for each other. No one else in the room knew we were suddenly 'speaking' to each other using the language of grief and, in their defense, there would have been no reason why they would have known why this melody would have thrust us into this language. Only Karen and I knew why and so we were the only ones using the language. Here is why:

When we lived in Gainesville, Georgia, back in the 1990's, Jacob became involved in the community's musical theater group. This was a brand new world to our family, especially to me. Ben and I shared (and still do) a love for baseball so I could go in the backyard or a nearby school field and work on improving a certain skill he needed in the game. Katie and I shared (and still do) a love for choral music and so I could help her in certain ways as she practiced her songs.  But the theater was a foreign land that no one else in the family had ventured.  There was no point of reference where I could use my experience or expertise to help Jacob in this realm.  All I could do was be a supportive parent who made sure Jacob was at all the practices.

One of the productions that Jacob was a cast member of was a musical presentation of 'A Christmas Carol'. He had a minor part playing a street urchin in several of the village scenes. He loved the experience and seemed to light up when the stage lights were on him. It was a beautiful interpretation of the Dickens' classic. 'In the Bleak Midwinter' was the opening song and recurring theme of the stage production.

So when the dulcimers began playing the notes of this hauntingly lilting composition, Karen's and my eyes locked on each other and we listened to grief speaking to us as our eyes wept and our hands trembled.

Such is the experience of those who know the exclusive, complicated, and unspoken language of grief. At a point in time you acquire the language and throughout the rest of your life, in the most unexpected times and places, you find yourself hearing grief speaking to you.