Processing Trauma

Image may contain: one or more people and outdoorThe Paris hospital hallway probably wasn’t as long as I remember it being. In reality, it took us 30 seconds to walk down the hallway to my dad’s room. In my memory, that was a 20 minute walk. It was up a hill and through a wind storm and under a screaming sun. It was a hike incomparable to my long distance runs.

The smocks we had to wear, the paper gowns that pretended to keep out germs, took maybe 10 seconds to get on. They felt like a light bristle against my skin, not like a heavy weighted quilt that took five minutes to pull on, which is what seems to be in my memory.

The way my dad looked, having endured the hardest week of his life, was apparently so much better than we could have expected. His muscle mass, his face, his teeth, the way his breathing looked, it was all better than what CJ prepared us for. But my memory will forever be tainted by an image of a broken, battered, and dying dad I call Superman. My memory has a stain the shape of my worst nightmare that reduced me to tears. My legs were shaking and I had to hold onto CJ to keep from falling to the floor. My body felt disconnected to this world and the moment felt like a scene in a movie that was never meant to be made.

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Taking the Stairs

picsYou’re following my family’s story right? You’ve been reading our Facebook posts, liking them and sometimes commenting. Maybe you’ve shared one or two. You’ve prayed and reached out and I can’t say thank you enough.

If you haven’t been, that’s okay. Welcome to… well, I’d say hell but I’ve seen too much of heaven to be that blind. Welcome to one chapter of a bigger story. It’s a wild ride, step on and share it with us.

Here is the quick rundown: My dad is a traveling missionary. He was in Africa. Some d*mn mosquito bit him. (Eff that bug) My parents go to Siberia in the middle of no where. My dad is really sick and unresponsive. It’s 2 am. My mom is alone. Queue a week in a crappy Russian hospital where the paint is pealing off the walls and my mom isn’t allowed to see my dad and the doctors don’t speak English and they’re telling my mom to remember him as he was. Span over to Greenville, Texas in a full house on an acre of land where five people, mere kids in this moment, are desperately doing all they can to keep their dad alive from 10,000 miles away. Take in the whole picture and see thousands of people, believers, holding this family up. Fast forward to the success of my parents making it to Paris. The doctors doing all they can. The kids crying at his bedside while a machine breathes for their dad and their mom fights to stay strong.  Continue reading

The Waves

IrelandDublin-229You know that feeling when you know God has something to tell you and all day you feel it in the back of your head? Like a whisper blowing through your mind, tickling all your senses till you give into the words? The promises?

All day God had been telling me to read Matthew 8.

I’m sure you know it: when Jesus calmed the waves. Continue reading

Haley, Meg, CJ, Emily…

picsI’m trying to find words. I feel this urgency to find them because it’s what I do, it’s my thing. I find the words that become hard to find and I write them down. That’s my gift and how I manage.

But it’s getting harder to find words that merit being shared about this situation. If I’m being honest, even though we keep getting good news and we are being so encouraged and supported, I’m finding it difficult to sit down and write something that’s worthy of being read.

I can’t seem to explain.

Then I Face-Timed with Zoe for a while and realized I didn’t have to fully explain because it could never fully be understood, but that didn’t mean I shouldn’t try. Continue reading

Mommy…

IMG_4874One of the worst parts of all this is watching my Mom. I’ve never seen two people more in love, more passionate about pursuing God together, than my parents. I’ve never seen a team that works so hard to share the love of God with every corner of the earth. I dream of a future where maybe, just maybe, I’ve found a love like this one. Of finding a love that endures a nightmare you couldn’t even imagine. I dream of finding a man like my Daddy, albeit maybe with one or two more tattoos.  Continue reading

Daddy…

picsssThere’s no where to start.

Mainly because it’s not over yet.

But we all know I process through words. And I’ll be d*nged if there isn’t more to process than I ever could have imagined. Let me start by saying this:

I have been given a glimpse of the Kingdom of Heaven.

Everywhere I turn someone is telling me they love me, they’re here for us, they are praying for my family, offering to help. Every minute I know my family is covered in prayer. Multiple times this week I’ve felt like I couldn’t continue. It was over. My Daddy was gone, I wouldn’t be able to continue. I don’t know how to do my taxes, I’ve never met someone who can hug me like him, I’m not married yet so who will walk me down the aisle? In the midst of God’s faithfulness, I’ve felt my faith failing. I’ve felt myself doubt promises of God’s goodness. Continue reading

I’m Feeling 22

madison_lights_colored_edit8What kind of blogger/writer would I be if I didn’t make a post reflecting on the past year of my life on my birthday?

What kind of Lawson would I be if I wasn’t a day late on writing this blog post?

What kind of millennial would I be if I didn’t link this post to this amazing, iconic song? Listen, I can’t control the fact that I’m five+ years younger than Taylor so this song is now five years old. Blame my parents.

But I am feeling 22. This birthday is one of the first where I can answer “Yes” truthfully when someone asks me “Do you feel older?” And that’s not because my mom was a beast this day (yesterday, I’m late) 22 years ago. This specific day doesn’t have anything to do with it because I didn’t grow a year older over night. I grew a year older over a year.  Continue reading

Behind The Scenes

madison_street3_editI love my friends and I love watching them live life and soar through accomplishments. I love so many things about them. I love how much they love me. I love what selfless friends they are. I love how generous they are. I love how hard they work and how many cool places they get to visit. I love that they run half marathons and get into Yale and the Bush school at Texas A&M. I love that they love children and are good at yoga and are beautiful and kind and smart. I love that they care about the planet and know the word of God so well. I love that they make great grades, are awesome photographers, have amazing style, and are committed to so many different things.

It’s starting to sound like I love comparing myself to my friends more than I love my friends and encourage their accomplishments, isn’t it? Continue reading

Being Honest

madison_street5_editBeing honest is immensely more difficult than being right.

Being honest is better than suffocating loneliness.

Being honest is just as important as being nice.

Being honest is better than being a broken mess.

Let’s get something clear: when I say “being honest” I am in NO way talking about being mean, or being unnecessarily harsh, or being a jerk and calling it “honesty.” Insulting people for no reason is not justified under the umbrella of “honesty.” In fact, I’m not even talking about being honest about other people. I’m talking about being honest to other people. Continue reading

You’re Going To Laugh

madison_lights_colored_edit11You’re going to laugh.

Loudly.

You won’t even think about those events from months ago because you’ve escaped.

Free.

You’ll be so happy you came home that you’re going to smile until your cheeks hurt and you’re sure you look like the Cheshire cat.

Every day. Continue reading