i am rhonel

Most of our battles and biggest challenges rages within the confines of our mind.  It’s a solitary experience, this great war we fight daily on our own.  These past months I have retreated into this mindful confinement.  I believed a lie that was so powerful it silenced me completely.  I was convinced that by being so bold about my believe in Juneldè’s healing and full recovery, I was hurting God’s truth.  Because in reality Juneldè is far from healed.  So far removed is our daily lives from full recovery that I too started questioning my sanity in holding on so tightly.

The fog that this battle created overwhelmed any vision I had of Juneldè getting better.  I was like a defeated soldier, loyal to my King, but broken down beyond repair.  And then I did the only thing one can do when in a war…I seeked direction and Holy council from the One able to give a sound mind.

I am now ready to boldly proclaim that I believe.  Not in Juneldè’s healing but in GOD.  Not in full recovery but in GOD.  Not in a blessed life but in GOD.  Not in an abundant future but in GOD.  However, because I believe in GOD I know without a doubt that he will give all of this to us, and yet so much more.  That is biblical, that is true and that is grace.

Thus my silence is broken, together with my spirit of fear.  I choose to live in love and power, not my own but given by the Holy Spirit.

On the 13th of January 2015 was the two year anniversary of Juneldè’s drowning.  She is still making progress, slowly but surely.  She is also continually facing setbacks, challenges and pain.  On these days our battle can only be won by speaking His word and blessings.  By refusing to accept any negativity in our lives, by renouncing and divorcing the thoughts that can hold us captive. And then there are the blessed days.  The days that she is not constantly crying, spasming and seizing.  Days when a smile, even small and askew, brightens our hearts.  Days when she eats a bowl of soft porridge and smacks her lips asking for more.  Days when her eyes focuses on our faces and we see recognition in those deep brown pools of wisdom.  Days when we ask her to dream of her bright future, and she answers us yes with blinks.  Days when the word mom escapes her lips in-between moans.  Days when she is happy to be put down for a few minutes and looks around a room with attentive inquisitive eyes.

I am not unrealistic.  I understand medically how impossible any hope of recovery is.  I understand the vastness of her injuries and the snowball it creates daily into new symptoms we face.  I am not in denial,  it is impossible to be when you have a child like Juneldè.

I do however serve an unrealistic God, His power and greatness more vast than any injuries Juneldè might have.  His Grace larger that any symptoms.  His Name more powerful than any lie I dwell on in my mind.

Juneldè’s recovery is not in my hands.  It is not in my power.  It is not in my will.  My greatest gift to my daughter is to release her daily into His hands, His power and His will…

And isn’t that the most amazing place for any of us to be?

From the archives – Written 20 January 2015

I sit next to him on the couch, this man I am blessed to call my husband.  Tears are running down my cheeks, my hair is oily, I am dressed in my oldest rags and have no make-up to hide behind.  I am completely, desperately shattered.

“I simply love life too much to be this unhappy” I exclaim.  “I cannot accept that this is now our life” I cry.  And in that moment, I hear myself.  And it dawned on me that I needed to make a choice.  I needed to choose happiness…

That was November 2014, at my weakest and at my lowest.  I started on the superficial level, practicing self care.  Spending more time on my appearance.  And every time I looked in the mirror I told myself: “You deserve to be happy.”

Slowly but surely I started to believe this.  I realized that even though we have lost so much, I can choose how much more we are going to loose going forward.  And I boldly refused to give up happiness.  My daughter deserved a happy mommy, she deserved a happy home.

One of the hardest realities in life is that we are responsible for our own happiness.  We would like to blame our circumstances, the traumas and the tough times for being unhappy.  And sometimes those around us can even understand our depression and exhaustion.  But what if  circumstances remain unchanging?

On that day, on that couch, I chose happiness.  And it put in motion a series of positive changes in my life.  Nothing in the apparent circumstances around me was different, but I was different.  It was an inner contentment, a deeper connection to my maker and His love for me.

As I said, one of the hardest realities in life is that we are responsible for our own happiness.  But in actuality this is one of the best realities in life.  Imagine we had no control over our own happiness.  How desperately unfair and sad that will be.  But in truth the choice is ours, the control in our own minds, hearts and hands.  It starts with you…Choose your happiness today.

I have told this story many times since it happened. And every time I am newly overwhelmed by the emotions; the harsh truths; the confusion and the pain of that day. It is as if it is burned into my mind, a movie I can select and recall in infinite detail.  I am sure that it is a subjective recollection, as my experience of the day is filtered through my eyes as a mother. She was only three years old, my beautiful daughter, Juneldè. And this is the story of the day she drowned. 13 January 2013.

It was a Sunday and we were driving back from church. It was the start of the new year and we were happy to see our friends. We wanted all to catch up some more and decided to meet up for a barbeque later at our house. It was a casual affair and some of the older kids wanted to swim.  The men opened the pool; rolling up the heavy solid cover. The fire was lighted and the kids were playing in the shallow end of the pool. Us mommies were sitting on the patio, keeping an eye on the children.  I was asking questions about ballet classes, as I planned to enroll Juneldè the coming week. Soon Juneldè was standing next to me, shivering from cold, pronouncing her hunger. I took her inside, gave her some pre-lunch snacks and dressed her warmly.

Time passed through easy conversation with treasured friends. In the meantime Juneldè has decided that she wanted to change back into swimming clothes to join her friends again in the pool. I helped her into a dry set, kissed her and laughed with her. Soon the food was ready and we all moved inside.

My eyes fell upon the open pool, feeling restless, contemplating whether we should put back the cover. It was however a tedious task and the men wanted to cool of in the pool after lunch.  At that moment I made the worst decision of my life, I decided that I will sit at the table in a spot where I am sure I can keep an eye on the pool. I kept quiet about the unrest I felt. Juneldè came to get a piece of sausage from me; she sat next to her friend and was chatting away. She came to me again, asking if I would wash her hands.  I saw she still had some sausage left over in her hand, and promised to help her soonest she finished her food…

That was the last time I heard her voice calling me mommy. The last time I saw her wide open smile.

She went back sitting next to her friend again. I smiled with endearment at her animated ways. I looked down, I looked up and engaged in conversation. I looked down again and dished up more food. I looked up…And she was gone.

I was immediately irrationally concerned. My eyes fell on the open pool and I felt cemented to my seat. My head reprimanded my overreaction. My heart telling a different story. I asked my husband: “Where is Juneldè?”  At exactly the same time he uttered the same question.  I asked him to look in the pool. The urgency in my voice surprised me, but propelled him from his seat.  I didn’t understand my angst, as I could see the tranquil pool from where I sat.  My husband walked slowly towards the pool, until he reached the deep end corner. He exclaimed: “O no” in a tone of voice I have never heard from him before.

He jumped into the water and our miniature maltese started barking hysterically.

We can never be sure, but from collaboration we estimate that it was only two minutes since we last saw her until she was found.  Two minutes too long, two minutes too late. Two minutes that changed everything.

I wrote this following  piece at the fourth year anniversary of that day.  It touches on the subject of time. The clock that is ticking down our seconds, moments, our hours and years of everyday borrowed time:

Time has a way of not asking permission before moving on…4 Years, 4 YEARS! How can it be? Years filled with tears, pain, anguish, anger, grief; so much grief. Also years filled with healing, hope, grace and love, so much love. I am forever changed by that day, that moment your dead body was lifted out of the water. I am no more. And yet I have become so much more…My voice have become softer, my determination to speak out quieter. This life is so fragile, our souls so easily wounded, yet our Spirits are strong, resilient and utterly connected to Him who gave us life. I cry for what happened to you and our family that day, 4 years ago. Yet I praise Him for granting us more time with you. Your body is broken, but your essence fills our house! We live on borrowed time…4 years…4 YEARS!

She is standing in front of our flower garden, determined to have our unwilling pet a part of the picture.  I stand behind the camera, instructing her to pose and smile.  And her daddy is behind the lens, making sure that these photos become the treasured memories we want them to be.  It is a moment in time, a snapshot in my mind, a beautiful memory.

That day was full of seemingly ordinary moments and emotions.  Only in hindsight can I appreciate the true gift it was.  A day where I dressed up my beautiful girl, where we captured her in photos forever, where she had fun with her dad at the carwash and ate ice-cream.  We swam in the late summer afternoon, enjoying the last sunlight of the day.  We didn’t know that the clock was ticking, slowly moving us towards a life altering tragedy.  It was our last day of ignorant innocence.

We ate dinner, content with each other’s company.  She refused to eat the food I made, sharing giggles with her dad at my attempt.  I am admittedly sometimes too adventurous a cook.  I put her to bed, sighing at the prospect of some me-time.

The day was filled with all the usual joys, frustrations and emotions of motherhood.  I got angry with her, I struggled with my own feelings of depression, I was tired, I was happy, I was laughing and I went to bed.  Blink…It was an extraordinary ordinary day.

What would I have done differently have I known that this day was our last day of our life as Before?  Nothing.  I wouldn’t change a thing in the circumstances, the emotions and the normalcy of it.

I would however have liked to live more in the real moments of that day.  To be presently aware.  To stop planning for tomorrow and the year ahead and just embrace the fragility of that day.

This is the lesson I take with me.  Tomorrow holds no guarantees. Ordinary days are extraordinary gifts. Our yesterdays are gone.  What you have now, at this moment, can change in an instant.  Life is fragile, love is eternal, and only the present is real.

I see wisdom in my eyes.  I see the hurt and suffering of the past more than four years.  I see the depth of the lessons learned and the loss of innocence it once held.  I see a wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend.  I see frailty and sadness.  I see strength and perseverance.  I see audacious hope, resilient faith and unconditional love.  I see the brokenness of being human.  I see the vulnerability of motherhood.  I see imperfection.  I see the perfection in being imperfect.  I see a story of healing through desperate tears.  I see a strong believe in tomorrow, even though life shakes every foundation of today.  I see me…I AM RHONEL