Winter

You know how some days are so precious, so wonderful, so heartwarming that you wish you could somehow freeze time, and remember them forever?

Yesterday was not one of those days.

This is The Queen's Winter Throne, aka my spot to chill out :D

Well, it really began earlier.  Wyatt and Tate were in the garage playing with the play-station, and got into an argument about whose turn it was and actually came to blows over it.  Which terrified my tender-hearted Gunnar, and didn't do Tate's new glasses any good either.  Gunnar was already out-of-sorts with getting back into the school groove (and - you know -  having to work), and things went downhill from there.

Of course, the fact that everybody had somewhere to go that evening didn't help.  Kerry and Gunnar were on their way to Boys' Club at church - which was a good thing in general and a good distraction for Gunnar.  Wyatt and Tate had a SAR training to go to, this one in more of a classroom setting.

Which means Tate needs Wyatt's help, and that's where it gets complicated.

See, unfortunately my suspicions were correct.  I had Tate down to Seattle Children's over the Christmas break and he's lost 10-15 decibels of hearing.  I had hoped maybe his HA just needed servicing, but regrettably it's working just fine.  In fact, with the HA working at it's outer limits, it's Tate that's working.

No one knows how hard he works.  All.  The.  Time.

And that's what just slays me.  He has to work so hard.  When the Audie did the Word Recognition test (a very clear man's voice reading a list of words, all of which Tate is familiar with) he scored 42%.  When she threw in some background noise - in other words, a normal real-life environment - he dropped to 24%.

That means that out in the real world, when I'm not there to repeat everything in my oh-so-familiar-and-predictable-voice, Tate is only getting every third or fourth word, and he's piecing everything together from that.

I can't imagine the frustration.  

And there's nothing I can do to fix it.

Plus, oh joy, he's thirteen and the hormones are rising.  I remember Wyatt hitting this stage.  It was like he was on the boil all the time.  Aggressive.  Easily irritable.  So it doesn't really surprise me that Tate started pounding on Wyatt out in the garage.  (And Wyatt probably had it coming.)  But it doesn't exactly make Wyatt more willing to help Tate when they go to CAP or to SAR training.  When they're in a big, echo-y, concrete building.  And I know Tate can't hear most of what they say, and he's trying so hard to learn and succeed.

And if I could give him my ears, I would.  But I can't.  And the helplessness drives me up the wall.  So - I hope this isn't too weird - I'm throwing in all these pictures of things that bring me a bit of cheer amidst my dark thoughts.

But it takes something deeper, more permanent, and more substantial to deal with trials than happy little penguins around a glowing igloo.

Something like a little mustard seed of faith.  

And a God who is big enough to handle these problems.

(And maybe a little Nutella - just being honest.) 


And boy did Pastor Bert hit a home-run on Sunday, proclaiming from Hebrews (Heb. 4:14-16) that

Jesus can handle our trouble.  

For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weakness, therefore we can,

come boldly to the throne of grace,  

where there is mercy.

And I have to be honest and tell you that it doesn't feel any better.  But I'm hanging on to that.