Patience to Endure

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  • 8

    8

    Nathan, my eight year old, will tell me I am the best mommy in the world when I do something he hopes I will do. If I give him an extra 5 minutes at bedtime I am the best mommy in the world. If I give him Robux for no reason I am the best mommy in the world. The irony is I am not the best mommy in the world when I ask him to do something he doesn’t want to do. I have never said “time to clean your room” and heard him reply “you’re the best mommy in the world.” 

    There is no doubt he loves me. However, I am only the best mommy in the world when it suits him. Though I am far from perfect I try earnestly to make every decision with his best interest in mind whether he understands it or not.

    When I tell him to clean his room his child’s mind doesn’t see the patterns I am trying to help him establish. He doesn’t understand the task is only partially about a clean room. It is about responsibility, discipline, and doing the right thing even when he doesn’t feel like it. 

    How often do we treat God the way my eight year old treats me? We say God is good when something goes our way. When we get the job we want or a loved one is no longer sick or a marriage has been saved God is good. But what about when we don’t get the job or our loved one dies or our marriage is lost? Is God still good? 

    I need to get out of the mindset that God is good when He does what I want. God is always good. 

    My child was born with special needs. God is good. 

    The doctors tell me he may not survive the brain injury and the next 24 hours are crucial. God is good. 

    I found my first husband dead from a self inflicted gunshot wound. God is good.

    There is cacophony in my mind to read those sentences combined but not in my soul. I can and should yet say God is good in every circumstance, every trial, every victory, every defeat. 

    Like my 8 year old son I don’t always understand why. I wish hardships and challenges could just not be mine and the One who yields the power to change the course of direction does not. Whether it is His divine plan or the result of free will there are some things, difficult and seemingly impossible things, we must endure. God doesn’t author hardship but He will use it. 

    God is good.

    I lost my job…God is good.

    My spouse left… God is good.

    I can’t pay the rent…God is good.

    The second half of those sentences bring light and hope to the first part. It helps negate the natural propensity for my perspective to be that of an eight year old. God isn’t just the best Father when things go my way or when life is easy. I would argue it is precisely during the hard seasons He shows us how truly and powerfully He is the best Father if we would just position our thoughts and actions to believe it and our faith to see it.

  • In the clearing…

    In the clearing…

    Here it is. A decade has passed since I found Gary in the woods dead from a single gun shot. Time is a strange thing post trauma and I’ve covered a lot of ground since then. The day is now, mostly, an historical remembrance more than an emotional one. For my children though it is a nightmare of a day to get through and that breaks my heart more than anything.

    Gary didn’t have a long history of depression. There were no “classic” signs he was going to do what he did. What he did have was a long history of battling addiction. 

    Ten years before his death he was prescribed percocet for severe tendonitis. As a maternal fetal medicine specialist taking time off to nurse his injury just wasn’t possible. What began as an innocent prescription was, unknowingly at the time, my first step into hell that included driving him 18 hours through the night to rehab where he stayed for three months and ended with me finding him in the woods.

    Upon discharge Gary had access to the best group and private therapies. He was followed for five years by the Health Practitioners Intervention Program. What he didn’t have was the freedom to battle his disease in the light.

    Shame, judgement, and stigma made that simply impossible. Imagine a boxer equipped with the most advanced protective gear and a heart to win but being put in a ring in absolute darkness. Yet the foe he battles only grows and thrives in the dark. His strength is fed by what the fighter can not share and others can not see.

    And so he lost. Many of the people in his group therapy all those years ago lost. My children lost. God lost the opportunity to redeem his situation. And He would have. He always does.

    The “addict” is someone’s father, son, physician, teacher, husband. They aren’t as portrayed on television. They are from all classes and many put on a suite and tie or scrubs or a judges robe every day. They love their families. They want to be in recovery. The addict might even be you.

    On this day, the tenth anniversary of his death, my prayer is a post like this might bring a little light to the other boxers still in the ring swinging madly in the dark. I hope they hear my voice cheering them on and not the voices of discouragement and judgement. I hope a seed is planted for the person reading this who is fortunate enough to not know addiction the way I do and the seed will grow compassion. Though they may not know it, chances are they love a person with addiction. My prayer is the person fighting who is reading this would have the courage to bear light themselves and help change the notion addiction only plagues degenerates. They would have the courage to say “my name is…and I am an addict.”

    They are busy fighting addiction, a formidable and relentless enemy. May we who are not wearing the gloves fight shame, stigma, and judgement for them. May we hold the light and shout words of love and encouragement while they fight for their lives.  I am convinced their foe will shrivel in the light if we just have the courage to shine it steadily, brightly, and boldly for them.  

    May we help change the perception that they are junkies squatting in an abandoned house. They are boxers in the ring. They are fighting. And with our help maybe, just maybe they can win 

    (more…)

  • Soul Healing

    Soul healing is messy business. When I think of healing, my mind automatically goes to that of someone who needs to take it easy. I see someone resting in a bed somewhere. I don’t imagine the grueling hours of therapy. I don’t think of the sweat and the pain just desperately trying to get back to wherever you once were. 

    I like to identify with the type of healing that is passive. The type where you just lay back and let it happen to you.

    Soul healing is active. It is painful. It is humbling. It is admitting you have wounds that exist and scars that didn’t heal properly. Sometimes you have to excise those scars to get the infection out. That means opening up all that festered and became rotten. It necessarily stings. It downright hurts. It is exhausting. You would just rather let it be. 

    Ignoring it though doesn’t mean it isn’t there and growing in strength. It will still display its existence in the form of an unkind word or a broken promise or inability to be vulnerable and truly let someone in. It will infect another. An unhealed soul is contagious and does its best to damage others.

    Lean into it. Do the work. Admit when you are wrong. Make amends to those you have harmed. Forgive those who caused the broken part of you even if they never apologized. Forgive yourself. It isn’t yours to carry. Put it down.

    You deserve to heal. You deserve peace. The people you love and have yet to love deserve a healed you.

    Don’t be passive when it comes to your soul. Take time to cry. Rest. Seek professional help. Join a support group. Put in the sweat not to get back to where you once were but to not yield until you find a glorious new normal. And don’t ever let them tell you the damage is done whether it was to you or by you. You get to decide. It is your choice and I hope you choose to rehabilitate your soul.

    “Wounds don’t heal the way you want them to, they heal the way they need to. It takes time for wounds to fade into scars. It takes time for the healing process to take place. Give yourself that time. Give yourself that Grace. Be gentle with your wounds. Be gentle with your heart. You deserve to heal.” – Del Olanubi

  • Standards

    Standards

    Last night Steve shared something with me that popped up on his news feed on facebook. Someone shared “Every woman deserves a man who isn’t afraid to tell others you’re his girlfriend and that he loves you.” It made me quite sad to think her standard of being treated well is the bare minimum of what I would consider acceptable. 

    My standards are more like my cover page on facebook

    “Make her your everything in front of everyone every time.”

    But they were not always.. 

    I once had beliefs like the woman who posted on facebook because I incrementally, almost inperceptably lowered my standards. I think we tend to lower our standards for various reasons. We might excuse the person because he says he is doing the best he can and that alone makes things like inconsideration, disrespect, and callousness somehow acceptable. Perhaps we just want to keep the peace and not be so lonely. Deep down, I think most of us would admit a different reason – that we believe we somehow don’t deserve any better.

    But what if his best is not his best but rather a lazy excuse to not put in any effort beyond what is convenient to him? What if that doesn’t match my worth? Or what if what I perceive my worth to be doesn’t match God’s? What if those lies spoken into and over me that I accepted as truths were more a reflection of the person spewing them and absolutely no part of it was ever meant to enter my belief system about myself as truths?

    What if we really are lovable? What if we are worthy? What if we deserve so much better?

    We compromise in places we never should. We make excuses for their behavior. We blame ourselves. We think our expectations are unreasonable. We settle. And then we settle some more. 

    Here is what happens though when we wait for God’s best…

    Last year this time I was praying. I didn’t want to enter a relationship without His approval. I had done it my whole life and each time the results were disastrous. I asked God “Where should my heart go?” Clear as day I heard God respond, “To me. Just wait.”

    I knew it was God because it was not the answer I wanted to hear. Out of loving obedience, I waited. I didn’t know for whom I was waiting or how long it would be but knew if God had someone else in mind, that was who I wanted. I have been through enough to know, with all certainty, His plan for my life was the life I want.

    So I began to pray for this no named man. I prayed for his health. I prayed he was drawing closer to God. I prayed he would find the most beautiful part of me to be my love for Him. I prayed I would recognize him when he came. I prayed for patience knowing God’s time-line almost always feels a little slow to me. 

    Then in July Steven Easton showed up as a friend suggestion on Facebook. I had met Steve 13 years before. He was one of our favorite waiters in a restaurant my oldest child and I went to every week for five years. We had birthday parties there and almost every celebratory occasion. He knew my husband and that he died. He knew I had a child with special needs. We would run into each other around town over the years and every single time we would stop, exchange a hug, and catch up. He witnessed my life. 

    I knew when he broke his ankle. I knew when he got custody of his son. I attended his wedding.  I knew when she left and I prayed for his heart the moment I found out. I had witnessed his life. 

    I sent him a friend request with no romantic intention whatsoever. He was a friend but I also knew I was a decade older than him. He immediately sent me a little video clip of himself saying hi and telling me he would love to catch up. 

    We began chatting and for a while I was still unaware this man had any intention other than catching up with an old  friend. Then the question came in one of chats. “Soooooo, are you single?” 

    A couple of weeks later we were sitting on my back porch swing looking up at the stars. I prayed again. I got bold. I asked God for a very specific sign. I asked Him for a shooting star if Steve was the one He sent for me. The second I finished my request, a shooting star filled the sky and brilliantly traversed the night sky. Then a second shooting star appeared. My eyes welled with tears of gratitude to a God who would hear me and leave no room for doubt in His answer. 

    We have been inseparable since. Instead of lowering my standards though he raised every single one to the point I now wonder how I went my entire life settling so drastically. 

    Just as we lower our standards for the wrong person, I believe with the right person our standards are elevated. We are loved enough for the effort to occur. Our worth is acknowledged.

    We are seen. 

    If you ask Steve about it chances are he would say “I just love her. You don’t congratulate a fish for swimming.”  But when you’ve lived your whole life in an ocean with those poisonous fish who just lie in the sand and gobble up whatever happens to cross its path, you celebrate the heck out of a fish who is vibrant and swimming beautifully with the sole purpose of feeding others. 

  • My Mother’s Robe

    My Mother’s Robe

    When I was a child I could not, for the life of me, fall asleep on my own. I felt particularly fearful at night. It was the time when the distractions were gone and my mind had room to roam to all sorts of horrific scenarios like monsters under the bed or alien invasions or a world wide shortage of ice cream. 

    The only way I could get to sleep was for my mother to lie down next to me each and every night. Only then would I feel safe believing all the terrible things I imagined would not, could not happen. Her presence beside me assured my little heart everything was going to be just fine and I could finally rest.

    In the mid seventies she had a quintessential robe for the time, complete with flared arms. In order to ensure she not try to sneak away until I was fast asleep I would wrap my tiny hand in the flare leaving her no escape except a limp, sleeping hand. I did whatever I could within my little six year old power to make sure she was closest when I felt the most unsafe. 

    Nine years ago my first husband committed suicide. I found myself, once again, terrified of the night. Fear when not combated thrives in those moments of quiet. My mind roamed to all sorts of horrible scenerios like not being able to pay the mortgage, the impact this would have on my children, and the thought that perhaps I would never feel anything other than excruciating pain. It was always in those quiet moments of closed eyes when images of finding him replayed in repeat mode.

    Then I remembered my mother’s robe. Every night for months I fell asleep praying. I needed to know my Father was near and I did everything I could to ensure He not leave until I knew I was safe. I didn’t suppose God minded for He is a good Father. He knows my heart and would do anything to let me know I am not alone. 

    Then again last night it came… that moment when the hectic day was done and my thoughts had time to go to unsafe places. The world is terrifying right now. Coronavirus has disrupted our lives on a scale unseen during my life time. My children are all being home schooled including my son with autism. Our movement is extremely limited and even when we venture to the grocery store it is filled with diligence and anxiety that exhausts me. 

    The monster under the bed is invisible. It lingers in the air and attaches to door knobs and shopping carts. The information we are being provided changes daily as does the death count. It doesn’t discriminate and is vicious.

    The thought creeps in of my son with special needs catching COVID-19 and having to go the hospital alone. At 18 years old he is cognitively two. Isolated in a hospital room he would not understand what they are doing to him or why I am not there. The probability of him succumbing to Coronovairus is high given his underlying health conditions. These thoughts batter my core. I double me over until I am in the fetal position of my soul. 

    How I long for my kid fears, those thoughts that kept me up at night but had no way of actually occurring. For the thoughts that keep me up now can happen and will happen if I am not vigilant. They may happen even in spite of taking every precaution like going only to the grocery store as needed, keeping adequate social distance, and washing my hands frequently. If I have learned anything in this life it is there is only so much I can do to determine the outcome of situations beyond my own free will.

    Then I remembered my mother’s robe. I tangle my little hand around the hem of my Father’s garment and prayed as I fell asleep. His presence makes the fear manageable. There is power in that hem. There displays unshakable faith in the determination to get to His robe. The fear no longer takes my breath away. My soul unclenches.

    I remember those moments in my past of complete loss and devastation. What I now bring to prominence is the absolute certainty that beside and within me was and is the presence of my Father. He doesn’t always stop heart ache from passing through His hands. This world is not His Kingdom….yet. Even so, He is there in the midst to lull me to peace each and every night. May I never outgrow that.

    And for the moment in the dark and dreadful night, that is more than enough for me.

  • Table Mountain Pine

    Surreal. Unprecedented. Nightmare. Global Pandemic.

    Racing to get my son from New York University as COVID-19 landed in the Big Apple and began it’s insidious journey marked for me the moment Coronavirus disrupted our daily lives. I imagined with great sadness that it would change life as we all knew it as I watched the city that never sleeps fall into a chaotic slumber.

    Having a child with special needs and an elderly, asthmatic mother living in our home put us on high alert early as well. Within the next week all schools were canceled. Difficult in and of itself, closing a school for children with autism was and is an unparalleled challenge for families like ours. Wesley’s routine has been disrupted entirely. The one thing he can not tolerate well at all is the one thing we’ve had to do to keep him safe. And he just doesn’t understand why.

    A Tuesday drive through Skyline Park was exactly what my soul needed. Steve and I embarked out on a mostly empty road scattered with occasional hikers.

    At one stop there was a sign explaining the Table Mountain Pine tree. It read

    I instantly became fascinated and fell in love with the Table Mountain Pine. They live in the rocky parts of the Appalachian Mountains where other trees fail to survive. They are dependent on fire to regenerate. The seeds of the Table Mountain Pine have a thick coating and can be dormant for years. They await the fire and only once the fire hits can new life begin. As the heat causes the thick coating to melt away they finally, and I imagine gloriously, release seeds ready for the scorched earth that has been cleared. There is nothing to compete with birth in the nutrient rich soil while it finds its roots.

    God actually made trees that could only survive by and with fire. As people, we feel fire is the end of us. We can’t imagine how we will survive. We are sure everything will be taken and all we will have left is ashes. All we see is loss and destruction.

    The Table Mountain Pine survives because God created it to persist not in spite of but because of the fire. He created it to endure, waiting several years for the heat and embracing it knowing the opportunity has finally come for the creation of new life. It can only do so on an earth that has been blistered and scalded having everything stripped naked and clearing the way for those precious seeds.

    It endures because of the fire.

    I have had the dubious honor of having times in my life when my world changed drastically and suddenly. I have been put to the fire more times than I wish yet enough to tell you this: there is rebirth in the process. There is hope that maybe not today or tomorrow but eventually it will get better. There is even hope that things just won’t get any worse. There is hope that you will be able to hope again.

    My blog site is called patience to endure because I have found that all we really need is just that, that and God.

    I have lived through the unsuspecting birth and subsequent raising of a child with significant special needs. I have lived through three times holding him in the hospital PICU begging God to not take my child. I have lived through driving my first husband 18 hours straight to get him to rehab for opiate addiction. I have lived through being the one to find him dead from suicide. I have lived through picking up those pieces and being a single mom for many, many years until God sent me the gift of a lifetime in the form of a soul mate disguised as an old friend.

    The world has changed suddenly and drastically because of COVID-19. It is overwhelming and drains me to my soul when I think about the ramifications of this virus’ assault on humanity. My heart hurts for my oldest son who is attempting to pursue his theatrical training on line from his room rather than the exciting city of New York. I become melancholy when thinking about all the people who have lost their jobs and don’t know how they will pay the rent or buy groceries. I am crushed to hear the stories from Italy of doctors having to decide who lives and who dies because there is not enough equipment. I cry when I pray for all those battling the virus and their loved ones helpless to do anything.

    We live with a heightened and unprecedented sense of fight or flight as we suddenly have to be aware of what we touch and what we don’t touch. It is exhausting. It seems hopeless. But it isn’t.

    The Table Mountain Pine, my new favorite tree, knows the fire is the reason it was made. What if, just, what if, we were made for that too? What if this fire of a global pandemic is our opportunity to melt away the thick coatings around our hearts? What if within the ashes in which we now find ourselves to be is actually the perfect condition to rebirth and rebuild? What if this is the opportunity to burn away all we thought was important because we discover it really wasn’t after all? What if through all this we realize we can grow new priorities, new kindness, new compassion, and new love?

    It won’t come instanteously and it won’t be easy. So much of it will depend on how we view it. We can look at the ashes and all we once held as dear as the remnants of a funeral pyre or we can see it as an opportunity to plant new seeds in barren but eager ground.

    I choose life. I choose re-birth. I choose to let God determine if this is the moment for which I was made. I choose to not depend on my thinking as to whether or not I have lost too much knowing God will restore what was taken in His time and His manner. I choose to know I am strong enough because I know God believes I am. I choose to allow the fire to be the exact moment in the history of my life and the world to scatter my seeds understanding the new life may not be seen as quickly as I like but trusting it will appear in its time. I choose to allow God to give me the patience to endure.

    The fire will change me. It always has and I don’t suspect this time will be different. How it changes me is about the only thing over which I have power.

    Defeat or Victory.

    Tragedy or Triumph.

    Destruction or Regeneration.

    The choice is mine. It is yours. Your children are watching closely, probably closer than you know. Choose wisely. Choose victory. Choose triumph. Choose regeneration not in spite but because of the fire.

  • Distillation

    Steve and I were at the store today. Shelves were empty. People were wearing masks. There was something sobering in the air. Life in America had changed very suddenly and very drastically.

    The cashier was telling me about how the truck was two days late. He said people were lined up before they opened and one woman bought six packs of toilet paper. He wasn’t sure what she needed that much for but surmised she was going to try to sell it at a markup, of course. I told him I can’t find rubbing alcohol anywhere. I explained Wesley has special needs and I need it for disinfecting and cleaning g-tube supplies. Supplies people are hoarding are the very things some families need to live.

    He called his manager over. With sympathetic eyes her heart listened to me. She told me they may be getting a shipment of rubbing alcohol tonight and to call later. She would see what she could do about setting aside a couple of bottles for me. As we were leaving, she came out chasing us. Handing us a box sanitizing wipes she asked if it would help. She apologized that it wasn’t alcohol based.

    I read a story later about a pair of brothers who, when the crisis first broke in America, bought as much hand sanitizer as they could find. They sold it on ebay and amazon at an enormous mark up until customer complaints had them taken off the sites. The brothers now have nearly seventeen thousand bottles of hand sanitizer with no way to sell it. Meanwhile, hand sanitizer is the most effective way I can protect my son with special needs. Wesley is eighteen years old but cognitively two. He can’t wash his hands for twenty seconds. He doesn’t understand to not put his fingers in his mouth. Yet I can not find it anywhere other than sweet friends who have found some and are willing to give it to us.

    There is something so powerful about a crisis that reveals the best and worst not just in humanity but in ourselves. It does not create something within us that was not already there. It simply exposes what already exists.

    A lifetime ago I wanted to become a physician though I took a bit of a circuitous route and never actually got there. After graduating college I was a professional ballet dancer in New York City. Realizing it was not a lifestyle conducive to my personality I moved back in with my parents. I worked full-time and in the evening took the prerequisites with the dream of taking the medical college entrance test.

    My organic chemistry class was twice a week in the evenings. Almost the entire student body was, like me, working full time jobs and then going to night school. Our lab class was once a week from 5:30 to 10:00 pm. The professor would give us each a small beaker with liquid. We were to distill it to get rid of contaminants and then run several tests. With our little lab books we would approach the professor and tell him what we believed the compound to be. If we were right we would pass. If we were wrong we would fail. There was no in between.

    As you can imagine in a class filled with people who had just worked eight plus hour shifts, we were prone to short cuts. Not one of us wanted to take the time to distill it so none of us did.

    A few weeks into the class we were all stunned when our answers came back wrong. My professor’s response to me was simply, “must have been contaminated” and a shoulder shrug. Indeed, I learned my lesson.

    The distillation process was necessary. The heat applied rid the compound of impurities and boiled it down to its very essence. It had to be purified in order to know what was actually there.

    Coronavirus is our distillation process. I don’t believe it is going to create heroes or villans. What it will do is reveal within each of us and one another exactly who the heroes and who the villans are.

    I’ve had times in my life I was sure excruciating heat was being applied to the core of me. My soul was being purified.  The distillation process was and is a painful one. Each time everything was stripped away and I was left with these simple questions:

    What is really important?

    Who am I now?

    What does this reveal about me and what I believe?

    Admittedly, life has a way of clouding those questions, contaminating them. Impurities make me forget the core, the purity, of what is vital to who I am. There is nothing like a global health crisis to immediately extract the impurities.

    COVID 19 has caused an heightened sense of survival unprecedented in my life time. My childrens’ schools have been closed. A few days ago I went to New York to extricate my oldest from NYU. Social activities have been canceled. No more shopping trips for fun. Life has come to a screeching halt for us and for every responsible person who understands the significance of self sacrifice for the greater good.

    My life has been distilled down to keeping my family safe and preventing spread of the virus as much as it is up to me. At this moment nothing else matters. I know some who do not feel the imperative need for social distancing. They either don’t understand or don’t care about the significance of continuing to engage in crowded social activity. Their carelessness could literally kill my son, my mother, and myself who are all in the highly vulnerable category. I imagine the distillation of their life reveals a selfishness and disregard and I wonder how they look at themselves in the mirror each day.

    The cashier at the store this morning has been distilled down to kindness. He didn’t know me but he heard my heart and showed extraordinary care for a perfect stranger. His manager who gave us wipes also showed us what was at the core of her and it was lovely and selfless. The brothers and all those hoarding supplies are distilled down to greed and are, I believe, some of the worst parts of humanity.

    This is just the beginning. It is surreal to be standing on the precipice overlooking the vast unknown but having the certainty that life as we know it has changed. Further distillation will happen. As our boiling points are reached who we are and what we are made of is revealed. There is no reason to believe, based on the path left by this virus, our family, our community, our country will escape unscathed. When it is distilled down to the core, when all the extraneous things are taken away what is left of you? What is really important to you? Who are you now? And what does this reveal about you and what you believe?

    My prayer for you and for me is that we find out we are kinder, more compassionate, more helpful, more loving, more selfless than we ever knew.

  • Isn’t Your Father…

    Isn’t Your Father…

    The first 12 years of my life were spent in the United States Air Force. My father had joined during the Vietnam war and remained in the service until he retired lieutenant colonel many years later. Growing up on an Air Force Base is a very unique experience and not for the faint of heart.

    We moved every three three years but there were parts of living on a base that we could depend upon to be consistent no matter where we lived. Before every event including movies we stood for the National Anthem. At 5 o’clock no matter what we were doing we would stop and in reverence face the direction of the flag as it was lowered. It didn’t matter if we could see it from where we were. We always knew the direction in which to turn. I can remember jumping of swings, dismantling bikes, and getting out of swimming pools as if it were the most natural thing to do.

    Another part of living on a military base was an expectation that we children would behave according to our father’s rank. My father was an officer and there were certain expectations to which the daughter of an officer should adhere. How I behaved said everything about my father’s ability to lead his men. If I were an unruly child and spotted by the Commanding Officer it could become an influential factor in my father receiving a promotion or being passed over. For an unruly child meant he was an ineffective leader. A well behaved child meant effective leadership. The fundamental question was if an officer can’t lead his own family, how could he lead his subordinates? 

    In 4th grade I got into a fight with Cheryl Whitlark who was at one time my best friend. I cannot begin to remember what the fight was about but I remember she pulled my hair and I kicked her in the shins. 

    Mrs. Johnson, our teacher who was a rather frightening woman, called us to the side. She had a natural hunch in her posture but hunched down even more to meet us eye to eye.

    She looked at me and said “Isn’t your father an officer?”

    With shame and downcast eyes I nodded yes.

    Miss Johnson then said, and this stuck to my soul for all these years,  “Then why aren’t you acting like it?” 

    As a child I knew plenty of kids whose dads used fear to get them to behave. My dad used love and he never pressured us out of professional concern. He didn’t need to because we at some point learned the rules without ever being told. I wanted to please my dad because of my love for him and because of the understanding at such an early age that I should. 

    The same is true as a follower of Christ. Isn’t my Father the King? 

    Never in my life has my heart been so burdened by the way we Christians are behaving. It keeps me up at night and has become my heart’s cry. We are not reflecting our Father well. We are failing at showing the world what the love of Christ looks like. We are not magnifying Him, we are diminishing Him.

    On Facebook I see post after post of political nature but rather than trying to post about what the person believes, it is a post making fun of or name calling a person of the opposite party. I see posts from people I see in church on Sundays that attack “stupid liberals” or it demonizes immigrants or makes fun of transgender people. Sometimes, in insensitive humor, they belittle an entire people because they have accents. (My mother has an accent and learning English as a second language is an incredible accomplishment). Their very next post is about loving Jesus and they tell everyone on the internet they are a Christian. And I just want to scream. 

    What we put into cyberspace reflects who we are as children of the King. How we approach people who have been deemed “less than” or different says everything about the heart of Christ; the same heart that told us the parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25-37). 

    Keep in mind during the time of Jesus and well before, Samaritans were despised by Jews. In the Parable a man is beaten, robbed, and left half dead. A priest and the Levite, both religious men, cross the road to avoid someone they deemed unworthy even though he clearly needed assistance. Think about that. Jesus, a Jew, was talking to Jews and the example He used of someone reflecting His Father’s heart was someone on the opposite side. It was the samaritan who showed his Father’s heart by having mercy. 

    He didn’t cross the road to kick him while he was down. He didn’t question whether or not the man was worthy of his help. How could he, after all, be the judge of that? How can any of us? 

    Imagine a modern day parable. Do you believe, as a Christian, Jesus would have changed His parable to include qualifiers? Would the good samaritan have been good if before helping the man he first established if the man was of the same political party… or had has his green card…or was heterosexual… or was pro life…or had no addictions…or believed in his God.

    He didn’t put any qualifiers then and, I believe, He would not now. Neighbor. That’s all. Someone who needs help receives it. Period. 

    God’s heart is not always expressed because of one’s religious affiliation or perceived place in the world. The Parable of the Good Samaritan in fact shows us quite the exact opposite. The two men who told the world they were godly men really weren’t by their actions and their lack of compassion and mercy. They were Jesus’ example how not to be.

    I am no Biblical scholar but I do love Jesus. As children of the King isn’t our first directive to reflect Our Father’s Heart? Should that not supersede our political affiliations? And is it possible calling our neighbors names or disregarding their plight or posting vicious memes and loving Jesus are not compatible with one another? Each time we do we are breaking that which He said was the greatest command and the way in which we inherit eternal life. 

    Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind. Love your neighbor as yourself.

    It. Really. Is. That. Simple. 

    I desperately want to make my Father look good. The world looks at my behavior as a reflection on Him. What I say, do, and post matters. This is a pivotal time not just in our nation, but in our church. The world is watching. More than that, Our Father is watching. Am I making Him smile by loving my neighbors, regardless of what they do or don’t believe, or am I hurting His heart by showing the world the love of Jesus doesn’t make us more loving, it makes us hateful?

    As I examine my heart I hear this question posed 

    “Isn’t your Father the king?”

    I reply “Yes.”

    Is the response I receive, “I can tell!” or “Why aren’t you acting like it?” 

    What is yours? 

  • I trust You…

    I trust You…

    I was rearranging my seven year old’s room for what felt like the millionth time. He has a bunk bed that has a ladder on one side and a slide on the other. While he was sitting on the top bunk I took the slide down for a few moments. As I was trying to put the slide back on, his bed shook. I heard the sweetest voice say, “I’m scared, Mom…but I trust you.”

    How different would life be if, when on shaky ground, we sweetly said “I’m scared, Father…but I trust you.”

    During the summer of 2010 Wesley, my middle son with special needs, fell down the stairs and landed on the marble floor. I heard my stepdaughter calling me and knew something tragic occurred.

    I came flying down the stairs and saw him there. He was conscious but I noticed his hands and feet, contracted. I lived in the world of special needs long enough to know it meant brain injury.

    After an ambulance ride to UVA we were taken directly back. I remember just beginning to realize exactly how serious it was because we didn’t even have to wait in the ER.

    The nurse came in and I immediately recognized her. She had children at the same school as my oldest son. I was relieved to see her and know she would be praying as she cared for us.

    They took Wesley in for a CT and I sat in a metal folding chair in the sterile hall. I saw the tech speak to our nurse and from the other room I could read his lips.

    “There is a bleed.”

    My husband was a physician and I knew the gravity of what that meant. My child was going to live or die and there was little, if anything, that could be done by medicine to make him live.

    My prayer was simple.

    Please, God, please just give me whatever it is I will need to endure whatever is coming.

    That was the prayer of a mother who thought her child might die. The prayer of a mother who might never feel her child’s arms around her neck or see him smile again The prayer of a mother who wasn’t sure how she would live without her child. I had surrendered. I knew with all certainty Wesley’s life was in the hands of God everyday but it was never so obvious as at a moment like that. I knew that a loving, faithful God can still allow children to die.

    I am scared, Father…but I trust you.

    When the diagnosis comes…
    When your spouse has an affair…
    When the bank account can’t be stretched…
    When you lose someone you loved dearly…
    When divorce is impending…
    When the indictment is handed down…
    When your child is sick…
    When the layoff comes…
    When addiction is all you can see…
    When depression is crushing you…
    When anxiety steals your peace…
    When your heart is crushed…

    No matter when or what

    I am scared, Father…but I trust you

  • When He shows up

    When He shows up

    I could tell by his voice I needed to be there.

    “I’m getting in the car. I am coming,” I promised. “Can I talk to Calvin?”

    He handed the phone to his roommate.

    “This is Emerson’s mom. I am coming. Do you have class? Can you and the guys please make sure he isn’t left alone? I will be there as soon as I can.” I begged.

    Calvin agreed and between him and the other three roommates they would tend to him.

    I threw a few things in a bag, jumped in my truck, and began the 6 hour drive to New York City. In three days it would be the eighth year anniversary of his father’s death by suicide. February tenth was a day we detested.

    In many ways it was as if his dad just died. He grieved him as an eleven year old boy years ago and was now grieving him all over, only this time as a man emerging.

    I cried and prayed, prayed and cried. I needed wisdom. I needed strength. I needed to carry us both.

    It had been a while since I prayed so earnestly.

    Please God. Give me wisdom. Give me strength. Show me where you will meet him in the exact way he needs to find you. I can get him to church but You have to let me know where. Please, Lord, I can’t help him. All I can do is lead him back to You. You know it will have to be huge. Unmistakable. God, this has to drown out intellectualism and skepticism. I need you to show up big. Show me, sweet Jesus. Please just show me.

    Though raised in a Christian home and having attended a Christian school kindergarten through graduation from high school,  Em had only been to church once since leaving for college. I wasn’t sure if he was walking away from his faith or just angry at God. I had hoped it was the latter for that would mean he still believed.

    Since this year February tenth landed on a Sunday I knew he would not protest coming with me to church.  He needed a life line and it was the only one I knew to throw out to him because it was the only one that saved me, the only one that could have saved me. Our burden was too monstrous and the pain was too great. Only a Mighty God could save us from it. I couldn’t imagine how my son was going to manage without the life line to which I have clung.

    I left my home with such determination to get to him it had not occurred to me I would be hitting the D.C. / Baltimore area right at rush hour. A six hour drive became an eight hour trip, negotiating 495 with tears in my eyes. I could not get there soon enough.

    I finally made it to his dorm around 8 pm. He walked out into the cold February night and fell into my arms. My 6 foot 3 son collapsed and melted into me the same way he did when he was just a toddler. Only now I knew mommy hugs weren’t going to make this all better but I hoped with all I had that it could at least help.

    We hopped in an Uber and went to the hotel. We ordered room service, a favorite of his since he was little.

    As we ate and watched Netflix I flipped through my phone looking at churches.

    Please, God, just show me which one.

    I wanted to visit Pete Scazzero’s Church in Queens. I had helped teach a class at my church and Scazzero made the curriculum but my spirit just wasn’t settled that it was the place for us on this particular Sunday.  Tim Keller, a well known pastor and author, had a few churches in Manhattan. That wasn’t the one either, I was sure.

    What about this one, Lord? I asked as I clicked on CityLight Church. Their opening sentence read, “Most people genuinely want to know God…It’s church they want to stay away from!”

    Please, God, let me know.

    Saturday morning we went to Friend of a Farmer, a little restaurant in Gramercy. It became our tradition and every single time I am in New York we go. It might be my favorite breakfast anywhere on the planet.

    The far off look in Emerson’s eyes worried me. He was not at all himself. He was in a dark, dark place. I hated he was there and that I could not pull him immediately out. I needed to, I had to wait for God. Nothing on this earth breaks my heart more than when my children are hurt. Emerson was beyond hurt. He was broken.

    As we walked back down to the Village I asked him, “Would you like to stop at health services and check in with a counselor? Tomorrow is a big day.”

    “I don’t know. I’ll think about it,” he replied.

    A few minutes later he looked up from his phone.

    “I guess we are going to health services. I just got an email from them. It said my community is worried about me and I need to go.”

    My heart was relieved. At a university of over 51,000 students he had not fallen through the cracks.

    Afterward we went to get waffles and ice cream. Things were normalizing. It was still awful and difficult, nearly impossible, but it always had been.

    We went back to the hotel and once again I asked God where to go. I was at complete peace that God was directing us to CityLight, the little church in the East Village.

    The next morning we were in the cab when I received a message from a dear friend, Robin. She is strong and soulful and loves the Lord. When she has a word of knowledge I pay extra attention.

    She instructed me to not answer the phone. She was leaving a message for Emerson because while she was praying for him she received a vision.  

    “Hey Emerson, it’s Robin from Church on the Hill. I was praying for you this morning as I was driving to church and had a very vivid vision of you standing all alone…Actually, without very much clothes on. It was interesting, it was like this ragged clothes on and it was a close up picture of you. And then the lens of the camera took a wider view and it showed me that you’re surrounded by people. That you are actually not alone. And I was asking the Lord, “Why doesn’t he have very much clothes on. What is that?” And the Lord said it was shame. I was sensing that if you laid down the shame and rejection, and reminded the devil that it is not something for you to wear anymore. When the shame is gone then it will enable you to let the people in, that big circle of friends that you have – family, people who love you and want to support you – that they will be able to come in closer. I felt that was crazy because what it told me also is it was a camera and that a video was being taken. I thought about you as an actor and that told me that the Lord is saying, “I see you and I know what I made you for and I haven’t forgotten you.” I know this is a tough day but I hope that it will encourage you. Love you and your mom.”

    Tears formed in my eyes as I played it for Emerson. I looked out the window rather than at him to give him the space to take in all she had said. We sat in silence until we found a coffee shop around the corner from the Church.

    “Did Robin’s vision speak to you?” I asked.

    “It did,” he said staring at his mocha. “I do live with shame. All day. Everyday. I don’t know why I feel it. It doesn’t make sense. I know I haven’t done anything. But I feel it all the time.” His voice was as downcast as his soul. “I want to lay it down, Mom, I just don’t know how. I am so brittle.”

    My heart cracked.

    I didn’t speak for a few moments.

    Please, God give me the words. I don’t know what to say. Whatever it is, I need it to come from you.

    “When those thoughts come you have to make a decision to replace them with truth.  Put a different thought in your head – an affirmation or a gratitude. A pattern has been established and we have to break it. Once you can change your thought pattern, your emotions and actions will follow. You get to decide because though you can’t control what pops in your head you do control what stays there. “

    He nodded in agreement but said little else.

    As we walked toward the church he said, “I hope you know the story here doesn’t end with me going back to church.”

    “I understand,” was all I could say. I couldn’t force him and I wouldn’t want him to go that way. My faith carrying him had ended when he left my home. The God of his mother had to become his God and I had to leave room for Him to move and make that possible.

    We found the little church in the basement of a larger, historic church. There was one room with about 100 folding chairs. I was impressed by the ethnic and generational diversity of the group.

    We were twenty minutes early so we sat as the worship band warmed up. I placed my hand on Emerson’s back and prayed with my whole heart.

    Oh God, I need you to show up in an unmistakable way. I got him here, now it is up to you. We need a road to Damascus moment. I need you to break down the walls and go straight to the heart of this boy. I bind the spirits of shame, oppression, abandonment in Jesus Name. They may not have my son. Give him peace, Lord. Give him strength. Please God, just reach him right here where he is. It is going to take something huge. I know him and I know he is a little stubborn at times. This is my hail Mary shot at the buzzer. I got him here, meet us Lord. Please, please, please God…show up for him in a way he will see, feel, and hear You. Please God. You’ve done it for me so many times and I am thankful. Please, God, please do that for him.

    The worship part of the service was amazing. People in the East Village know how to worship unrestrained. People were dancing and clapping and lifting arms. Some were jumping. It was a beautiful, beautiful celebration to witness.

    The Pastor got up and said he would be finishing his sermon series on evangelizing. My heart sunk. Had I missed it? What could possibly be in the sermon for Emerson about evangelizing? He was angry and even closed off to God. He was certainly not going to be telling people about his love for Him. My heart cracked a little more to realize I might have gotten it wrong. Maybe this was not the church where we were supposed to be. Maybe I missed my shot.

    About two-thirds into the sermon the Pastor said, “If you haven’t been paying attention to my sermon listen up. This is the important part. We are to be bold. Joshua 1:9 tells us ‘Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.”

    The day Gary died Emerson had Joshua 1:9 as his memory verse for school. To help him remember I would put little Post-its around the house with that verse written. After Gary died those posts became love notes from God to me, reminding to be bold and be courageous and that He was with me still. He had not abandoned me.

    I leaned over and whispered to Emerson, “That was your memory verse the day your dad died.” He nodded his head in agreement but I couldn’t tell if he had received the significance.

    Was that it, God? Because no offense but I am not sure that was big enough.

    I began to doubt myself again. Perhaps I was searching and placing too much meaning into things.

    God, even if I missed it, You can still show up here. Please…show up.

    The Pastor went on to talk about a very famous psychotherapist, Albert Ellis who discovered Rational Emotive Behavior Therapy. He said Ellis believed and taught the only way to get over your fear is to vigorously attack it. He gave an example and explained a study showed the second biggest fear we have just after death is the fear of public speaking. It makes logical sense that the only way to get over the fear of public speaking is to put yourself in the exact situation that makes you fearful and speak in public.

    He went on to explain to get through fear you have to replace the thoughts with truth. He said thoughts become patterns and once you change those your feelings and behavior can follow. He said the exact words I used just an hour before in the coffee shop.

    I began sobbing. I looked over at Emerson and saw more than a reflection of acknowledgement. He was shaken. There was no explanation other than His Spirit was trying every which way to speak directly to the heart of the pain my son held for so long.

    After the sermon a young man got up to give a short testimony.

    “I was dating a girl who had the most amazing three year old daughter. She could light up a room. After we were dating for fifteen months, the little girl was killed in a car accident. I stuffed my feelings. I tried to make sure everyone else was alright just so I didn’t have to deal with my own grief. I became depressed. I began wondering what the point of life was. I lost hope. But then my friend sent me a clip of a pastor speaking. So I went to Youtube and binge watched this guy. By the time I finished something in my heart clicked. I knew I could not do this alone. I knew I needed the Lord.”

    The congregation applauded.

    The Pastor concluded the service and invited everyone to stay for one last song before the next service began.

    “Who am I that the Highest King would welcome me…

    I was lost but He brought me in with His love for me, Oh His love for me…

    Who the son sets free, is free indeed. I’m a child of God. Yes I am.

    In my Father’s House, there is a place for me, I’m a child of God. Yes I am…

    I am chosen, not forsaken, I am who You say I am…”

    I lifted my arms praising the One who would show up at a little church in the East Village because of a mother’s desperate cry. The One who loves my son immensely. The One who really does leave the 99 to find the lost single beloved. The One who would go to the any length to draw us back to Him. The One who knew this was coming and already lined everything up from Robin’s vision to the Pastor’s sermon to the testimony to the worship music. The most brilliant conductor, He perfectly orchestrated plans well in advance in order to play this masterpiece just for us on this Sunday, February tenth. I was overwhelmed by what I had witnessed, heard, and felt. There was no mistaking it. There was no rationalizing or intellectualizing it. God showed up.

    And when He shows up, everything changes.

    We walked out of the church with me sobbing uncontrollably and Emerson visibly moved. One can not come so close to the Creator of the Universe and remain unchanged. As we walked up 7th Street toward 1st Avenue Emerson quietly said “Mom, I’ll be back next week. I can’t do this alone.”

    My tears were streaming, my heart exploding, my soul soaring, my spirit praising.

    We found a little Filipino restaurant, Mama Fina’s, and went in to have the food of our ancestors.

    “I just felt safe there. Before church began when we were sitting there I kept hearing I have not been abandoned and I’m not alone,” Emerson said gently.

    “That was God. You are not who you think you are. You are who He says you are,” I wept.

    Emerson looked at me and his eyes were familiar once again. He said “I stole something from church.”

    He reached in his pocket and pulled out a pebble. I noticed the rocks inside the church because I spilled a little bit of coffee and had trouble wiping it up because of the rocks. He laid it on the table.

    Picking up the rock he said “Mom when I’m holding this rock I can still do things but it is only with one hand. I can shake your hand but I might have to move it from one hand to the other. I cannot fully engage if I’m holding this rock. It is limiting me. I have to put it down. I have to put shame, abandonment, all these terrible thoughts down so I can be entirely engaged with the world and I’m not encumbered by anything. So I’m going to hold on to this rock to remind me to put it down,” He paused. “Mom, I feel so soft.”

    “Soft is good. Earlier you said brittle. Brittle breaks,” I said weeping.

    “I am not going to break,” he said as I sighed in relief with my entire being.

    As I drove away from New York City I was exhausted. I was emotionally and physically spent but spiritually overflowing. I have carried many things to the Cross throughout my life. I have placed so many parts of me, relationships, situations, dreams, hopes, failures, and sins at the feet of Jesus countless times.

    This was the first time I had ever left my son at the Cross.

    And God was faithful.

    As I approached Afton Mountain, very close to home, the signs were lit up warning of dense fog. It was particularly so and I could only see a few feet in front of me, nothing at all to the right or left. I put my flashers on so others would know where I was. I could only concentrate as far as I could see and would focus on that spot, allowing the lights that lined the highway to help guide me. When I reached that spot I would look to the next. I became overwhelmed and felt unsafe when I tried to look further than visibility would allow. I had to trust that I could make it to the next safe spot and take the mountain in increments.  

    It perfectly illustrated my trip to New York, perhaps my life – just make it to the next safe spot and then keep going. Put your flashers on and ask for prayer. It is powerful. Stay within the lights that line the path. God will purpose your journey. You will arrive safely.

    God will show up. And everything will change.

    I waited patiently for the Lord to help me,
        and he turned to me and heard my cry.
    He lifted me out of the pit of despair,
        out of the mud and the mire.
    He set my feet on solid ground
        and steadied me as I walked along.
    He has given me a new song to sing,
        a hymn of praise to our God.
    Many will see what he has done and be amazed.
        They will put their trust in the Lord. Psalm 40:1-3

    Hallelujah