Patience to Endure

Category: Uncategorized

Trust the Process

We drove to Lynchburg just to go to the mall. My son, Wesley, has significant special needs and this week is spring break. Because of those special needs we can not travel further than we can drive. Wesley’s favorite thing in the entire world is going to malls. So, instead of a fabulous beach vacation somewhere warm we go to every mall within a 90 mile drive. We pack up the RV and make a day of it. I would have it no other way.

As we walked past the Master Cuts in the mall I noticed that all three stylist were available. Both my youngest and I needed haircuts so we walked in and were immediately helped. A young man named Chase was my stylist. I explained to him I was a busy mom and wanted something that wouldn’t take too long to style. Typically, my hair has long layers and side swept bangs. Simple enough, I thought.

As Chase began cutting my hair I began to doubt this was a good idea. He was taking pieces of hair, twisting them, and then using a blade to cut. I had never had my hair done this way and was fighting the urge to run out of Master Cuts before he ruined my hair.

This was an unfamiliar process with an unfamiliar person. I had only met him moments before and had no time to establish trust. I didn’t know if he was even talented enough to pull off whatever it was he had in mind which was clearly different than the hope I expressed.

I fought back tears as chunks of hair went flying. It will grow back, I thought. I was sure I would be wearing a pony tail until it did.

Then he started to dry it and the shape started to be obvious. This wasn’t the worst haircut I’ve ever had. In fact, it might just be my favorite.

It is difficult to trust the process when we are in the hands of an unknown person. For it is not only the process we need to trust, it is the entity who is unfolding it. I would not have had the slightest trepidation had Chase been someone with whom I was familiar, who had cut my hair before, who had a proven track record.

Trust the process…

I was recently chatting with a friend. He said, “The journey is the reward.” How often do I take the time to recognize the reward is in the journey while trusting the process?

I replay my experience at Master Cuts only now I sit in God’s beauty chair. He is not unfamiliar to me. In fact, He might be the most familiar one to me. He has the greatest proven record of creating beauty from ashes not just in my own life but in the lives of people I love and in the stories I read in His Word – one hundred percent.

He takes pieces of my life and the twisting is uncomfortable. It is down right painful on some days. I don’t understand what He is doing. The process isn’t like anything I have ever endured. He takes a razor and cuts pieces He knows I won’t need but I can’t see it. I don’t have eyes that can tell. Sometimes I panic. My trust wavers and I ask Him to help me with my unbelief.

Pieces land on the floor and I am not sure I wanted them to not be attached to me. I trust the process but I mourn the loss. It feels as if I have been sitting for so long and my back aches a bit. I want to get up and move around. I have had enough.

He tells me it is not time yet.

He tells me I need the patience to endure.

He tells me what He is shaping for me will be the most beautiful life I can imagine but I have to sit for a while.

He tells me He isn’t finished.

He tells me what I see as a mess, He sees as a masterpiece.

I trust His eyes. I trust His vision. I trust His hands. If they created the universe from nothing surely He will create something beautiful in me.

And so I am not done waiting. I trust the process. I find the journey to be the reward because in the journey I am being molded into what He wants me to be. As I sit in His chair we talk. We grow closer. I learn to love Him more and the reflection staring back at me. Yet in the changing vision I come to realize that only He, much more than I, could be trusted to shape who I was meant to be, who I long to be, who He created me to be.

I surrender.

I surrender to His cutting, pruning, extracting, and twisting.

I surrender to His shaping.

I surrender my strength, mercy, compassion, kindness, love, and peace for His.

I surrender to whatever it is He wants to remove.

I surrender what I wanted to what He wants.

I surrender fear.

I surrender to the process.

I find the reward is in the journey.

As He begins to reveal to me what He has created, I smile. It doesn’t matter if the final product is what I had hoped. If it is what He wanted for me then it is, without question, more than I could have ever asked or imagined. That is how my God works. How can I do anything other than trust His process and find joy in it?

April 5, 2019
Hidden

When I was a child my father had a dark room in our basement. If I close my eyes I can almost smell the chemicals. I would spend time with him there as he would dip a seemingly blank sheet of paper into trays of chemicals. As a child I was not interested in the particulars of the chemicals or the mechanism by which it worked. I just knew my loving father was creating something from nothing in darkness.

I remember not being able to discern what the picture would be until the process was complete and the light was turned on. I had to be very obedient and not turn the light on or open the door until he told me it was safe. If light entered at the wrong time it would over or under develop the photo and the perfection would have been lost.

I believe my Father creates His most magnificent, beautiful and miraculous masterpieces in what appears to be darkness. Yet darkness is not dark to God.

“Indeed, the darkness shall not hide from You, but the night shines as the day; the darkness and light are both alike to you.” Psalm 139:12

In Genesis we see God’s first work as He creates something out of nothing.

“Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.” Genesis 1:2

Hovering is defined as attending to and caring for; to keep lingering about; wait near at hand. As a mother, I understand this word well. When my children were infants I hovered. I was never far away enough that I would not know if they were hungry or tired or in need of changing. I waited near at hand. My oldest son, Emerson, might argue that I hover still.

From the very beginning of time and the written account of God, His presence in the darkness is assured. Not only that, it is not a passive presence. It is active. It is caring. It is tender. It is waiting.

Each of our lives began in the dark as God stitched us together in our mothers’ wombs. The progress is not perceptible on the outside but inside cells are dividing and organs are growing. Energy is being expended and growth is rapidly occurring. Yet outside of the dark womb the only evidence of growth is a slowly expanding belly.

My entire faith hinges upon a single event that occurred in complete darkness. Jesus’ resurrection took place in a cold, dark tomb meant for finality and death. As the Disciples scattered and hid in panic and fear, Jesus opened His eyes once again and saw nothing but darkness.

He tells me His perfect gifts are hidden in darkness.

In the darkroom of my soul, God is developing my picture. I am entirely unsure of what that picture will ultimately be, but I know it will be good. It will be glorious because I know the Hands of Him who holds me. Just because I can not see the progression does not mean it is not occurring. In the womb the progression, especially to the pregnant mother, is ever so gradual. In the tomb it was, I imagine, a split second. His eyes were closed and then they were opened. The amount of time to develop my picture is entirely at the discretion of my Father.

Still, at times I get anxious for the light to turn back on. I am ready to see the final product. God gently reminds me that my need for swiftness will not alter the time it takes for the picture to fully develop. Like the blank piece of photo paper soaking in developer, I let my faith drown me. I remember dark is not dark to my God.

I love spending time with my Father in His darkroom. If I close my eyes I can feel His Spirit. I don’t the mechanism by which He works, I just know my loving Father is creating something from nothing in darkness. He holds me gently and tenderly as the picture develops. He hovers. He tends to and cares for me. In His timing the light will be turned on and the brilliance of His unfailing love will leave me in awe of the masterpiece that came victoriously and triumphantly out of the darkness.

March 21, 2019
Hallelujah

February 10, 2019

Dear Gary,

It has been eight years. Eight years ago today you walked out of our basement door, into the woods, out of our lives and into eternity. Sometimes it feels like eight minutes and sometimes it feels like eight decades. Time is a strange thing when one is grieving. Like everything else, it makes little sense.

It took a very long time for the image of you on that day to leave my mind. For a while it was constant. Each time it appeared I would ask God to show me where He was and He did. Eventually, I was able to focus on the image of Him holding on to me as I screamed a sound I did not know could come from within me. The memory of you lying there became a voluntary one rather than unhibitated and relentless. It was torture.

I know you weren’t thinking clearly when you walked into the woods with your gun and probably didn’t consider that it was going to be me to find you. I went into shock. They put me in the ambulance that was meant for you. My dad’s pleading words, “The boys need you,” gave me something to hold on to instead of floating into that unknown territory called disassociation. They lost you on that day and I knew they could not lose us both.

Our friends, our church family, Community Bible Study, and the Covenant School enveloped us. They brought us food for months. They prayed for us and those prayers carried me. They helped take care of our boys. You would have been amazed by them. I never really knew how much they loved us until the evening of February 10th. We truly would not have made it without them.

Three days after you died I went to church and spoke. I confessed that Satan might have won a battle but he would not have this family. I was bloody and wounded but ready to battle in order to not let him have another victory. I promised God I would do my part to be sure He received every ounce of Glory from our story. It is a promise to which I cling even to this day.

We had to have your memorial at Covenant Church since there would be over 500 people there from every walk of life. It was a wonderful testimony to how you treated everyone equally whether an addict struggling with recovery or a wealthy businessman. It was one of the things I loved the most about you. You treated everyone with dignity and respect.

I delivered your eulogy. There was so much left unsaid and I felt strongly there were things you would have wanted me to say. I think you would have been proud of me. I refused to be the widow crumpled up and crying in the front row. As you knew, that just was not me. God empowered me to deliver your eulogy. My great need for Him compelled me to lift my hands in praise even though I could barely lift my head. There was no other way other than God’s Grace, mercy, and power.

I knew you would have wanted us to celebrate so I added a little humor. My concluding thoughts were:

As the person who knew Gary better than anyone I believe he would want me to tell you this: Hug your children a little tighter. Take time to be with God. Stop and be still. Fight for the things you believe in and never back down. To those who suffer depression and addiction, I believe he would remind you that your disease is relentless and to fight it with all you have. Tend to your recovery like a delicate garden watering it every day and rooting out the weeds immediately. He would tell you to not be ashamed of your disease. People with cancer and diabetes do not feel shame because of theirs nor should you. To his children he would say “I love you. Hold your head high, walk humbly with your God. Know who you are and what you were made for”. To everyone else, he would tell you to ALWAYS… ALWAYS vote republican.

Three weeks after you died an anonymous family stepped in and paid Emerson’s tuition to the Covenant School so that he could continue to attend. I was simply told a “family who loves our son wanted to be sure he could stay.” Of all the things I worried about, losing Covenant, the only school Emerson knew, was the one thing I did not want us to be without and God provided a way. They paid his tuition through graduation and now pay for his baby brother to attend.

I was able to stay in the house which was the best possible scenario for our boys. I would have preferred to move and not have to remember that day every single time I looked out the window or walked in the backyard but with Wesley’s autism it would not have been good for him. The boys needed stability. Their whole world changed on February tenth and I wanted some semblance of consistency for them.

Sometimes Wesley will look up to the sky and laugh and sign Daddy. It’s almost as if he’s talking to you and I honestly wonder sometimes if God allows you a moment to connect with Wesley. I hope He does because of everyone you left, I think I was most angry at you for leaving Wesley. He adored you and because of his profound cognitive impairment he just does not understand why you are not home with us. Sometimes he sees men in the store and will get excited, signing “Daddy” because he thinks it is you. He waits for you to come home still.

I did not get to grieve you the way I wish I could have. See, suicide leaves the us feeling betrayed and abandoned. I’ve spent the last eight years struggling with anger and abandonment and even “struggling” is too light of a word. It was a full blown war and each and every day I battled for my soul. I did not want to let bitterness overtake me though it tried. It is a formidable foe. But God…

To this day I find myself looking around the basement hoping to find a note. I desperately wanted one last goodbye. I wanted an explanation. I wanted to know why. I wanted anything other than nothing.

I have always found great solace that I left nothing unsaid. I am so grateful for the gift of our very last interaction. Perhaps part of your plan was to leave me with that last memory of us kneeling, holding hands, and praying together. I hope it was. We never truly know when the last thing we do or say will be the last thing. I certainly had no idea that saying “Amen” was the last thing we would do together and the last words I would hear you say. Thank you for that.

We had 17 years together, 42.5 percent of my life was with you. We saw time and time again God’s faithfulness and provision. We saw how allowing Him to work in our lives ultimately led to more glory for Him and a life for us that was more than we could have imagined.

Remember the time we closed on our home here? Your malpractice fell through the very next day and we were told you needed $20,000 in three days or you would not qualify. I remember you were in a panic because if we didn’t make the deadline it would be another year before you could get on a policy but we simply did not have that kind of money. We faced a year of no income and a brand new home. But then God showed up. The next day you checked the mail and found the letter from the hospital where Wesley had numerous stays. They received an insurance payment and were reimbursing us in the amount was $21,000. I remember we laughed and celebrated because not only did God provide what we needed, He gave us an extra grand. We trusted Him and believed He had a plan for us.

But not this time. I know with my whole heart that God was going to redeem our situation because that is His specialty. Instead of redeeming our lives He is redeeming mine.

When I married you in May of 1997 I meant the promise that we would grow old together. For a long time after you left I felt cheated. Being a widow at 40 was not what I signed up for and either was raising our boys without a father.

Every special event became bitter sweet. Emerson had some incredible achievements and at the recognition of each I looked at the chair beside me, either empty or someone else’s parent. I have had countless “you should have been here” moments and those moments do not get easier, not ever.

I had to make a conscious decision to forgive you. I would say the words but never really feel like I had forgiven you until now. For some reason this is the year that unforgiveness finally left me. I can’t be sure that I let it go. I never wanted it to accompany me so closely, breathing down my neck constantly. It just wouldn’t leave. I tried to chase it away. I tried to run from it. I laid it at the Cross but then would find it right at my side again. The process of praying constantly finally was made complete and unforgiveness along with anger quietly at some unknown moment left my side.

This is the year that my heart breaks to know that you were so hopeless that dying seemed like a better option than facing the next hour.

I remember when people would ask you how your wife was and you would always reply, “My wife? She is made of steel.” I think you knew that ultimately, I would be all right. You knew my steadfast faith and deep dependency on God. You knew that better than anyone. You were a witness to my life.

I’ve been helping with the Grief Share Ministry at my church. We come alongside those who have lost a loved one through death and hopefully minister and help them navigate this new world of grief. In the program they talk about ambush grief. It comes in the moments when out of nowhere and all of the sudden something triggers the grief and it comes pouring out. After 8 years I still am ambushed by grief, attacked just the other day. I was listening to Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah”. You loved that song but only when it was sung by Leonard Cohen for some reason. I’ve heard it a million times but this time when he sang the line:

“And even though it all went wrong I stand before the Lord of song with nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah”

I became inconsolable crying.

Because even though it all went wrong

and even though our family and an entire community were devastated

and even though your children have been left with a scar that will never fade and never go away

and even though you still had work yet to be done on this Earth

and even though two of your addiction patients died within weeks of you because they could not get the help they needed

and even though terrible things happened to me in the year after you left

and even though the weight of grief crippled me and I still had to carry our children

and even though there were countless times I was sure I would never, ever laugh again

and even though my dreams died with you in the woods

and even though I would cry myself to sleep and wake up crying for a long time

and even though the grief was intractable and unbearable and all consuming

and even though my heart will never be the same

and even though there were days it took everything in me just to breathe

and even though our children have a lifetime of work in order to heal

and even though there were times I hated you

and even though it felt like I was swimming through mud

and even though I will always grieve you and I am not sure if healing will ever be completed

and even though your death caused me to feel a level of excruciating I never knew existed

Hallelujah.

God was and is faithful.

Sometimes the miracle we want or expect is not the miracle we receive but one nonetheless. The miracle is I survived. The miracle is the boys will be alright. The miracle is I now have a fortitude built from dust. The miracle is I discovered for myself that every word about the character of God in the Bible is true. He keeps every promise forever. He is close to the broken hearted. He is my refuge, my strong tower, and my shelter. He is the defender of the widows and father to the fatherless. The miracle is He yields the power to turn tragedy into triumph and He did. The miracle is that I know why Jesus said those who mourn are blessed. The miracle is He gave purpose to my pain. The miracle is I did laugh again. The miracle is even though I am not who I once was I am becoming who I was meant to be not in spite of the tragedy but because of it. The miracle is Hallelujah.

I used get so angry when people would say, “He is in a better place” because you were not supposed to be there yet and I was not supposed to be cleaning up the mess. I would think of you dancing in Heaven with the angels and get furious. You were supposed to be dancing with me and our children for years to come. You were supposed to walk Leah down the aisle. We were supposed to be grandparents together. A lifetime of supposed to’s would never happen.

Now, though, on this day this year I smile. You are at peace. You are home. You are missed and you are loved still.

We are healing. We are carrying on. We hold to the promise that God will work all things, even this, for our good. We have seen that promise bear fruit and rejoice knowing there is more to come.

And I have nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah.

February 11, 2019
Of the Most High

The morning began in church. My new friends, Ann and Jim, found me and thanked me profusely for the clothes. I asked them to sit with me and they happily took seats. At the end of the service Ann put her hand on my back and lowered her head. She was praying for me. She who had nothing was praying for me and though I didn’t hear what her words were, I am quite certain it was the most beautiful prayer ever offered on my behalf.

I met Ann and Jim on Monday when my small group served dinner to those experiencing homelessness who were staying in our church for the week. After all the guests had a plate, I found a seat at their table. They shared with me their story of the last few months and how Jim had a medical crisis that left him out of work for a few months. The loss of income led to the loss of their home and the loss of their children. Thankfully, their kids were taken in by family but for some reason Ann and Jim were not. They each worked factory jobs. Ann complained that her hands hurt terribly from deboning chicken all day. I promised to return with some Tiger balm pain ointment to help.

As I drove home it occurred to me that I had unopened Tiger balm in my cabinet. It was there “just in case” but I had no imminent need for it. I had taken much too much for granted. This ointment stored in my cabinet that I did not even use was something another person desperately needed.

That night as I went to bed, I prayed differently than I normally do. I thanked God for my bed, my sheets, the heat in my house, the gas in my car, the clothes in my closet, the pantry filled with food, the Tiger balm in my cabinet. I thanked Him that I had the ability to anticipate unmet needs and I prayed for my new friends who could not meet existing needs.

There a million little things I take for granted each day and I am ashamed that it took meeting a couple who had only the clothes on their backs to remind me. But now, I will make an effort to not take them for granted and to be thankful for those million things that actually aren’t so little.

On Sunday evening some wonderful men from the church helped bring in the our popcorn machine from home. It was Superbowl Sunday and I thought popcorn would be necessary to have a proper party with the guests staying in my Father’s House. They began to come over before I even started the machine. I could tell it had been a while since they ate fresh popcorn like the kind from the movie theatre. They stood around and watched as the machine began pouring popcorn out of the kettle. I noticed one man looking a bit forlorn, not taking his eyes off the machine.

He looked up at me briefly and said, “When I was a kid there was one of these in our neighborhood hardware store,” and went back to gazing at the popcorn.

I wondered if that was a good memory or a bad one. Was he missing a simpler time when he had shelter and parents to care for him? Or was this a painful memory of a time that began the process that led him to the homeless shelter?

I could not know without prying so I just stood there in silence with him until I could hand him a bag of popcorn. He smiled, thanked me, and walked over to the soda table. Yet another luxury I take for granted. Soda. At the shelter they typically only have water or lemonade. It was a special occasion indeed because they had soda.

Dinner began with plenty of time to be sure everyone was settled by the time the Superbowl began. My mother made beef stew because, being an older Asian woman, she believes wholeheartedly that everyone needs a nutritious meal and pizza and wings do not cut it. The local Dominos donated 25 pizzas and 300 chicken wings were donated by two different restaurants. It was a feast.

I also brought jalapeno poppers and was surprised how many of the guests asked what they were. Most of them seemed to have never had them. My mind paused again. I usually eat them as an appetizer in a restaurant, another thing taken for granted. When was the last time I felt the full gratitude of being able to go into a restaurant and order not only a meal but an appetizer as well? Had I ever?

Eyes began to follow me as I put out the ice cream bar with all the fixings. These grown adults were like children making their own sundaes. It was a beautiful sight to see the laughing and giggling and, hopefully, forgetting the world if only for a brief moment.

Our culture is completely merit driven. We begin with our children, having them earn money from their chores. In school we earn good grades if we put in the work. As adults we earn raises or promotions. Often, who we are is entirely wrapped up in our ability to contribute something society deems “worthy.”

But what happens when you find yourself in a position to assist someone and you don’t know if they are able to receive it or are worthy as you imagine that to mean? As Christians, we do it anyway. Or we should do it anyway.

I have sat around tables with good Christian women who come up with a list of reasons they don’t give money or try to help those experiencing homelessness. “They just don’t want to work. They will just use it on drugs. They made poor decisions. They might be criminals. They have cell phones.”

And, honestly, I just want to scream. Jesus didn’t ask us to help those we deem worthy. He didn’t tell us to control what they do, only what we do. My ability to treat another with dignity, kindness, respect, and love has absolutely nothing to do with their ability to receive it.

During the week the shelter was at my church a hole was burned in my heart that there must more to being a disciple of Christ than just feeding the homeless for a week. Certainly, we are called to do more than put some food on their plate and send them to the next church. And the next. My belief system and my compassion demand more. If I am a child of the Most High I must do more.

I started small. I sat at dinner. I talked to them. I brought them clothes and gave them rides. Some became my friends. My youngest handed out “goodie bags” filled with candy and treats. We didn’t ask how or why they were homeless. We didn’t ask if they had a drug problem or owned a cell phone. We just showed them, I hope with all my heart, the love of Jesus. A love that is not based on who I am but who He is. A love I could never earn or deserve. A love despite my poor decisions, wanderings, and wickedness. A love that sees the lowest, nastiest parts of me and still does not cease. He pours out even more.

If I am a child of the Most High, how can I not endeavor to show the same?

February 4, 2019
Process of Becoming
I began taking ballet lessons when I was just three years old. I never could remember learning ballet just as I couldn’t remember learning to walk. It just always seemed to be.

By the time I was eleven years old I was taking classes five days a week. My muscles had been trained to the point that I had the “dancer waddle.” Indeed, my friends would tease me that I walked like a duck. My posture even when walking through the halls of school was as if I had a book on my head. I looked like a dancer even when I was not in the studio or on the stage.

As a young girl I would sit in complete awe and watch the older dancers raise to the tip of their toes on pointe. I studied them so that I might emulate their actions. I chose my heroes carefully.

In high school I would spend summers in New York City attending classes at various studios. I watched my diet to maximize energy and maintain the physique of a dancer. Dance had become an entire lifestyle and identity.

Every ballet class, whether as a beginner or a professional begins at the barre. The dancer holds on and begins with a demi-plie, the building block. It looks simple enough, from first position the dancer bends her knees. However, she must be sure she is not rolling her feet and that her hips are aligned. Her spine must be straight. Perfecting the plie at the barre is what will allow her to soar across the stage in a glorious grand jete. It is all interconnected and correct muscle memory is imperative. Learning to plie correctly will save her from injury and allow her leaps to be higher.

The transition from wobbly toddler to professional dancer in NYC took countless hours, sweat, blood, frustration, sacrifice, and above all determination. I fell a lot but I always got back up because there was nothing I loved more in life than dancing. To this day the only two things that have surpassed that passion are being a mother and being a child of God.

Life is full of processes of becoming. I became a dancer. I became a mother. My children will become men. I am becoming a disciple of Christ. In each transition, seemingly menial tasks build upon the next in order to train, strengthen, and build endurance. However, anything worth becoming is going to cost something. If chosen well, the worth is always greater than the cost.

My spiritual training echoes my ballet training. Both endeavors required commitment and perseverance. They have both demanded that I attended to my training even on the days when I did not feel like it or when I was too tired or would rather be doing a million other things. The certainty that it would all be worth it someday moved me through dry spells and frustrations.

I have had to train my spiritual muscles over many years by journaling, reading my Bible, attending and being an active participant in church, praying, being kind to the “least of these,” daily deciding to live as I profess to believe, choosing my hero carefully and emulating Him. Just as I did not begin ballet lessons and suddenly become a proficient dancer, I did not give my life to Christ and suddenly become a disciple. Though given the name “Christian” I was not a true follower. I could not have been because the process had only just begun. It still has not yet been completed but I have dedicated my mind, my heart, and my will to submit to the process of becoming.

The process of becoming means I must trust the process which necessarily requires patience. I must know on a soul level that every motion, every journal entry, every spiritual ache, every cry out to God, every prayer, every act of kindness and compassion will build upon another leading to the glorious day when I am who I was meant to be.

My hope is that, as with ballet where people could tell that I was a dancer by the way I carried myself people will know to whom I belong by the way I carry myself now and not just by where I sit Sunday morning. Has my spiritual life become my identity and an all encompassing life style? Can people around me tell I have trained my muscles to function differently than they did before? Is my Teacher proud to call me His student?

God is the initiator and perfecter of my faith. He began the good work but it is up to me to train so that I might grow until it is finished. It is up to me to never cease the process of becoming.
January 29, 2019
My Father’s Voice

When I was a child and would ask my father the definition of a word he would never give me the answer. He would present me with another question.
“What do you think it means?” he would ask me.
I would reply “I don’t know. That is why I am asking.”
His next statement was always the same, everytime. “I will use it in a sentence.” After doing so he would pause and after a moment he would ask again “What do you think it means?”
I despised this routine. I just wanted him to tell me. I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want to have to figure it out. I just wanted the answers given to me. But I thought as a child. My father knew that I would learn the word better if I figured it out myself. He knew that he was training my brain to think. Though he could have given me the answer he gave me something even more valuable – the ability to find it myself.
When I became a mother and my oldest child first asked me a meaning of a word without even thinking I looked at him and said “What do you think it means?” I heard my father’s voice as I spoke his truth. The awful, wonderful, frustrating tradition continued.
When I find myself facing struggles and difficulties I will often ask God what does this mean? Just like my other father, He never just tells me the answer. He doesn’t say “My child, you are to learn to love well” or “I am training you to be strong for something else entirely that I know you will face” or “You need to show this person who drives you crazy who my Son is.”

God sits silent and in that silence I hear Him say, “What do you think it means?”
So often in life I am still very much like that child only now my father’s voice is my heavenly Father’s voice. I try to not ask him “why” something is happening. I learned long ago that the answer does not come and even if it did, how would that make any of it any better or the pain any less potent? Why was my child born with special needs? Why did my husband kill himself? Why must I raise my boys void of a father-figure?

Somethings must be born from the struggle. I am convinced struggle is a different soil. When watered with tears and sweat it will bear fruit that would, simply, not come to fruition any other way.

I zero in on the “What does this mean?” and “How will this define me?” and “How can this transform me?” questions.
I suspect that God wants me to truly, earnestly, and vehemently learn the lessons that He will bring out of horrible, difficult, impossible situations. Romans 8:28 is a Bible verse we who follow know well.
“And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to His purpose.”

But we often stop at that verse perhaps because it fits neatly on a coffee mug or book mark. However, it is the next verse that, to me, solves the mystery of what I am supposed to learn and exactly why and how God works all things for good…
²⁹For those whom He foreknew He also predestined to be conformed to the image of His Son, in order that he might be the firstborn among many brothers.

To be conformed to the image of His Son…

He doesn’t work all things for good so that we can have nicer cars or promotions or Facebook perfect lives. The answer to the “what does this mean” question is never something my flesh would crave but something my spirit desperately needs. It is so that I will be more like Jesus. The kicker is, I have to let Him. I have to be willing to zero in on things of eternal import.

Why was my child born with special needs? I do not know. What have I learned from it? Patience, resolve, kindness, perseverance, how to choose joy, unconditional love, and the list goes on. Why did the heartache of my husband’s death pass through God’s hands and why did He allow it to happen? I do not know that either. What have I learned from it? God is faithful. He is close to the broken hearted. He is the defender of the widow. His promises are true. He restores what was lost, perhaps not in the way we expect or desire, but we are blessed by the restoration. That list goes on as well.

I believe that God sits in silence sometimes even when I am the child demanding answers precisely because the answer must be attained so that I can learn it on a soul level. It must be ingrained into who I am so that it is natural for me to take what I have learned and utilize it with confidence because it is mine. I have ownership. I can use it to help others and I can allow God to use it to transform me ever so gradually into the image of His beloved Son. As Christians, that is the ultimate goal after all…to hear our Father’s voice and be transformed, glory to glory.

January 16, 2019
God’s Mirror

“God, let me see her the way You see her,” is a prayer I use, often when I just don’t understand someone or, honestly, find it challenging to like her. But what if I began praying “God, let me see myself the way You see me”?

My mirror is broken from words spoken, experience, lies, fear, and disappointments. But God’s mirror is perfect and in it I can find freedom and power.

I would challenge us each to ask God to let us see what He sees and maybe we can begin to discover who we are in Him

September 29, 2018
A Good Deal

I love a good deal. I actually get a little bit of an adrenaline rush when I find something worth much more than I have to pay. This Scripture seems like a good deal. I just have to give my trust and I receive complete joy and peace plus the added bonus of overflowing hope through the power of the Holy Spirit.

I am inclined to believe, however, that the trust I need to give Him in order to receive all those wonderful things has to be absolute and complete. It has to be with my whole heart, all my mind, and from the depths of my soul.

To me trust is a choice. When someone is deemed worthy of my trust I can give it to them. But often, at least in my earthly relationships, I give trust in varying degrees. I can trust a friend’s recipe for meatloaf but perhaps not that she will keep a secret. I can trust a man with my time but perhaps not my heart. In fact, when I think about it I struggle to find anyone I trust unabashedly.

Trusting another completely necessarily requires a leap of faith that can feel impossible for several reasons. Foremost to me, trust leaves me vulnerable. Years of time on earth has left me hurt countless times, sometimes to my core. A self-defense mechanism built in from experience is to reserve some trust just in case that person fails me. It is almost as if I can use it for a cushion to catch me when I fall.

Trusting another also requires relinquishing control. Once we gift someone with our trust we cannot control what they will do with that so there is much wisdom in determining who is worthy. We gain wisdom by being in a relationship with that person. It comes over time and realizing through observation that the person is reliable and trustworthy. It would be foolish to trust someone you have only just met with your checkbook, we should not with our hearts which are so much more valuable.

Often one does not trust completely because of a lie that was spoken into one’s life that now is believed as truth. Were you told you were too quiet or too loud? Were you made to feel unlovable or somehow inadequate? Were you abandoned? Was a parent overly critical? Did your spouse make you feel ugly? Was he unfaithful?

The wonderful news is that God does none of those things. He is flat out crazy about you. If you are quiet or loud He wants you to use that for His Glory. He will never leave or forsake you. He thinks you’re the most beautiful person He has ever created. He is faithful.

When I feel my trust in Him waver, I remember that I know, I really know who He was, who He is, and who He will be. I remember that “God has and He will”. He has comforted me in times of trouble and He will. He has provided all my needs and He will. He has redeemed my situation and He will. He has worked all things for good and He will. I choose to believe and trust He is who He says He is and who I have seen Him to be. He does not change and He does not fail.

I can look to the Bible or my own life to know the character of God because I spend time with Him. What would my relationship with my children look like if I only spent a few minutes with them a day? What if I only talked to them when I needed something? What if I never put my phone down long enough to listen to them? How is God any different?

One of my favorite conversations from the Bible is in Mark 9. A father is pleading with Jesus to help his son after the disciples were not able.

The spirit often throws him into the fire or into water, trying to kill him. Have mercy on us and help us, if you can.”

“What do you mean, ‘If I can’?” Jesus asked. “Anything is possible if a person believes.”

The father instantly cried out, “I do believe, but help me overcome my unbelief!”

I find so much solace that this man who is actually talking to Jesus has unbelief. Naturally, I imagine his disappointment with the disciples inability to help left room for doubt in Jesus. Was he judging the power of God to be lacking because of the failure of man?

How often do I ask God to help me with those three words that can change the entire request…if you can? The difference between, “God, give me strength” versus “God, give me strength if you can” is the difference between knowing God is able and wondering if God is able. I see it, I am sure He does as well.

Is it possible to believe in God but not trust Him? I think it is. Believe is defined as “accept (something) as true; feel sure of the truth of” whereas trust is “firm belief in the reliability, truth, ability, or strength of someone or something.” To me, trusting is so much more than believing.

When I really read that definition I realize that no one is more worthy of my complete trust than God. He is reliable, truthful, able, and strong. In fact, He is the only one.

I encourage you and myself to cry out as the father in Mark 9 does and replace the word believe with trust. Make this a heartfelt prayer.

“I do trust, but help me overcome my lack of trust!”

Then, and only then can God fill us completely with joy and peace, overflowing with confident hope. Then, the power of the Holy Spirit can be revealed in and through us. Now that, my friends, is a pretty good deal.

September 22, 2018
I Fly Still

It seems for an entire year I have been grappling with the reality that my oldest, Emerson, is leaving. Indeed, tonight is his last night left under this roof until he moves to a new world in a new state in a new city, hours from home. For the past year I have mourned every last as his senior year unfolded – the last convocation, last performance, last Chapel, last dance. I have cried countless tears. Yet I have been giddy with excitement for his emerging chapter and know with utmost certainty he will thrive in college. I struggle with trying to remember another time in which I have been simultaneously bereaved and overjoyed during the same season, sometimes the same second. It is every maternal emotion converging as I prepare myself to let him go.

We love looking to eagles as metaphors. The school Emerson attended from kindergarten through graduation has an eagle for a mascot. In the Bible, Isaiah 40:31 tells us

But those who trust in the LORD will find new strength. They will soar high on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary. They will walk and not faint.

Eagles are noble creatures. They are strong and fierce. They fly above the storm. When their little ones are reluctant to leave the nest they will stir it up. They take away the soft coating and leave twigs sticking out. It must be more uncomfortable for the babies to stay before they will leave. Those babies were not meant to live in the nest. Indeed, they were born to soar.

The word soar is defined as: to fly high in the air; to increase rapidly above the usual level. It necessarily requires a dramatic change. For the last year I have been thinking about Emerson soaring away from me and it breaks my heart. I have searched desperately to find how my child leaving my house is a good thing for me. I know all the reasons it is the best thing for him. In my imagination, I am watching him from the ground as he flies away. Just this morning it occurred to me that my image is faulty. I am not on the ground. I fly still.

As mothers I think we forget sometimes that we have wings purposed for our own use. So much of our time in flight is dedicated to the growth of our children and I believe it should be. Then the day comes when they need us to fly for them less…and less…and less but our wings still long to.

After all, my wings still work. I still yet have the opportunity to soar. Perhaps in the flying he and I will enjoy new ways of embracing our world. Our environment will go from a nest to the entire world. We will both grow. We will both experience a rapid change in level , upward. We will fly, at times, in tandem. We will begin to see the world from the same altitude. He will see things I have told him of but he could only imagine because from his vantage point they simply were not visible.

This is the answer to my prayer and my grieving heart. My child is not leaving me. He is learning to fly with and around me. And though life may have him fly further from the nest than I would like, he will be flying.

So, dear son, fly…let your heart soar as high as it will.

So will I.

August 25, 2018
Waves

I was at Topsail Island, North Carolina last week. At the very last-minute, I came across a round, blue home that had not been booked the very week I needed it. The home was half price and right on the beach. It would be our last vacation before my oldest leaves for his freshman year in college and my youngest begins kindergarten. It will be an autumn of change and letting go, in varying degrees, for me.

Listening to the sound of the crashing waves and the ocean air puts my soul at rest like nothing else. I love being places where I can see with utmost clarity how small I really am. Standing at the shore gives me perspective, humility, and awe. It draws me closer to the One who created it.

On our first day here, my six-year-old Nathan was terrified of the waves. I’m sure to a little one they are overwhelmingly large and powerful. Indeed, when I crouched down to his size I could see how much larger the waves appeared. Fearful, he would not go in any further than his shins.

By the second day he went in further but had to be holding on to me the entire time. He wrapped his little arms around my neck as if his life depended on it. It was a balancing act that challenged these old bones but I managed to keep our heads above the water.

On the third day he became a little more brave. We went in where it was above his head and he let go of me but insisted I hold on to him. He began laughing and giggling as the waves crashed over us. Every once in a while he would check to be sure I was holding his life jacket. He felt safe because he knew I was there.

By the fourth day there my little guy found his courage. He began to swim away from me and tackle the waves on his own. For quite a while I stood behind him to be sure he would not get swept away. I watched with wonder as he figured out when to jump and when to dive. As we both gained confidence I could stop worrying that he would not be able to handle the waves. I even began jumping in with him. We laughed and played together. He would make sure I was alright when the waves overtook me. He even began to help me back up.

But the day will come all too soon when he, like his oldest brother Emerson who is in this picture, will face the waves without me. He will use what he has learned to, with daring, go in on his own.

Seemingly just yesterday this man would not let go of me. In 10 days I will take him to New York City to begin his freshman year at New York University. He will face unknown seas. He will push through anxiety and fear. He will learn and adjust. He will find his balance. He will stumble. He will excel. He will live life in a way, up until this point, he has not known.

He is a strong swimmer. He will never give up. I just pray he has the wisdom to know when to jump over, into, under and with the waves. He faces them now with me on the shore, still watching and cheering him on but no longer right at his side. I am close enough to help if he needs but far enough for him to find his own rhythm. He will likely experiment in finding his own way but I know the foundation of what has been taught. I know his muscle memory will carry him even if he doesn’t know it.

As he ventures in, some of the waves will catch him and pull him under but he will stand back up. Life taught him well. He has the strength and endurance because at such a tender age the waves of suicide and grief came crashing in and could have overtaken him but God would not allow it. Though at times we fought what felt like tsunamis, his arms were around me as mine were around our Father’s neck.

So go forth with boldness, my sweet son. Dive deep. Float on your back. Soak in the sun and dance in the rain. Know how and when to conquer your waves. If you are going to be tossed in them, you might as well smile. Choose joy. Choose love. Choose well.

Breathe deeply. Let your heart be soft. Fall madly in love but always come home for Thanksgiving. Be careful with other people’s hearts. Hold them tenderly. Look for those who might need help as they are caught in waves. Take their hands and swim with them. Help them stand. Let them see the hope that they too can be unconquerable.

Be brave. Find your own stride. Make mistakes but learn from them. Everything is redeemable and nothing is wasted. I could never love you less. Come home and rest. Run home for refuge. You are not alone. You are my heart and the bond that was forged before you even knew air shall never ever waver.

To use your own words:

“The life we anticipated wasn’t the one we got, and for a while we were at sea, enduring tempests of abandonment and loss. It is easy to look at us – a widow, a divorced grandmother, three fatherless sons and say we don’t have a home. But we do. We have the same scars, same fears, and the same hopes because we’ve been battered by the same storms, and we all sail on the same tattered but triumphant ship… Home is imperfect people challenging each other’s imperfections because beyond the scars and gnarls and twists, they see something true and beautiful in each other, something beyond what the world has done to them, something that can never be taken away. Home is the shelter of the human soul. We all want to go home.”

You will find other homes. My prayer is that you find your description of home many times in many people. But know, dear son, that my heart is a steadfast home for you. It is tattered but triumphant. It is worn but soft. It is strong. It is your always home until I draw my last breath.

If anyone was ever ready to swim alone, it is you. The world awaits. The world needs you so desperately. Swim, my son. Swim with all your heart and as if you have nothing to prove and nothing to lose.

For even the wind and waves know His Name. And He knows yours. He knows it well.

August 17, 2018