Patience to Endure

Tag: Christian

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.

April 2, 2020
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?

February 21, 2020
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

April 12, 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
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
Embracing Our Brokenness

I recently had the honor of sharing my testimony with the Ministry for Women at my church. The audio is below.

I’m sharing mostly because friends had asked to hear but, honestly, I can’t figure out how to share it with anyone who does not have gmail.

At any rate, this is part of my story. I hope it blesses His heart

August 16, 2018
The Maintenance Man

I pulled up to the massive school. The outside was pristine and beautiful but I could not tell where the entrance was to the theater. As I drove around the building for the second time I noticed a maintenance man wrestling with a ladder so I rolled down my window.

“Excuse me, I’m trying to find the main entrance,” I said.

He looked confused.

“My son is performing today. Where is the theatre in this school?”

He looked at me and then glanced around the school.

“Ya know, I’ve been here ten years and I have no idea. I always work on the outside. We never go inside,” he said almost apologetically.

I drove away and around the building another time when I finally noticed the camp counselors trying to direct parents but the man’s words stayed with me.

For ten years he only worked on the outside of the building. He never went inside.

I arrived early and those who know me will attest that is not unusual. I found the restroom and was surprised to see the state of the inside of the school. The pipes were rusty and paint was peeling. It did not at all match the near perfect outside.

When the outside is glorious an expectation that the inside is equally marvelous is created. Inevitably, disappointment creeps in as you begin to see that the inside does not match the outside, not even close.

I believe there is a pervasive notion in the Christian world that our outside needs to appear perfect. For, if we love Jesus we must have it “all together.” We can spend an entire decade caring for the outside without ever stepping inside. We aren’t sure what rooms are even in our hearts. We never peer in ourselves, let alone allow others the opportunity to see the messiest of our rooms.

In a complete moment of honesty, I would say most of us have mismatched exteriors and interiors. I know I do. Like the maintenance man I met, so much attention and detail is given to what others can see and I push things under the bed and into dusty corners. Eventually, though, someone will either be invited in or, perhaps, wander.

He will ask about a room in my heart and I’ve spent so much time neglecting it, I’m not even sure where it is or how to get there. Unlike other guests, He knows exactly where the rooms are and what is in them.

“It is this way,” He says, “let’s clean it up.”

He opens the door and I can’t see anything but clutter. I see broken pieces everywhere.

“It is too messy,” I tell Him.

He picks up a piece.

“We can do this, one piece at a time,” He reassures me.

Gradually because of His patience and my perseverance, the room is livable.

He leads me to the next room and opens the door.

“I don’t want to clean this one,” I tell Him trying to shut the door. “This is where I keep my secrets.”

“We must. Do you not see how much they have grown? They only gain in power in this darkness. They will bust out the windows and the doors. They will overtake the entire house. We must make room for what I want to put here but it is a big job. You will need help for this one, someone to come along side you. Someone who will check on the progress and help keep you on task. Let’s bring in a friend who will stay with you,” He tells me lovingly as He throws open the shades.

We have been working so much on the inside that the outside is starting to look worn. I ask Him if we can work on the outside, the part people see.

“It is all right,” He tells me. “We are making them match.”

It is a long, painstaking process. Room by room He opens the doors and shows me what needs to be done. Sometimes I am obedient. Other times I fight Him. Eventually, I surrender.

Some rooms stay neat and orderly. Others require constant dusting and arranging. He shows me each time what needs to be done.

The outside becomes more worn as the inside becomes more inviting. My exterior begins to match my interior. I open the doors, unashamed of the outer appearance and the interior’s condition. It is ready for guests to enter. It is ready for others to see. I am ready to share how, by the Grace of God and love of Christ, my house is restored. I share with them what it looked like before so they can know how it came to look as it does. I tell them I might need assistance keeping the rooms tidy. I ask for help. I offer to help with theirs.

Like every house, though, constant maintenance is required. Now, however, I don’t leave the maintenance man outside. I invite Him in. Each and every day.

July 2, 2018
Two Crosses

As Easter approaches I have been thinking about the Cross. To the Romans, at that time, it was a means to inflict the most shame and send a resounding message of defeat. They had several methods of capital punishment but reserved crucifixion to leave a lingering message to their enemies. It was the most painful and disgraceful punishment in an arsenal that included strangulation, stoning, and burning.

Yet the lingering message the crucifixion of Jesus was not what the Romans intended. As Christians we do not see shame, defeat, or disgrace when we look at a Cross, the symbol of our faith. We see redemption and resurrection. We see victory. We see love so great that even death could not consume it.

Growing up in the Christian world I have heard, “we all have our cross to bear” countless times. In Luke 9:23 Jesus says “And He said to all, If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me.”

However, “we all have our cross to bear” was almost always said to me with a negative connotation. We use it when discussing hardship or challenge. The image it would immediately bring to my mind is Jesus carrying His cross up that hill to die.

But what if that is the wrong image of the cross I bear? Am I thinking of the Roman cross or Jesus’ Cross? Upon the Roman cross is nailed a punishment but upon my Jesus’ cross there is an invitation, the sweetest of proposals. What man meant for torture and shame only by the power of God was transformed to give life and promises both for now and eternity. What was meant to kill a movement changed the entire world and every heart for those who truly believe.

My thoughts about the cross of Jesus turn to my own personal cross. What is that one thing that was meant to, or could have, destroyed me but by the power and Grace of a loving God became my triumph?

I live in a complicated, beautiful world of special needs and autism. I can’t recall the specific moment I went from being a timid, frightened mother to a banner waving, “wohoo special needs is awesome” kind of mom. It was a natural progression and at some indescribable moment the cross I carried was transformed from a death sentence to a life promise. I discovered that the cross I bear doesn’t have to be the one society gave me but must be the one God intended for me.

My mind and my heart made the decision that my cross would represent life and love and power. My faith allowed God the opportunity to give me the ability to accomplish this. Special needs could have destroyed who I was instead of transforming me into who I was meant to be.

Make no mistake, it is a difficult world in which we who love someone with special needs live. We often feel isolated and different because we are. Other mother’s of teenagers are busy going to basketball games or track meets. I am going to every sensory friendly event offered and doctor appointments with every specialist. I am often exhausted. Everything others take for granted can be and often is an overwhelming challenge to my family.

It is not easy. It is impossible to not be changed by living in the world of special needs. It is possible to decide what sort of change will take place.

The world in which we live is colorful. It is filled with hugs and joy. It isn’t about the fact that my son cannot speak, it is about the fact that he speaks with no words. Everything others take for granted can be and often is an overwhelming victory for my family. It is life amplified. The lows are heartbreaking but the highs are found in heights I could only appreciate by having a child like mine.

I do not choose whether or not I will bear a cross, I choose what my cross looks like and how I carry it. I decide whether or not it will represent shame and disgrace or the glorious promise that God works all things for good. I alone can cast my eyes down in despair or raise my chin and hold my head high.

What is the cross you must bear? Is it abandonment? Your addiction? The death of a loved one? A medical diagnosis? Mental health struggles? Guilt? Will it be a cross of shame that you hang upon despondent and alone? Or will it be a cross of promise for all to see and perhaps extract hope for themselves?

The important part to remember is the cross you bear doesn’t have to be a cross of disgrace just because society deems it so. It can become the cross of redemption, resurrection, and victory because God deems it so. He deemed it on Calvery and He deems it in your situation.

It is entirely up to you to choose which cross you will carry. The rest is up to God and He never fails.

March 21, 2018
Find the K’s

I bought Nathan, my five-year-old, a workbook to reinforce his pre-k lessons regarding learning letters. One of the exercises required him to circle all the letter k’s from letters randomly thrown across the page. Once that was complete he was to connect the circles to reveal the picture. He had a role to play and had to put effort into the exercise.

I watched as my son examined the letters with the tenacity of a scientist. He carefully circled each k he could find. I gazed down at the page and could easily see what the picture would be . From an adult’s mind there was no great mystery to be revealed but to a child it was entirely unknown.

Halfway through circling the k’s he looked up at me with his gigantic blue eyes.

“What is it going to be, Mommy?” he asked.

“Keep working baby,” I told him. “You will see”.

He could not decipher the image as it slowly unfolded. I could have just told him, “Oh it’s a kitten with a kite” and ruined the surprise for him. I could have given him the information and all his hard work would have been for nothing. Giving him the answer would not have helped him learn the lesson brought before him. Instead, I waited patiently as he continued seeking.

A few moments later he looked at me and said “Mommy I want to circle some of the n’s for Nathan” as he circled one.

I gently remind him that was not the task at hand. If he circled the n’s he would not see the picture that was intended. I helped him refocus on what he was supposed to do but I did not condemn him. I did not yell at him for becoming distracted. I gently nudged him back to where he was supposed to be. It was entirely up to him to listen or not.

“But I circled one,” he told me with discouragement.

“It’s ok, we can erase it and pretend like it never happened,” I said taking the pencil from him to rid his mistake.

“Thank you,” he replied sweetly as I kissed him on the head.

Once he finished his eyes lit up with utter joy and excitement.

“It is a kitten flying a kite!” he screamed.

At that moment I limited myself to join him on his level and said with equal excitement and surprise, “It is! Well done!”

I was not condescending even though I knew all along what the picture would reveal. I genuinely was thrilled. I applauded the effort and relished his sense of accomplishment.

How often is this the scene from my life? I know what I am supposed to be doing. I am searching for my k’s so that I might connect the dots and see the mystery unfold before me. Some days I can be tenacious and other days I am rather lazy. Some days all of the k’s stand out and I can clearly see the direction to take. Yet other days life is such a jumbled mess I cannot see with clarity. I have times when trying to put order to the chaos is overwhelming and I am sure it will never be more than a complete mess.

Even so, God is standing over me. He is encouraging me to keep on trying. He knows what the picture will be. Not only can He already see it, He created it. He knows that upon completion I will be ecstatic with what has been given to me. He lowers Himself as any good parent would and is just as excited as I am when the final picture is revealed. He may even exclaim, “Well done!”

But I get distracted. I want to wander from what I am meant to do to what I want to do. My focus is diverted to something that does not contribute to the beautiful picture being created for me. I misstep. It is corrected, blotted out by a loving and gracious parent. He tells me, “It is ok. We can pretend as if that never happened. I erased it for you already.”
He gently nudges me to continue. He tells me that though it doesn’t make sense right now, with each next step the picture will become a little clearer.

I persist. The more k’s I circle the fewer letters there are to sort through. It becomes easier and easier for me to find another one and then another. I just do the next right thing.

I rejoice in the accomplishment when the picture is complete. I can finally see how my hard work with God’s guidance and Grace has created for me beauty from chaos. I thank Him for His love and encouragement. He kisses me on the head. With the eagerness of a child I say, “May I have another one?” and He happily hands me a new page.

March 18, 2018
It is in the letting go…

I had a good cry this morning. And this afternoon. And this evening. I am facing the reality that in two months my oldest son, Emerson, will graduate from high school. He will finally spread his wings and in August will fly straight to NYC.

Today I found myself wishing I could be more like eagles. When their young are ready to leave the nest the mother eagles will “stir up the nest” and make it uncomfortable for the babies to stay where they are. She will change the composition of the home from a safe, comfortable nest by scratching the soft layer away leaving only rocks and twigs exposed. The discomfort for the babies to stay where they are becomes greater than the fear of flying where they need to be. Something in the mother’s DNA knows when it is time for them to leave. She knows that only by testing their wings will they actually soar. It is instinctual for her to let them go for she knows the strength of those wings will allow her babies to fly even above the storm. They will know not to try to fly through it. They rise above.

There is absolutely nothing instinctual to me about having my child leave home. It goes against every way in which I have been created. Yet this mother’s heart knows Emerson is more than ready. I, however, am not. When he was little I knew that my time with him was fleeting. I savored every moment as if in doing so it would slow down time. It didn’t.

Wasn’t it only yesterday I rocked him to sleep in my arms while singing “someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection…”? Surely it was last week he was pushing his little cart through the grocery store. He was my shadow and followed me everywhere, even to the bathroom. Wasn’t it only last month he would proudly collect dandelions from the yard and present me with the most beautiful bouquet ever?

He and I have weathered ferocious storms together. He stayed with me and hospitals several times while his brother laid in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. When his father died a little boy tried to become the man of the house. His self-imposed burden to do so and to be the child with no needs was and is exhausting and I am happy his load will be lightened. I am joyful in knowing that he will begin to become who he was meant to be absent of the every day trials our family faces. Only the pursuit of his dreams awaits my sweet son and this brings me solace even in the midst of grieving.

Unlike his father’s death, though, I see this loss coming. This time I see the mountain in the distance and don’t find myself suddenly at it’s base. We are heading there slowly and steadily and part of me wishes I could just hit the brakes and keep him little forever.

The hardest part of motherhood is not the runny noses and fevers. It is not the temper tantrums and eye rolls. It isn’t the sleepless nights, exhaustion, or endless “to do” lists.

It is in the letting go.

The process of breaking off a piece of my own heart so that my son may be whole is the biggest, most difficult challenge I have faced as a mother. It is necessary and I knew the end goal when I signed up for motherhood. Yet I did not think it would come so soon or so painfully.

Preparing for my son to leave the nest is somewhat like a death. As Christians we believe when our loved ones die they go not just to a better place, they are in Paradise. The sadness we feel, the grief, is for what we miss and for what we lost. We don’t grieve where they are, we grieve that we were left behind. Emerson will be exactly where he belongs. He will discover who he is and begin his quest toward his greatness, whatever that looks like. He will meet new friends and his mind will expand further than he ever imagined. But I will be in the same house and it will be quieter. I will no longer attend functions at the upper school and see the moms I have grown to love over the last 13 years. I will not tap on his door just to say “I love you.” I will not sit at the kitchen table every night dunking cookies in milk and solving the world’s problems with him. Surely, a piece of my heart will be gone.

Parenthood, when done well, is about sacrificial love. It is consistently putting our needs aside and attending to our children. I have eighteen years of learning and growing in sacrificial love. This, however, is the greatest and most painful sacrifice. It is accompanied by excitement in the promises yet to unfold for him but some days those just aren’t enough to keep grief at bay. Days like today it simply hurts. Days like today I feel the breaking of my own heart. Days like today I hate time for going so fast and my powerlessness to stop it. Days like today I can only mourn the letting go.

March 14, 2018