Patience to Endure

Tag: Christian

  • It Isn’t Just Walmart

    It Isn’t Just Walmart

    I ventured out for the first time in almost two weeks since my precious son passed away. We drove to a Walmart 30 minutes from our home, one he did not go to on our daily outings. I thought it might be easier. I thought wrong. Walmart is Walmart.

    We walked in. Deep breath. Two more steps. Exhale. I can do this. I can grocery shop.

    I glanced to my left and saw the bakery section. We used to pick out muffins and cakes to mix with his pudding. He loved lemon, red velvet, and chocolate. My heart sees him lying in bed. He increasingly and aggressively signs pudding as his patience waiting for it wore thin. The boy could yell at me in sign language. How he loved food.

    Deep breath. Two more steps. Exhale.

    The tears fill my eyes.

    Steve, my husband, wraps his arms around me. “I am here,” he whispers.

    The tears are almost uncontrollable now.

    Grocery shopping felt like a violation, a betrayal, a foreign country. It has been years since I went without pushing him in his wheelchair. Almost a quarter of a century talking to him constantly and asking his opinion about choices. Decades of playing “Woah Wesley” when he was ready to go but I still needed to shop. He would from angry screaming to laughing without taking a breath. Only he could turn an ordinary trip to Walmart into a joy filled, love tossing extravaganza.

    A woman came up to us not too long ago in a Walmart.

    “Can I give him something?” she asked.

    She must have seen the confusion on my face because she continued.

    “I have been watching you and your son. I have never seen someone so full of love and so loved. I just want him to have something. I have this gift card. Will you buy him something?” she asked.

    We hugged. That was the magic of Wesley. His presence, his joy, his love could leave two people hugging in Walmart, grateful to have crossed paths and being forever changed by it.

    Wesley picked out a “Bluey” hooded sweatshirt with the gift card. It sits untouched now in a drawer I cannot open. Not yet.

    The tears now are uncontrollable.

    “We can go back to the car,” Steve tells me as I cry on his shoulder.

    “I have to do this. I have to learn,” I tell him even though I wanted nothing more than to run to the car, cry, and never go to Walmart again.

    The pain, I knew, would be there today, tomorrow, next month. Time would not make unentangling myself any easier had it been postponed.

    The grief inside me was irrepressible. I quickly walked to the bathroom, closed the door, and collapsed sobbing.

    It wasn’t the first time I cried in a bathroom over Wes…

    When Wesley was three weeks old Gary, my (now deceased) first husband, and I along with Wesley and his older brother, Emerson, traveled to Omaha, Nebraska to see Dr. Bruce Buehler. He was board certified in pediatrics, pediatric genetics and pediatric endocrinology. If anyone could tell us what Wesley’s diagnosis was, we hoped, it was Dr. Buehler.

    The nurse showed us to a very large room with a small table for the children to play, some books, and an exam table in the corner. I sat at the little table next to Emerson, then two and a half, as he watched Shrek on his portable DVD player. How I wished I could be as he was, oblivious to the gravity of the situation.

    I could hear cowboy boots coming from down the hall. The sounds grew louder as he turned the corner, entered the room, and with a smile stuck out his hand to greet us.

    “Dr. Buehler,” Gary said extending his hand.

    “Call me Bruce. No one calls me Dr. Buehler except my wife and that is only when she wants me to take out the trash,” he said with a deep belly laugh.

    He motioned to the table and we sat down as he opened Wesley’s thick chart. By the time we found our way to Omaha the list of abnormalities discovered within Wesley had grown. New doctors had been introduced and before he was even three weeks old Wesley already had a pediatric urologist, neurologist, cardiologist, and gastroenterologist. He had a social worker, a speech therapist, and an occupational therapist. I had to purchase an expandable accordion file to keep track of all his medical needs. The fuller the file became the emptier my heart felt realizing how much my tiny baby had already been through and was yet to face.

    A colleague of Dr. Buehler’s joined us and they asked me to place Wesley on the exam table. As a mechanic inspects a car, they examined every inch of his little body.

    “He has a high arch and cleft palate. Did you know that?” the other physician asked.

    I shook my head somberly no. Another anomaly.

    They excused themselves to confer. Shrek played. His father and I could not speak. We knew when they came back in through the door, our lives would forever be altered.

    After roughly twenty minutes they returned with two textbooks in their hands. Dr. Buehler flipped open the gigantic, blue book. With delicacy he looked at each of us and said,

    “We believe your son has Rubinstein-Taybi Syndrome.”

    Syndrome.

    The room began spinning. Words became incomprehensible even though we walked in that office suspecting he had a syndrome. Gary was a maternal fetal medicine specialist. They had a “rule of thumb” when it came to anomalies. One was probably nothing. Two might be something. Three was almost always a syndrome. Wes had more than three, but when it was confirmed by a triple board-certified physician my entire world collapsed. As if hope, no matter how small, was the only reason my world continued to spin in the only direction I had ever known.

    Then he said it. Syndrome. An obscure, uncommon Syndrome.

    The clinical definition is “a group of signs and symptoms that tend to occur together and characterize a particular condition.” The emotional definition in my heart was “unknown everything” and it was scary. It was world shattering.

    I could not have known then that the words he spoke would actually be my greatest blessing. It would bring me immense heart ache but also extraordinary joy. It would shape me into a better mother, wife, daughter, friend and human being. Later I would pinpoint that one sentence as the moment in time I began to become who I was meant to be. As it was happening, however, the only thing I could feel was utterly and completely crushed.

    I excused myself to the restroom just across the hall. Closing and locking the door behind me I collapsed to the ground sobbing. How could my life, I wondered, have changed so dramatically and drastically in the amount of time it takes to hear a single sentence? I stayed curled up on the cold, bathroom floor for a while weeping for all I lost. My dreams and my family’s future, I thought, were gone. I could not imagine I would dream new dreams and be given a future far more glorious than one I could have ever created for myself. But hope, you see, had not yet been born.

    How I wish I could speak to that scared, heart broken mother there on the floor with all the wisdom I have found over the last twenty something years. I would say…

    Hope is coming. Hold on. This child will be your greatest teacher without ever speaking a word. In his weakness you will find your strength. You will be his voice and fight for him with all you have. You will reach a new level of exhaustion. You will want to give up. But then you will persevere. You will become a better mother, daughter, and friend because he was born exactly as he is. This isn’t the worst day of your life. This is the day you become who you were meant to be. Grieve because you have lost a significant dream. But then get up. You’ve got work to do.

    After a few minutes I gathered myself, wiped away the mascara that was running down my face, and returned to the exam room.

    “Will he be mentally retarded?” I asked with a whisper. (That was the acceptable term back then).

    “I don’t like to put labels on kids. It can become a self-fulfilling prophecy. But yes, he will be,” Dr. Buehler said gently.

    “Does he have a normal life expectancy?” I asked. I knew at that moment I could handle anything required of me. The one thing I could not handle was losing him. Whatever challenge or syndrome my child had did not matter. I just wanted to keep him.

    “It will be shortened. By how much we are not sure, honestly,” he said with compassion.

    As I sat in the bathroom stall in Walmart 24 years later sobbing, I realized I have to learn everything all over again. I have to learn to drive our wheelchair van with no wheelchair and no sweet Wesley. I have to learn to grocery shop without my constant companion. I have to learn to drink an entire Starbucks coffee and not save half for him. I have to learn to not receive fifty of the best hugs each day. I have to learn who I am because who I was until February 21st was entirely wrapped up in caring for him. I would have joyfully done it as long as God allowed.

    And the cold, hard, cruel, beautiful, merciful truth is that I did.

    Twenty-four years from now what wisdom will I have that I wish I could speak to the scared, heart broken mother sobbing in a Walmart bathroom? I think it will be something like this…

    Hope is coming. Hold on. This child was your greatest teacher without ever speaking a word and taught you what you need to survive his death. In your weakness He will give you strength. You will use the voice Wesley gave you and you will identify yourself once again and help others. God will give purpose to this pain and you will use it for His Glory. Right now, you are in a new level of pain unimaginable. Gravity feels more powerful than ever because the weight of your grief is physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual. Some days you can’t lift your chin but you must lift your arms in praise. You will want to give up. But then you will persevere. You will become a better mother, daughter, wife, and friend because Wesley was here. He was yours and you were his. This moment is when you begin to allow God to work this, even this, for good. For you love Him and you are called according to His Purpose. Grieve because you have lost significantly and it hurts to the very core of who you are. But then get up. You’ve got work to do.

    When I got home from Walmart I cried some more. I then opened my computer and looked back on my writing from 2018 and found some of what I have edited and shared here now. These words were written 8 years ago to not only share my journey with others but as a roadmap to remind me now.

    When an harmful agitator enters an oyster, it’s natural defense mechanism is to protect itself. If the oyster can’t remove the foreign object, it covers it. It secretes a fluid to coat the harm. Layer upon layer of the coating is deposited until a pearl is formed. It can take months or years but the oyster doesn’t relent. It takes something that didn’t belong and was harmful and creates beauty.

    And once again, there it is, hope is born.

    This isn’t a harmful agitator. This is the death of my beloved son. I know it will take God and time and often, it feels as if they move too slow. But they do move. Layer upon layer what could destroy will become beautiful. Right now it is nothing but destruction and nothing could ever match the cost of losing my child. But hope and solace reemerge remembering how hopeless it seemed all those years ago. Hope presents herself knowing what beautiful pearls came from all I didn’t know and all I feared.

    Unlike the oyster, my natural defense mechanism is not to create something lustrous and valuable from adversity. It is not natural nor my truth. My truth is it takes incredible effort. It takes conscious decisions. I must choose to see the good even when it feels nothing but bad. I must choose to hold on to hope. On some days I choose to hope for hope. I must choose my focus and change it accordingly. I must choose to not allow bitterness and anger come close. I must choose to battle when they come. And they do. I must choose patience to endure. I must choose to hold to the promises of dreams unrealized. I must choose gratitude. I must choose resilience and perseverance. I must choose to be unconquerable. I must choose faith. I must choose the only way I, personally, know how to obtain all those things. I must choose God.

    Each and every time.

    Especially this time.

  • My Highest Honor and Deepest Heart Ache…A Eulogy

    My Highest Honor and Deepest Heart Ache…A Eulogy

    The silence stings.

    Absence is all I hear…
    Your laughter no longer reverberates through the house.
    For now, it only whispers in my heart and I long with all my being
    to hear more, louder, explosive you.
    The chaos is gone.


    Yet you remain


    The beautiful fractals of excitement, impatience, joy, and love are flat and cold.
    Normal is abnormal for us.
    But love does not vanish.
    It changes shape-
    Becomes memory.
    Becomes breath
    Becomes the quiet strength that lets me stand here now.
    What was real cannot be undone. It cannot be broken
    The smile.
    The soul-deep laugh
    The hugs so intense your body shook.
    Those are stitched into me now just as you were stitched in my womb.


    I pack away the medical supplies…
    The gauze…
    The catheters…
    The syringes and extension tubing…
    The thermometer and pulse ox can go in a drawer.
    There are no more emergency supplies
    No more doctor appointments
    No more labs to track
    No more fear over every sniffle and every cough


    I detest the letting go. I would have gladly done it for the rest of my days.
    I spent every waking moment in the caring of you.
    It was my honor and privilege. My purpose and calling.
    I took pride in the way I cared for you not knowing, all this time
    My sweet boy, it was you who was caring for me.
    All I did for you could never match what you’ve done for me.
    People would often say God knew what He was doing when He gave you to me.
    God knew what He was doing when He gave me to you.

    For you were the pillar. You were the strong one. You were the wise teacher. You were the hero. You were the unrelented soul with an infinite reserve of unconditional love. You were kindness and compassion. You were grace and you were mercy. You were the fierce voice in me that advocated for you and made me better.

    You were my whole world and being your mom is, and always will be, my highest honor.

    Thank you all for coming to celebrate the extraordinary life of Wesley Thomas Helmbrecht. He always loved a party.

    I look around this room and see so many people who meant the world to our boy. You had such significance in his life. The only thing that mattered to him was love. Not money, not power, not status. Just love. And you graciously poured it into him. Words do not express my gratitude for all the laughter, lessons, songs, dances, and love you gave him. We all gave him the best life possible and he returned the favor

    Wesley was born on October 26, 2001. We had no idea Wesley would have special needs despite multiple ultrasounds… Despite a father who was a physician specializing in diagnosing fetal anomalies and potential syndromes and despite ultrasounds by 4 other physicians`. God and Wesley held their secret until the moment he was born.

    And from that moment he faced challenges. He was a fighter. He was the toughest kid I knew.

    In the early days the doctors couldn’t tell me how long I would have him. “Shortened life expectancy” was all they really knew. Every day was a bonus. Every hug could have been the last. Every laugh might be silenced. Any moment could turn catastrophic and it often did. Yet it taught us to cherish things otherwise seen as miniscule. We had no small victories. Every accomplishment was magnificent and we celebrated it as such. It is a blessing and a curse to live each day as if it might be the last.

    Wesley didn’t crawl until he was two and a half years old. But just around 14 months he figured out he could roll. He would get around the entire house by rolling, pivoting, and rolling even more. Nothing stopped our boy.

    Every since he was little and throughout his life Wes would look to the sky and wave his arms. It would begin with a smile until his entire being bubbled with excitement. I used to ask him if he was talking to the angels again. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was. He had a direct connection. And now, for the rest of my life I will look to the sky, wave my arms, and talk to my sweet angel.

    When Wes was eight years old we were walking through the mall and he approached a woman sitting on a bench. Before I knew what he was doing he threw his arms around her and hugged her. A complete stranger. I can still envision her face with tear filled eyes as she said, “you have no idea how much I needed that hug.”

    But Wes did. We walked away and I asked Wes if God told him to do that even though I already knew the answer. I have countless of those stories. He was an angel among us.

    Wesley attended Albemarle County Public Schools until finishing at Brownsville in 5th grade. He had special friends like Sydney Sherman who invited him to every single birthday party. The teachers wouldn’t put them together in the same class for fear of distraction. I will forever be grateful to that little red headed girl who was nice to our son.

    He loved riding the school bus. As luck would have it, he had the same bus driver, Gary Miller, from kindergarten through graduating VIA all but two years. It wasn’t just a bus ride for Wes. It was a party and each and every day Gary delivered our child safely home to us.

    Wesley went to the Virginia Institute of Autism in 2011 and graduated in 2023. He didn’t have instructors. He had best friends. He had people who genuinely loved him. And he had classmates who, I know, greeted him on the other side.

    For the last 3 years he was home with us full time. From the moment I woke up until the moment I went to bed he was constantly by my side. I intensely cared for him including medications, catheterizations, dressing changes, and g-tube care. Mixed in all that was frequent pauses for hugs. We took care of each other in those moments. Our days were filled with one another.

    He demanded his daily outings. Rain, sleet, snow or shine we went out every morning. For a boy who was non verbal he was bossy. He let us know what he wanted and when he wanted it. And if I ever said no his next sign was always, “Grandma”. If mom said no he was pretty sure grandma would say yes. Because she always did.

    He spread so much love and joy in every Walmart, Bucees and mall within a 3 hour radius. People were instantly infected with his love just walking past him. He created ripples and changed lives in ways only God and now Wesley know.

    Wesley loved music. It was his first word using American Sign Language It was at the very core of who he was – a way of expression that didn’t require words but everyone could understand. We took him to countless wineries, Fridays after Five, and concerts. For his 18th birthday Steve arranged for us to go to NYC to see the Laurie Berkner band. She invited him to a private room to meet the band afterward. It was a highlight of all of our lives. He met Andy Grammar with tickets compliments of the UVA Football Team. One of his favorite songs of all times was “Honey I’m Good.”

    In 2011 Wesley’s father died by suicide. My mother left her life in Northern Virginia and moved in to help me. She cared for Wesley and for many years was my partner in raising the boys. She still is. She meticulously prepared his special diet and slept with him every night. She would roll him into breweries on Saturday nights. It was a sight to see. Inevitably, until last Tuesday, each and every night he ended up sleeping on her shoulder. They could not have been any closer.

    Almost 7 years ago God brought Steve into Wesley’s life. I knew Steve was the one by Wesley’s reaction the very first time he saw him at the Trampoline park. Wesley screamed with excitement and reached for a hug. He was the best judge of character. He could not be manipulated or fooled. He saw the essence of who you are. I always knew if he loved someone especially, they were special.

    Their bond was deep and strong. Their silliness filled the house with screams of excitement and breathtaking laughter. I knew it would take a special man to enter our world and God sent us the best of them.

    My aunt Dolly moved in with us a year and a half ago. Wes always loved a house full and she was the only person who would sit for hours and hold his ipad. It could easily be on the table but Wesley loved when someone just sat with him. And she did.

    Wesley was loved by his brothers and sisters, Some by birth, some by blood, some by marriage, and some by love. It breaks my heart that Emerson, Nathan, Leah, Aaron, Chrissy and Audrey, baby Chloe, Stevie, and Elayna carry the grief of losing a sibling especially one as special as Wesley. He impacted them and they are changed for having known his love.

    Wesley entered UVA hospital on February 17th. At first it was thought to be manageable on a general medicine unit but that quickly changed as the gravity of the illness expressed itself. He fought so hard in the medical ICU with the best doctors and nurses. I knew he was in the right place. That exact unit saved his life 3 and a half years ago. Their care and compassion to my family will stay with us and for that, I am exceedingly grateful. I am at peace knowing it was, as simple and as complex it is to say, his time to go home.

    Wesley made our family’s life unique. He allowed us to live in the world of special needs. It was a club I never knew I wanted to be part of but was so proud to be a member. Our fellow citizens are resilient and inspirational. There is an unmatched comradery among people here and you never feel alone. I have met parents who paved the and given me a road map of grieving the most significant loss possible. I have watched them come through the other side and live life again. It gives me hope that we will do the same with the help of our loving God.

    Every single night I would kiss Wesley goodnight and tell him he is my world. He smiled every time because he knew that was the truth. My world is shattered yet my faith is strong and I know God will give us the strength, peace, and endurance we need for this unimaginable journey. He already has begun.

    As a mother who gave birth to one of humanity’s most extraordinary human beings, I knew I would bury my son. It doesn’t make it easier. It doesn’t make it peaceful. It is raw. It is cruel.

    I always knew our time was borrowed. In Christianity we hear words like “our children are on loan from God. They are His.” I think most parents who share our faith understand it is as a concept of spiritual trust but never actually live in that space. It was our reality. From the moment he was born I knew I wouldn’t keep him. I knew in the depths of my heart I would be standing here today. I would gladly bear the pain of losing him 1,000 times over than have him know the pain of losing me. God’s mercy needs untangling sometimes and it isn’t pretty to us, but it is there.

    My faith has sustained me since childhood. I buried Wesley’s father 15 years ago. When I spoke at his eulogy I shared the two words I clung to. I find myself in another cruel February clinging to them once again.

    But God…

    Wesley is gone BUT God generously gave us 24 years…
    My heart is broken BUT God has given Wesley a new heart, one that can not be infected or fail him…
    We are devastated BUT God has promised blessed are those who mourn for they will be comforted. And He keeps every promise forever.
    I don’t know who I am if not Wesley’s mom and caregiver BUT God will give purpose to this pain
    My children mourn the loss of their brother BUT God has surrounded them with love and friends and one another…
    I will never feel Wesley’s whole soul hug during this lifetime again BUT God had Wesley give me so many during his 24 to last the rest of mine…

    God is good when He says “yes”. God is good when He says “no”. One of my frustrations as a Christian is when everyone declares His goodness because He answered the prayer in the way they wanted. They proclaim it when they see a miracle, the miracle as they thought it should be. A loved one is healed – God is good. A soul is saved – God is good. Catastrophe averted – God is good.

    Our son died.

    I tell you now…God is good. We still got miracles. They aren’t the ones we wanted but they are here and they are coming. There will be ripples of miracles I will never know. I am honored for the miracle of 24 years with Wesley when I didn’t know if I would get 24 hours, 24 days or 24 months. God didn’t take Wesley too soon according to His timeline. For this mother’s heart it absolutely feels too soon but also feels generous and merciful.

    When Wes was a baby we would play a game. I would hold his arms and say, “Oh my where should I?” then I would pause. He would giggle with anticipation. After a few seconds I would exclaim, “tickle!” and tickle him somewhere with my chin. It was one of his favorite games. He waited with joyful anticipation because he knew the hands that held him. He knew they were loving and kind and only wanted to best for him. The empty space wasn’t frightening. It didn’t cause him anxiety. It made him joyful knowing something good was about to happen.

    I sit in the stillness of a once beautifully chaotic life. The anticipation is there. Is it joyful? Only because I choose it to be. I choose joy. I know whose hands hold me. I know He is good. I know He is loving and kind and merciful, and generous. I know He will somehow, someway create good. If He could create the ultimate good from the death of His own son, He can and He will with mine.

    We had 24 years of bright, unfiltered joy. It wasn’t small. And it is not unfinished. God did not silence that laughter, He opened the room. Now Wesley’s laughter is shared with the angels and saints in the presence of his grandfather and father and our Good, Good Father. His laughter is now joined in the songs of worship around the throne. He stands tall with no balance or strength issues. There are no wheelchairs in heaven. There are no doctor appointments or bad news. There are no challenges to overcome in heaven. Just love. Just unfiltered, untarnished, inexhaustible, exuberant, lavish love. Wesley was, no doubt, right at home there because that is how he loved us here.

    I close with a verse, a hope, and an assurance. 2 Timothy 4:7-8

    I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day.

    Our boy did fight the good fight. His race was harder than most and he never complained. He never felt sorry for himself. He carried what was given to him and just loved. I know his crown is spectacular. It is well earned. I will always remember the grace with which he carried his challenges and lavishly loved not in spite, but because of them.

    I always said we spent so much time trying to make Wesley more like us when, really, we should be more like him. I urge you all to be more like him.
    Laugh loud
    Love hard
    Hug Tight
    Dance Silly
    Leave the room better than when you came not because you were loved, but because you loved. And do it with all you have for as long as you have. Just like our sweet, sweet boy. In that his story in us is yet unfinished.

  • Three Minutes

    I’ve been thinking a lot about grace, mercy, and forgiveness lately.

    Last week I got a phone call disguised as my worst nightmare as the parent of a non verbal child with special needs.

    The voice on the other end used words…

    Adult protective services…
    Complaint of neglect…
    Investigating whether substantial…
    An incident on May 3…

    A person hired to care for Wesley failed to do so.

    The investigator came to the house forty-five minutes later. She told me she reviewed the video. For three minutes he was in danger. For three minutes he was ignored.

    The overseeing entity was apologetic. They were transparent. They showed me the video. I hoped it wasn’t as bad as I imagined. But it was.

    I cried. It was heart-wrenching to watch my child struggle. He tried to fix himself but didn’t have the strength. He looked scared. She was less than three feet away. For three minutes he was in danger. For three minutes he tried to get her attention. For three minutes she never even looked at him.

    Another employee not assigned to Wes is the one who saw. Three minutes could have been longer if not for her.

    As upset as I was, I felt compassion for the employee. I asked how she was. I knew she didn’t maliciously ignore Wes. On any other day three minutes might not have been as big of a deal. It was just on this day in those three minutes my son could have been seriously injured or worse. On this day the negligence of those three minutes put my son at serious peril and video captured it.

    The director told me the actions taken to ensure it wouldn’t happen to Wes or any other student. She apologized again. She thanked me for being understanding and forgiving. She said most people would not be.

    I was upset. I was livid. I told her this…

    “My faith is important to me. I am called to forgive. Nothing irreparable happened but even if it did, I have to forgive and show mercy and grace because I have been forgiven and I have been shown mercy. I have received grace even when I didn’t deserve it.”

    Having faith and professing to believe something is no more challenging than when it is inconvenient and when we have been wronged, whether intentional or otherwise. It is exactly then it matters the most.

    My actions deny my emotions. In that moment when anger holds the weight of me, I choose mercy and grace and in that moment I make my Father proud. My children see their mother put down the almost unbearable weight of anger which can only grow bitterness, resentment, and contempt. They bear witness to a mother who chooses to walk in freedom with Grace rather than be dragged by anger. I pray they will do the same.

    And so, without reservation or condition, I forgive this person. I wish her only the best. And when she has the opportunity to show someone else mercy and grace, I hope she does.

    Grace isn’t just for the person who, though unintentionally, wronged us. It is for me and I will gladly, joyfully, and gratefully walk in that the rest of my days.

    (more…)
  • Autism

    Autism

    Today is World Autism Day. Every day for us is autism day.

    Autism is just one of the many ICD-9s that accompany my son’s medical chart. At last count he had 15.

    Wesley was born in October of 2001. Despite multiple ultrasounds by several physicians, I had no idea he would be born any way other than a healthy baby boy until the moment of his birth. How I wish I could say otherwise. Sometimes I wish my story included the part where the amniocentesis came back abnormal but I gave a war cry, pounded my chest and said, “I can do this!”

    But God and Wesley held the secret for 37 weeks. Laying on the operating room table I knew something was not quite right. His cry was so quiet. The nurses were somber. No one congratulated me until his dad brought him over.

    He said, “Here is our son. He has some anomalies and the geneticist will see him in the morning. Isn’t he beautiful?”

    An intense, sudden state of panic overwhelmed me. Joy, excitement, fear, and sadness swirled in my soul and each feeling was indistinguishable in the tornado of such a moment. The human spirit is not meant nor equipped to feel so many emotions at once.

    Three weeks later we took Wesley to Omaha, Nebraska to see the geneticist there. As we drove I began bargaining with a God I had barely spoken to over the last ten years. I wasn’t even sure He would remember who I was. I begged Him anyway. Please. It can be anything. Just let me keep my son.

    After examining my sweet boy the geneticist sat down with a large text book. He flipped open the page and pointed to a picture.

    “We believe your son has Rubinstein-Taybi Syndrome,” he bagan.

    The tornado descended once again. I became dizzy. I interrupted.

    “Will he be mentally retarded?” I asked.

    “I don’t like to label kids,” the geneticist replied. “If you expect him to be a typical child with RTS he will very likely become a typical child with RTS.”

    He could see the pleading in my eyes.

    “But yes. He will have mental retardation.”

    I excused myself to the restroom. Locking the door behind me I collapsed, sobbing on the unforgiving concrete floor.

    How I wish I could go back in time and speak with all the knowledge I have accumulated over the last 19 years to that young mom crying. I would say…

    Don’t be afraid. You will figure out how to mother this child and he will teach you more than anyone else will without ever saying a word. You will have to fight for him. You will be his voice and he will be your heart. He is going to teach you to love unconditionally with no expectation. He will show you the meaning of perseverance and you’ll learn to take nothing for granted. You will be exhausted right down to your very soul. You will stumble. You will fail. You will get back up and try again because he will need you to. His life is every bit as valuable as everyone else. You will learn to have empathy and compassion for others deemed “less than” in society. Use your voice and use it loudly when need be. You will be a better mother, daughter, and friend because your son was born this way. Life will be amplified from this day on. The highs will be higher but the lows will be lower. This isn’t the day your world ended . This is the day you begin to become who you were meant to be. You will reconnect with your old friend and God will lead, support, and direct you for the rest of your days. Grieve because you have lost a significant dream. But then get up. Dust yourself off. We have work to do.

    Autism is not the end of the world but merely a transition into a different one. It is vibrant here. It is silly. It doesn’t make sense to me much of the time but does to my sweet son. This world is challenging. It is rewarding. It is exhausting and so exhilarating. I am a vastly better person for residing here. And after 19 years as a resident, I would have it no other way.

  • My Mother’s Robe

    My Mother’s Robe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • Isn’t Your Father…

    Isn’t Your Father…

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

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

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

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

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

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

    With shame and downcast eyes I nodded yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    It. Really. Is. That. Simple. 

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

    As I examine my heart I hear this question posed 

    “Isn’t your Father the king?”

    I reply “Yes.”

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

    What is yours? 

  • When He shows up

    When He shows up

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

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

    He handed the phone to his roommate.

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

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

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

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

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

    It had been a while since I prayed so earnestly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Please, God, just show me which one.

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

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

    Please, God, let me know.

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

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

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

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

    A few minutes later he looked up from his phone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    My heart cracked.

    I didn’t speak for a few moments.

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

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

    He nodded in agreement but said little else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    The congregation applauded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    And when He shows up, everything changes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    And God was faithful.

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

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

    God will show up. And everything will change.

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

    Hallelujah

  • Of the Most High

    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?

  • My Father’s Voice

    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…
    29 For 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.

  • Embracing Our Brokenness

    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