Patience to Endure

Tag: Faith

  • Loving Like He Was…

    Loving Like He Was…

    We’ve heard the adage we should live like we are dying. Life is short. Take the Trip. Buy the Shoes. Eat the cake. Live as if every day is our last.

    But what if we take the focus from ourselves and live and love as if others are dying? How much slower would we be to anger? How easily would we forgive? How much more mercy and grace would we be capable of granting? Would we hold back on “I love you”? Would we cling to that grudge as if it were more important than a person? How much less irritated would we get? Would we leave anything unsaid or unresolved?

    My father died on July 10 at 7:28 pm. The odds of dying during a heart catheterization are 0.05% We weren’t expecting that to be the way he would leave us.

    He was eighty-one and growing frailer though his mind was still sharp. Still, something in me knew we might be approaching our season of lasts.

    I told my husband on Father’s Day I wanted to make a big deal for my dad. I spoke the words, “What if this is my last Father’s day with him?” So we had the finest meat and all sat down at the dinner table together to celebrate. I said the blessing before the meal and, choked up with tears of gratitude, thanked God for giving my dad to me. I thanked Him for the blessing of having such an amazing dad. I asked for strength and health for him in the years to come. My dad got to hear my intimate prayer of gratitude for him.

    I took my dad to doctor’s appointments and grocery shopping. I slowed down and paused when he had something to say whether I found it interesting or not. Merely the fact that he wanted to share was enough to pay attention. I hugged him more often. I always told my dad I love him with great frequency, yet it increased. I approached each day as it was, a gift. And in the recesses of my heart I knew the days would be no more. I just didn’t expect it so soon. When a beloved parent dies it always feel so soon.

    I cherished the time we had not because I was living like I was dying; I was loving like he was.

  • In the Hallway

    In the Hallway

    Sometimes the door closes softly and other times it slams. Sometimes God closes it and sometimes other people do yet God allows it. And you stand there directionless in the hallway because no other door has yet to open.

    When Wesley was in the hospital over the summer my most fervent prayers were offered in hallways. As I prayed, deep down I knew they were going to tell me whatever it was they would. I knew God is still in the business of miracles but I also knew His miracles are, at times, not the miracle we want. Could my prayer make his heart function properly and the vegetation go away? Could it make our son live? Could I receive the strength to face another day in the ICU? They could. Would they? I wasn’t sure.

    Praying was the only thing I could do but I don’t say that in a helpless way. Quite the contrary, there is unmatched power when we are utterly powerless.

    There is nothing to distract you in a hallway as you stand eagerly waiting for the door to open. We are distilled down to the very core of what matters. Plain and simple. Uncomplicated.

    In my life God has either closed doors or allowed doors to be closed that I did not want shut. I loved the room I was in and would have never left any other way. As I wait in the hallway He prepares another room for me. I do not know how long it will take but wait with joyful anticipation. I know the One who works on my behalf and I know it will ultimately be more than I could ask or imagine.

    And so I don’t force open the door behind me. I only need to work on my obedience and the grace with which I handle the closure. I do the next right thing.

    Beyond praying, I remain active in the waiting. I worship. I do His work without a room. I remain obedient even if it doesn’t seem to make sense.

    Steve and I have to figure out a new plan for our non-profit food truck. Everything was disrupted from where we store it to what nights we are open to where we can park to open. But we catered a wedding on New Years Eve and had a little income. Since it was just Steve and me working and we take no salary we had some money left. My instinct was to save it all since we are still working on a plan. We are in the hallway. But God.

    Last night I received a desperate message from a beloved family we have helped in the past. They were out of food. Completely. They live in an area where there is no food bank. They needed help.

    This morning I went shopping and it filled my heart with inexplicable joy. I imagined how it would feel to not have food for your children and receive the gifts I was buying. I thought about their hallway and God using Legaci Eats to open a door for them.

    God will open the next door in His perfect timing. Until then I can be active in the waiting. I can allow Him to use me for the good of others knowing miraculous things happen in the hallway that are just as impactful and important as the next room.

    And so I shall.

  • Survive

    Survive

    1. To remain alive or in existence: live on.

    2. To continue to live after

    3. To continue to function or prosper despite. WITHSTAND

    I know where I was eleven years ago today. After it happened everyone told me I wouldn’t remember the first year, that it would be a fog. But I wanted to remember so I began writing. I wanted to remember how my friends and family carried me; how my son’s school became my community; how God showed up. I wanted to place a benchmark so that someday, eleven years later, I would look back and with unbelief and in awe commemorate what I survived.

    The following is an excerpt from my journal regarding the events that could have destroyed me.

    But God…

    I walked back downstairs into the basement and turned the corner entering the family room. My eyes were immediately drawn to the heavy velvet curtain conspicuously drawn back. Even more unusual was the unlocked dead bolt on the door leading to the outside. It was as if denial had suddenly grown weary of my company and said good bye in the only way it knows how. Rather than a congenial wave, it balled its hand into a mighty fist to punch me mercilessly in the gut rendering me breathless. To this day I still do not know why, but I ran straight outside. Something in me just knew. With no socks or shoes, without a coat, I ran into the cold, heartless February air leaving the door behind me wide open. I ran as I have never run before. I did not know where I was going, only that I was going to find him. My determined feet carried me to the barren spot down the hill in the woods behind our home. There he was, my husband and father of my children, dead.

    The manifestation of the shock, horror, and absolute desperation made its way from the depth of my being and escaped as a sound I did not know my voice could make. There is beneath our interior, a level of excruciating that I never knew existed. The scream coming from my mouth was so foreign it seemed as if it was coming from above and around me, as if the very trees were crying out. It could not have possibly been coming from within me.

    I looked at my husband.  His eyes stared blankly at the cloud filled, chidden sky.  His color had already changed to a hue I had never seen before, a color unrecognizable as human. His legs were tucked underneath him as if he had fallen backward.

    “What happened?!” I screamed and kept screaming as if someone was going to answer. “Oh, God, what happened?” My mind raced as I imagined he somehow fell and accidentally broke his neck.  It had to be a freak accident.  But what was he doing in the woods?  Then I saw it.  I saw the small hole through his favorite blue sweatshirt.  I tiny whole into his chest.

    It was not like the movies.  There was no blood pouring out or even a puddle beneath him.  The gore was in his eyes and in the color of his skin.  I could hardly tell where the bullet had penetrated. Although no more than ten minutes had passed from the time I left him to get dressed to the moment I found him in the woods, I knew revival would be impossible.  I knew he was gone too far and there would be no heroic efforts to return him to me. He was a physician. He knew human anatomy. In a split second my mind processed that Gary would not have left survival to chance.  He would have made certain there would be no resuscitation.

    I fumbled to get my phone out of my pocket.  Sliding to unlock the screen was nearly impossible because my hands were shaking violently.  Finally, I focused my eyes and concentrated with my whole being to dial three numbers in the correct order.  9.  1.  1.  

    “911, what is your emergency?” the male voice began.

    Doubled over I cried, “My husband shot himself.  He isn’t breathing. Please send an ambulance,”

    My voice escalated as if urgency could somehow awaken a sliver of hope that perhaps he could be resurrected.  Acceptance comes slowly.

    “I need you to calm down so I can understand you,” the voice on the other end urged.

    Asking someone to calm down when their world was imploding seemed impossible to me.  But I knew I needed to communicate so I tried again.

    “Please. Please.  My husband. My husband is dead.  Hurry. Send someone. Please,” I collapsed next to his lifeless body.  “Is the ambulance coming?”

    “It is.  Where are you now?” he asked calmly.

    “Beside my husband. In the woods behind the house,” I began hyperventilating.

    “Ma’am, I need you to go to the driveway so the authorities will see you when they pull up.”

    With all my might, I slowly stood up.  Looking down at Gary one last time I trudged up the hill and stumbled to the drive way.

    “Oh God, what will I tell my children?” I asked half hoping the stranger on the other end could tell me.

    “I am here, ma’am.  Let me know when the authorities arrive,” the dispatcher whispered. I could hear the sorrow in his voice.  My first encounter with the compassion that would be shown to me in multitude by strangers and friends began with the first person to whom I spoke and would not end for years to come.

    Moments later the first police officer arrived and the 911 dispatcher hung up.  A very tall man  with broad shoulders and dark hair walked calmly up to me. 

    “My husband. He is in the woods over there,” I could barely speak.

    “Please stay here and wait for the ambulance. I have to check the scene,” he said with a serious tone as he walked with long and hurried steps to the back yard.

    I was there all alone in the worst and most unimaginable moment of my entire life.  I collapsed on to the cold, hard drive way next to the trash bin.  I did not know until that moment that there was a pain too deep for tears.   I grabbed the cross around my neck like it was a life preserver and my only chance at not perishing with my husband. 

    I began shouting at God. I was accusing Him.

    “God, I have been obedient. I have done everything you have asked of me. I pray. I read the Bible.  I lead Bible study.  I brought in the foster children. I’ve done every hard thing You’ve asked.  How could you do this?” 

    “I did not do this,” I heard Him say as if He lay on the concrete next to me. I knew He was telling me the truth. This wasn’t part of His plan or His purpose. This wasn’t His fault. My outward screaming ceased momentarily. My inner turmoil was only just beginning.

    My heart and mind ever so slowly began traversing into a surreal place.  As if in slow motion, I saw my parents tan van turn the corner and proceed cautiously to the bottom of the drive way.  They had come from Northern Virginia a couple of days before for a visit.  Just three hours earlier that morning my mother had made us a wonderful breakfast and we all sat at the table devouring it. They had gone to run an errand and came home to a crime scene.

    I saw my mother running full blast toward me as I cried, “Gary shot himself. He is dead. I can’t believe he left me…”

     My mother fell to ground screaming “No, Gary, it wasn’t worth it” and collapsed lamenting.  My father’s face turned to rage as he simply yelled, “NO!” with a military authority and punched the air as if he could command it to be somehow not be true.

    I sat down on the grass by the driveway. 

    “I can’t believe he left me,” I repeated. “I can’t believe he left me.” It is a disbelief I imagine to carry until my last breathe.

    I felt as if my soul was beginning to disconnect from my body. I touched her back and just stared at the world around me. I saw houses and tress.  I saw the grey, overcast February sky as if God Himself chastised the sun and sent it away.  I looked at my feet realizing I had left the house in such urgency I had no shoes. The wind was blowing, it was cold, my mother was screaming but it must all be happening to someone else.  This was not, this could not be happening to me.

    My father knelt down and lifted me up. He and one of the responding officers walked me to the rocking chair outside the house. It was explained to us we could not go into the house until the detectives gave an all clear. In Virginia, suicides are treated as homicides until proven otherwise.

    When I looked at my father’s eyes I felt a little clarity and the full force of my grief was held at bay. As soon as my eyes diverted from my father everything became chaotic and uncertain. The world was literally spinning. Gravity was failing. I was disconnecting from my own realm. I was at the cusp of oblivion. There was an intense, real fear knowing that if I let go and floated into that unknown place I might not know how to get back. There was a knowledge that I could somehow control it. For a moment, though, I wondered if it would be more inviting than the reality I now faced.

    It felt like the suction tool a dentist uses. When it is placed in your mouth it doesn’t show it’s full power until you close your lips. In that split second your lips touch, this tiny tool becomes a force. The patient has the absolute power though to choose to hold on or let go. Only now it would not be mere saliva extracted but my very soul. Even in my altered mind I knew I had to try to stay. I was scared. I did not want to go there yet did not want to be in reality equally as strongly. What was transpiring was much too much for me to handle. I was shutting down. The reality that my world was being ripped apart was both figurative and literal as I sat there looking at my father’s loving, pleading eyes.

    The sirens blared as the ambulance came in slow motion up my long, steep driveway. One of the responding officers came out with a blanket and tenderly wrapped it around me. He and my father carefully walked me into the ambulance. I looked again desperately at my dad. The disconnecting feeling was beginning once again and growing stronger. The fight for my soul was not yet over.

    “Stay here, the boys need you to stay here,” my father begged.

    Reminding me that my boys needed me changed everything. It was the exact switch that needed to be flipped. Indeed, from the moment of conception I loved them more than my own self. I never took greater care of myself as when they were in my womb. I would eat right and drink plenty of water. I quit smoking. I could not or would not do any of those things for just me, but when my body became a vessel for them I did anything to ensure they would safely arrive into the world. I needed to do anything to ensure they would stay safe our now demolished world.

    I fought back with all my might against the lure of being in the other world where, I believed, I could be numb but where my children would not be able to find me. They did not even yet know they had lost a parent, I was determined they would not lose both.

    I lay on a stretcher wrapped in a blanket. I do not know how long I had been outside barefoot and no coat. I was shaking from cold and fear and death and uncertainty. I was shaking to the very soul of me.

    My father climbed in the ambulance. He wrapped his arms around me and kept begging me to stay with him. After a few moments a police officer came to ask him to assist in getting in the house. My beloved black Labrador was standing guard and would not let any strangers enter.

    I could physically feel and spiritually sense the presence of all that was to come: as if grief, anger, despair, anxiety, loneliness, and regret, all at levels I had never encountered, were floating above but had not yet pounced. They were swirling, circling, waiting to attack viciously. Indeed, they were eager to devour me. I felt strangely peaceful that they would wait. Instead, I looked at the young woman who was part of the response team.

    “Do you read the Bible?” I asked.

    “Yes, I am a woman of faith,” she answered.

    I whispered with my eyes closed, “How is God possibly going to bring good out of this?  My husband is dead. The father of my children is dead.”

    When I finished my question I looked up at her as if saying “my husband is dead” was safer if said with my eyes closed. Tears began to roll down her eyes. “It is all right to be angry with God and tell Him you are angry,” she responded.

    “I am not angry with Him,” I said, “I cannot face this without Him.”

    My spirit made a decision when my mind could not. My brain and heart had suffered an injury of cataclysmic proportion, yet my spirit knew that I would not survive except by clinging to my Father’s robe. I had to be like the woman with the bleeding disorder in the crowd. I was not pushing through people but I would push through anger, fear, doubt, loneliness, excruciating pain, to reach the hem of my Savior. I would stop at nothing to touch Him. I knew my faith would heal me.

    I survived. I withstood. I fought. I rested. I never gave up.

    That is where I was eleven years ago. Today I am on the backroads going to Harrisonburg with my now husband, Steve. We are fetching supplies for our non-profit food truck. Over the last 18 months we have provided over 70,000 free meals. All the proceeds from our truck goes to helping our community.

    God did work it all for good. I see it every time I feel Steve’s hand take mine. I know it each time I look at his face and hear him call me “Queen.” He tended to that which was unhealed from vicious wounds he did not inflict. He tends to them still. And love has won.

    It was hell to get to the passenger seat beside him but worth the fight. Some days it felt like swimming through mud but in that near impossible journey my spiritual and emotional muscles were made strong and the floating feeling of my life now was made all the sweeter.

  • Even for a 20 year old

    Even for a 20 year old

    Every morning I dress my 20 year old son. Wesley was born with significant special needs and is incapable of assisting with dressing himself. My morning starts with coaxing a sometimes cooperative but more often than not uncooperative man to the bed to change. I clean the wound for his g-tube and apply dressing. Next, I change his diaper and place an elastic band over the feeding tube to protect it from coming out either accidentally or being pulled out purposely by Wesley. I dress him in a spandex undershirt to further protect the g-tube. Finally, his second shirt is on and I pull his arms through the sleeves. He is strapped into his wheelchair, ready for the bus. By the time we finish Wesley is usually agitated and yelling. Every. Single. Morning.

    Most mornings it is just part of my routine. Some mornings, though, I must remind myself what a privilege it is. I bring to the forefront of my mind the multiple times I held him in hospital Pediatric Intensive Care Units unsure if he would live another moment.

    I recollect the first time I found myself in a hospital chapel.

    I grew up close to God and went to Catholic School. I clearly remember watching all the Easter specials on TV. I would grab some ice cream and watch with wonder the story of Jesus. I wished I lived then, that I could have followed Him. He was my hero.

    But then life happened. Or, rather, I chose different paths each leading me further and further away from that childhood hero. After I married my first husband we moved to a town in South Dakota. His job afforded us a level of prestige that was appealing. We ran full fledged into this world where we had dinner invitations with the Senators and the best seats at the symphony. As my love of this new world increased, my love for God all but disappeared.

    Then Wesley had his first major surgery in Minneapolis, four hours from our home. Everything went well until that evening. He spiked a little fever but they discharged him thinking it was dehydration and nothing to worry about. By the time we arrived home his temperature was over 105. Something was terribly wrong.

    A trip to the Emergency Room ended in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. He was hooked up to every device imaginable. His little body had no more room for all the probes and wires. Blood was drawn and almost every test came back abnormal. His liver functions were through the roof. Every specialist and subspecialist was called. Each one shrugged his shoulders and deferred to the next specialist until the final physician stopped at the door on his way out.

    “If you pray, I suggest you do,” he said as he left.

    Oh my heart. I had prayed only once in years. Not a single hello or thank you, just a single “can you do this for me?” And I was back with my hands held out asking for another favor. Would He even know my name?

    The elevator door shut slowly and I grew certain God would not know me or worse, would be angry because I only came to Him when I needed something. What once was one of the most important relationships in my life had, over time, eroded to my last resort.

    I sat in the little Chapel in silence for a few minutes. Dinner with the Senator didn’t matter. Where we sat in the symphony hall could not help me. The massive money my husband made would not save my son. Only God. And I had ignored Him for nearly a decade.

    Are you there, God? It’s me. Jocelynn. It’s been so long and I am so sorry for being away. I need you now. Please, God, let me keep my son. The doctors can’t heal him. They don’t even know what is wrong. But I know You can. Please, God. Please let me keep my son.

    I did not try to bargain. I had nothing to offer. I sobbed in desperation and embarrassment. How could I have been gone so long just to approach Him now to ask Him for something, the most important something I would ask? I hoped He would not hold my absence against me. My soul shook violently with fear, regret, and uncertainty.

    I walked quickly back up to Wesley’s room and crawled into his little crib and fell asleep.

    Nurses came and left through the night checking his vitals and taking blood. His morning nurse came in and woke me with a laugh.

    “I’ve never seen that before,” she said about me sleeping in his tiny crib.

    A few minutes later a team of doctors came in holding Wesley’s clipboard.

    “Good morning,” the lead doctor said. “His blood work taken last night is in. We have no explanation, but his liver functions have returned to a normal level.”

    “Is he going to be ok?” I asked crying.

    “We think so,” he replied.

    Over the years there would be more visits to Pediatric Intensive Care Units. There would be at least three times I would beg God to let me keep my son. All three times He answered yes. However I approached Him as a friend and not a stranger. At times my prayer to keep my son was followed by, “But if I can’t, please give me what I will need to endure.” And I knew He would.

    The prodigal daughter had returned.

    Changing my 20 year old’s diaper is not a burden. There is necessarily, a paradigm shift that occurs when the only thing one wants is for their child to live. Everything else fades into triviality. Changing his g-tube dressing and diapers every morning is exactly what I prayed for all those years ago in that lonely hospital chapel. I think of all the people I met in those rooms and friends along the way who prayed the same prayer and God said, “no.” I have heard muffled cries to soul wrenching screams from hospital rooms that no actor in any movie can replicate. It comes from a place deep within most of us never have to access. I wish I had the wisdom to know why some people’s children die. It seems horribly cruel. In some way, however slight, I try to honor them by realizing what an absolute privilege it is to change diapers. Even for a 20 year old.

  • 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.

  • 8

    8

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    God is good.

    I lost my job…God is good.

    My spouse left… God is good.

    I can’t pay the rent…God is good.

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

  • In the clearing…

    In the clearing…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    (more…)
  • Isn’t Your Father…

    Isn’t Your Father…

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

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

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

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

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

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

    With shame and downcast eyes I nodded yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    It. Really. Is. That. Simple. 

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

    As I examine my heart I hear this question posed 

    “Isn’t your Father the king?”

    I reply “Yes.”

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

    What is yours? 

  • I trust You…

    I trust You…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “There is a bleed.”

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

    My prayer was simple.

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

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

    I am scared, Father…but I trust you.

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

    No matter when or what

    I am scared, Father…but I trust you

  • When He shows up

    When He shows up

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

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

    He handed the phone to his roommate.

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

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

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

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

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

    It had been a while since I prayed so earnestly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Please, God, just show me which one.

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

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

    Please, God, let me know.

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

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

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

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

    A few minutes later he looked up from his phone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    My heart cracked.

    I didn’t speak for a few moments.

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

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

    He nodded in agreement but said little else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    The congregation applauded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    And when He shows up, everything changes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    And God was faithful.

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

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

    God will show up. And everything will change.

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

    Hallelujah