Patience to Endure

Tag: God

  • Hidden

    Hidden

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    He tells me His perfect gifts are hidden in darkness.

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

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

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

  • Hallelujah

    Hallelujah

    February 10, 2019

    Dear Gary,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    I became inconsolable crying.

    Because even though it all went wrong

    and even though our family and an entire community were devastated

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

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

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

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

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

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

    and even though my dreams died with you in the woods

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

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

    and even though my heart will never be the same

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

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

    and even though there were times I hated you  

    and even though it felt like I was swimming through mud

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

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

    Hallelujah.

    God was and is faithful.

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

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

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

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

    And I have nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah.

  • 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

  • Find the K’s

    Find the K’s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • Joyful Expectation

    I wait for the Lord, my soul does wait, and in His word do I hope. Psalm 130:5 

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    My middle son, Wesley, has a favorite game that I play with him. Though he is sixteen years old deletions on his first chromosome have left him cognitively a three-year old. In our game Wesley lays down and I am next to him. I will smile and say “Oh, my, where should I…..” I pause for a few moments as Wesley squeals and giggles with absolute delight. He knows that after the exaggerated pause I will either kiss him, tickle him, or boop him on the nose. For him the fun of the game lies in the anticipation with the expectation that something marvelous is about to happen.

    His entire body will twitch with excitement. His laugh comes from the depth of his soul. He is not anxious or worried about what is to come. Even with his severe cognitive impairment he knows that he is dearly loved. He knows that I am his mother and only have good things planned for him. He waits to see what is going to happen with joyful expectation.

    When I grow weary from waiting for God I think of this game with Wesley. In my scenario I am the child waiting with joyful expectation as God is right next to me. Even with my limited, human capabilities I know He is good and that He loves me. I am assured that when something is to come from Him it will be more than I could have ever asked or imagined. Every single time.

    Often in my life I have found myself waiting. When I rush ahead of what God is trying to do I ruin the surprise of what He had in mind. Moreover, my plans are never as great as His. If I am being wise waiting for Him is not an option, it is compulsory. How I wait, however, is my choice.

    I can wait with joyful expectation. I can rest in the knowledge that doors are opening and closing as His plan unfolds. Perhaps hearts are softening, even my own. Conversely, I can wait with anxiety and dread but there would be no purpose in that. It would only cause me to be in a place I do not need to be.

    For we have the blessed assurance that God will deliver something loving, something kind, something we long for, something that tells us we are His and we are loved. Forthcoming is something magnificent like a kiss, a hug, or a boop on the nose from a beloved parent.

  • Power

    We were without power for almost 24 hours before it went back on this morning. High winds left trees toppled. My children’s trampoline flew to the other side of my almost 2 acre yard.

    No power leaves everyone unsettled. It is easy to forget how much we depend on it until it is no longer available. There is no person in my home more inconvenienced than my five year old son, Nathan.

    In the middle of our blackout last night Nathan asked if we could pray for the power to go back on. He folded his little hands, bowed his head and said “Dear God, please give us electricity back. Amen.” As soon as he finished, the lights flickered on and off a few times. The electricity didn’t stay on but it was as if God replied, “Sweet boy, I hear you.”

    God gives us these moments when He does reply just to let us know He is present. Sometimes we miss them because we are so busy or our intellect chalks it up to coincidence. We can’t imagine a God in charge of the universe would care whether or not we have power. But He does. We become jaded because of all the other times the answer was “no” or “not now.” But sometimes the answer is just a glimpse or a reminder that while He hears us the final answer will have to wait.

    My sweet son doesn’t have those blockades in His relationship with God. He believes with his entire sweet, innocent heart that he has a direct line to God. The beautiful part is that he does. The beautiful part is that I do too. And so do you.

    I just need to have faith like a child. I have to suspend all that this world has done to me and distill faith down to its purest element – that God loves me entirely as if I am His favorite child. I love my children all uniquely and each of them with my whole heart. Every one of them is my favorite child.

    It takes effort to be like a child because so much has happened to me from when my heart was soft until now. I have to be careful to not blame God for the things a broken world did. I have to think with my heart and in every other relationship that is unwise except for mine with Him.

    Imagine what power lies within us if we can attain faith like a child but have the wisdom gained through years of experience.

    Nathan’s prayer last night, I believe, went straight to the ear of a loving, kind, and gentle God. See, the power was not in the electricity. It was in a little boy with the faith of a child.

  • Make It Better

    Make It Better

    I can honestly say that I would not love my middle son, Wesley, more if he had a complete set of chromosomes. He would not be more my child if he did not have a diagnosis of autism. He is my joy and it is a privilege to be his mother.

    Once in a while, though, my mind wanders to wonder what life would be like if he did not have multiple diagnoses. What would it be like if he did not have a different doctor appointment every few months? What if he didn’t need to go to a special school? What if he didn’t have a feeding tube? What if he could speak with words? What if he didn’t have melt downs and hurt himself? What if he was born typical?

    I took this picture just before Disney Live began. I think it is a safe assumption that he was the only sixteen year old in the place screaming at the top of his lungs every time Mickey  Mouse came on stage. Every. Single. Time. His joyful noise comes from the depths of his soul and it is magnificent. This photo reminds me that love is felt and not spoken. Love is shown and received in the little and sometimes silent places in daily life. Yet, it also brings my mind to a place in a parallel universe where, perhaps, special needs is not part of my family’s constitution.

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    He almost looks like an average teen ager in this picture. I see the slightest glimpse of how he would look if he did not have special needs. Had he been born differently, Wesley would be in tenth grade. He would have his drivers permit. He would be wrestling with math and how to talk to girls. He would roll his eyes at me and think I am very old.

    I wouldn’t have to change his diaper or tube feed him. He wouldn’t need a wheelchair to be pushed long distances or to get on the school bus every morning. He would not need several medications twice a day. There would likely be no IEP or SLP, OT, and PT. He would not listen to the same Andy Grammar song over and over and over for years and years and years  and no other music. Instead of Blues Clues he would be watching action movies or science fiction. He would play video games. He would hang out with his buddies. He might even play a sport or musical instrument.

    But that is not where I live. From time to time my imagination visits there but it does no good to sit in that place for long. Instead, I try to make it better where I am. I refocus on the fact that he is precisely who he is supposed to be. I see all he does instead of that which he cannot do. I see abundant, unconditional love. I see God in my beautiful son.

    My ability to alter my focus to not dwell upon things unchangeable began in the United States Air Force. My father joined before I was born and for much of my childhood it was all I knew.  It is a challenging way to grow up. We moved every three years. Friendships were fleeting and my father was gone a lot. I was the constant “new girl.” Before I graduated high school I had been to six different schools. By military standards, however, that wasn’t so bad.

    Often we would arrive at the new base a few days before our furniture. My parents would make it a game and we would pretend we were camping. With only sleeping bags and pillows we would all gather in the living room.  There was no television or radio –  just my parents, my brother, and me. It is one of my fondest childhood memories. It birthed in me the ability to turn an inconvenient situation in to a glorious adventure.

    This notion became part of who I am. In college it hung in a frame by my door:share_temporary (4)

    Growing up a Military Brat I learned respect, duty, and honor. I understood at a very young age that complete strangers are willing to leave their families and, perhaps, die to protect others. I learned it before I could even hold my own head up as my father was shipped to Vietnam and missed the first year of my life. But I also learned resiliency and efficiency. I could blend in to my new environment quickly, including adopting the local accent. Much of my survival in school was based upon that ability.

    Part of that survival was also figuring out how to find and focus on all the reasons being where I ended up was actually better. Even the smallest blessings could sway my attitude toward our latest station. I can so clearly remember learning to like a new place simply because the swings were a little higher than the last base.  I couldn’t change the place in which I found myself but what I could change was my perception of it.

    The lesson of making a place better was one I carried with me into my adulthood. It became the mantra and saved my mental well-being when I found myself in situations beyond my control. Like the child growing up on bases across the country, I have throughout my life been thrust into situations beyond my doing or control.  My life has taken paths through the worlds of special needs, addiction, and suicide. Not one of those destinations had anything to do with my behavior nor were they consequences of my actions. They simply happened to me. It is a life I did not choose but, rather, was chosen for me.

    As a child and even now I could spend my time wishing I was at the place I left behind but it wouldn’t change where I ended up. I would simply miss out on all the wonderful things about my new adventure.

    I discovered this writing by Emily Kingsley soon after Wesley was first born. Everyone’s journey is unique but this was true to my heart.

    Welcome to Holland

    I am often asked to describe the experience of raising a child with a disability – to try to help people who have not shared that unique experience to understand it, to imagine how it would feel. It’s like this…

    When you’re going to have a baby, it’s like planning a fabulous vacation trip – to Italy. You buy a bunch of guidebooks and make your wonderful plans. The Coliseum, the Michelangelo David, the gondolas in Venice. You may learn some handy phrases in Italian. It’s all very exciting.

    After months of eager anticipation, the day finally arrives. You pack your bags and off you go. Several hours later, the plane lands. The stewardess comes in and says, “Welcome to Holland.”

    “Holland?!” you say. “What do you mean, Holland?” I signed up for Italy! I’m supposed to be in Italy. All my life I’ve dreamed of going to Italy.

    But there’s been a change in the flight plan. They’ve landed in Holland and there you must stay.

    The important thing is that they haven’t taken you to some horrible, disgusting, filthy place, full of pestilence, famine and disease. It’s just a different place.

    So you must go out and buy a new guidebook. And you must learn a whole new language. And you will meet a whole new group of people you would never have met.

    It’s just a different place. It’s slower paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy. But after you’ve been there for a while and you catch your breath, you look around, and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills, Holland has tulips, Holland even has Rembrandts.

    But everyone you know is busy coming and going from Italy, and they’re all bragging about what a wonderful time they had there. And for the rest of your life you will say, “Yes, that’s where I was supposed to go. That’s what I had planned.”

    The pain of that will never, ever, go away, because the loss of that dream is a very significant loss.

    But if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn’t get to Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very special, the very lovely things about Holland.

     

    How many times in my life have I landed in unknown territory? How often has life taken me on a detour to a place I never imagined nor wanted to go?

    I inhale. I exhale. I grieve. I cry. I mourn. I pray. I stand back up. I learn the new language. I discover who I am in the present situation. I look for whatever is lovely and noble and true even in the midst of seeming hopelessness. I seek out the positive no matter how hidden. I am relentless in my pursuit to make it better because I am there.

     

     

     

     

  • Rather A Privilege

    Taking two children to a store doesn’t seem like a big deal. However, Nathan is five ears old and Wesley is sixteen but cognitively closer to a three-year old. He has autism. Genetics are strong, though, and like his mother he loves to go shopping.

    We pulled in to the lot of Target and I turned around to see that Wesley managed to take off both his socks and shoes. I glanced out my window and saw families just jump out of the car and go in. For a moment I envied the simplicity of their lives. I envied the fact that they probably did not even know the ability to go easily into the store was something to be envied.

    I put Wesley’s socks and shoes back on. His feet are deformed and socks do not go on easily so it took a few minutes. I made sure his sippy cup and two extra bottles of Pediasure were in my purse. I grabbed the IPad with the most charge to ensure it wouldn’t die while in the store for that could be catastrophic. I checked that everything had straps and clips to tie to the cart as to not injure anyone from flying objects. Wesley often throws items when he is no longer in need of them. Sometimes he throws them to get your attention because he cannot speak. A simple solution to him can be painful for the one getting hit in the head with a full cup.

    I unstrapped his seat belt which has a special safety device to prevent him from unbuckling himself. Wesley’s brain often takes time to process what is occurring so he rarely gets right out of the car. He has to sit and look around and wait until he understands what we are doing. Life with Wesley requires patience and I don’t mind waiting. Forcing him to move faster only stresses him out in a way I do not understand.

    Finally, we stood outside the car and I looked toward the entrance. It might as well have been a mile away because one million things could happen between where I was and where we needed to be. Wesley might decide he wants to go home. He might want to sit down in the middle of the parking lot and not move until he is ready. He may have a melt down for reasons I will never know. All the while I will have to keep Nathan safe both from cars and Wesley’s “enthusiastic pats”.

     

    As I began to feel overwhelmed and I had not even reached the store yet I remembered all the times I held him in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit unsure if he was going to live or die. I thought about the time when he was only one year old and was connected to so many monitors I did not even know what some of them were tracking. He would cry every time I tried to lay him down. I sat in the rocking chair of the hospital most of the night trying with all my strength to stay awake to keep holding him. Eventually I relented and knew sleep would not be defeated. So I placed him in the crib and crawled in next to him. The next morning the nurse came in to find me curled up asleep.  She exclaimed “In all my years here I have never seen this.” I did what I needed to so that he always knew I was near.

    In my heart’s mind I see the faces of dear friends who had to bury their children. I live in a world where children die at a disproportionate rate than most people’s experience. I know those parents would give anything to take 30 minutes to get from the car  in the parking lot to Target. They would give up an appendage to have to put their child’s shoes on for the fourth time before ten o’clock in the morning. I recall standing in a funeral home to offer my sympathy to a mother and father as their child laid in a tiny casket. I remember my heart breaking that they even make caskets that small and that my friends needed to buy one. From their perspective, I am sure, these are not minor inconveniences. Rather, they are privileges.

    Standing in the parking lot I gaze at Wesley and I hear myself whisper, “Thank you Jesus.”

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