Patience to Endure

Tag: inspirational

  • Coins

    Coins

    I am struggling today with the “what ifs”. I read that the brain actually prefers guilt over helplessness. Mine is desperately trying to make sense of senselessness. Grief, it seems, can make us become our own harshest judge.

    I remind myself, moment to moment sometimes, that the medical professionals didn’t even know how sick you were. The labwork beguiled the raging infection within you. I just get stuck in the loop seeing it all in hindsight and, I know, that is unfair. It is called “counterfactual thinking” because the randomness of it all is so unsafe. Guilt creates the illusion of control and it is less frightening than believing nothing could have stopped your death even though that is where the harsh, cold, cruel truth resides.

    For twenty-four years my nervous system tied my wellbeing to yours and made your safety my biological responsibility. It was beyond maternal instinct. It was in the very system that made me who I am. Apparently, the neuroscience of it is my brain hasn’t immediately understood yet that our relationship has changed. It still wants to know how to find you, protect you, and fix whatever is wrong. It has not relaxed enough to accept I only find you in my memories now. My brain is deceiving me to search the past instead of the present. It is running thousands of alternative timelines looking for the one where you would have survived.

    My heart knows though even if I found a timeline in which you lived you still would have not. It is a form of self torture of love not ready to let go. My brain exhaustively is still trying to protect you even though my heart knows you are where you no longer need my protection. You have HIS and there is nothing from which you need protecting. It seems now the only protection I can offer is me from myself.

    Sweet boy, I fight the feeling that I failed. I should have, I could have prevented this yet still know I had no control. I cannot control when God says yes and when God says no. How I wish I could. You would still be here with me.

    The average distance between the head and heart is twelve inches. For me, it is measured in years…twenty-four of them. My watch has ended but I can’t seem to put the sword down quite yet. The battle is no longer for your health. The war that rages is between my heart and my mind. Grief set me here in the in-between. This is not where I am supposed to stay. This is not where God wants me to be. I know with all certainty you would not want me here.

    For now, my sweet boy, I travel back and forth. They are both torturous and broken lands. Sometimes a reprieve allows me to wait in the middle. The irony that my head is protecting my heart and my heart protecting my head is not lost on me. Both are in the process of healing and neither are home. Not yet.

    The struggle is two sides of the same coin. My heart and my head are who I am. Each are trying to protect the other and even with the best intentions the flipping creates a chaotic cacophony that just hurts. The day of agreement, they say, is a while away. Grief this deep and this profound does not dissipate soon enough.

    I am waiting for the funeral home to call me back to let me know when I can bring you home. We finally have enough money to pay their bill. I am sorry it took so long. I have cleared a space in my office for you. We sat and had coffee there every day. You would sit for hours while I worked on the computer. The only thing you ever wanted in life was to be in the same room as me. It was my truth as well. In some way others might find morbid, I find comfort having you with me still.

    Your brothers picked out an urn with a picture frame on the front. We liked the idea of being able to change the pictures. They miss you.

    This pain I feel is another two sides to the same coin. For twenty-four years I basked in the glow of so much love and the honor it was to care for you and have you care for me. The coin flipped on February 21st. As great as the love between us is the despair that sits on my heart every day. I know it will get better ever so slowly. The day will come when I think more about your life than your death. I pray it comes soon, sweet boy.

    As I sit in the living room on this gloomy day I find another coin. Your chromosomal deletion is what made you special and beautiful and loving. The coin flipped and your chromosomal deletion is what made you not survive.

    For today, the coins all lay face up in a way that is unbearable. Yesterday it was sunny and eighty degrees. Today it is snowing. Even nature flips her coin.

    I take great comfort that though the coins flip, the promise of our loving God is the final landing will be

    He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the former things have passed away. Revelation 21:4

  • Home Depot

    Home Depot

    Two weeks ago this day your heart beat for the last time. It feels like two decades at times and two minutes at others. Time is cruel.

    I went to Home Depot today. You hated Home Depot. It was your least favorite store but we also had fun there, especially during Christmas. We would push all the buttons and watch Disney characters sing songs just for you. You would give me enough time to look at plants and then would let me, and the entire store, know it was time to leave.

    I pushed a cart today. It was abhorrent. When you were here I always pulled it because I would maneuver you in your chair in front of me. When I finished looking at the plants, there by myself I said, “Now we have to go find Grandma,” and my heart broke all over again. You were not there to hear me.

    I managed to check out and get back to the car in time to cry. You hated it when I cried. You always would cry with me even if you didn’t know what it was about. You laughed when I laughed and you cried when I cried. You never cared why only that we shared every emotion. You were the best companion.

    There were children everywhere at Home Depot today proudly displaying their craft. I cried more wondering why I didn’t get to keep you, my child. Then I remembered. I did. For twenty-four years I got to keep you closer than most mothers get the privilege of experiencing. And for that I am grateful.

    I don’t know how I am going to do this, my sweet boy. You were the voice in my head and the song in my heart. You were my purpose and every day I thanked God for giving me a child who would ensure my role as mother would always be profound because you needed me and that would never change. At least not until February 21, 2026. Your brothers will always need me as a mother but not like you did.

    I count it progress I was able to get back to the car before I cried this time. Baby steps. A friend once told me

    One step at a time. And when you can’t, just lean forward.

    I am leaning forward. Sometimes I just sit and cry. This grief is different. It has shaken my very knowledge of where I am in the world. It is physical. It is emotional. It is mental. It is overwhelmingly, seemingly impossible. But God…

    All the time I miss your beautiful love. Your smile. Your request for hugs which I honored every single time because I knew each one could be the last.

    That last one came two weeks ago today. Steve held your hand and I hugged you whispering “Mommy is here…mommy is here,” over and over until you were not.

    Someday I will be able to go to a store and not cry. Some day the clock will not remind me it is time to catheterize or give medication or have coffee together in my office. Someday I will make it through a day without crying. But there will never be a day I don’t miss you with my whole, shattered, broken heart. I hold to the promise it won’t always be so shattered or broken but do know there will always be a piece missing until I see you again, sweet boy.

    A friend sent me this poem. Your absence, the quietness of the house, the emptiness of my days tell my truth of this poem:

    Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful Grace of God (Aeschylus, translated by Edieth Hamilton in 1930)

  • It Isn’t Just Walmart

    It Isn’t Just Walmart

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

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

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

    Deep breath. Two more steps. Exhale.

    The tears fill my eyes.

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

    The tears are almost uncontrollable now.

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

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

    “Can I give him something?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

    The tears now are uncontrollable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    I shook my head somberly no. Another anomaly.

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

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

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

    Syndrome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Each and every time.

    Especially this time.

  • Three Minutes

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

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

    The voice on the other end used words…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    (more…)
  • Co-inhabitants

    Co-inhabitants

    Yesterday at Costco Wesley walked along pushing the cart. We began to pass a man who had what appeared to be a child, perhaps 6 or 7, sleeping in the cart when he suddenly stopped to engage Wesley. With a gigantic smile, he held out his fist to give him knuckles.

    “Hi buddy!” he said as if he knew Wes.

    Wes happily obliged in giving him knuckles.

    “How are you?” he said with his smile getting even bigger.

    He looked at me, “How old is he?”

    “He’s 21,” I told him.

    He pointed to his son in the cart. “He is 18!”

    I walked over to say hello. He wasn’t a young child. He was a child like ours. He had special needs.

    We stood there for a few minutes in the frozen section of Costco. People hurried by as we talked about our boys. It wasn’t about exchanging information. It was about being, even if briefly, with someone who lives in my world.

    Their life is as mine. Without being told, I know things about these strangers. I know this man or his wife has a hospital bag in his closet. There sits an already packed bag just in case that fever isn’t just a blip but the start of an extended hospital stay. Their arms are tired every single night from maneuvering their son. I know they hook up a feeding tube to give their child the basic sustenance to live. They try to balance time with the other children but some days they just can’t and it is no one’s fault though it feels as if it should be. They carry the weight of how their children are impacted. Though they will likely grow to be kinder and more compassionate adults, there is still a cost. I look at his beautiful wife whose smile is just as big and know he has a supportive spouse. Their friends try to understand but can’t possibly because they always only pass through.

    And I know they have cried over the simplest victory. They celebrate every smile and every laugh. Their life is amplified. They take nothing for granted and lay down each night and thank God for one more day with their son.

    Being the parent of a child with special needs is something like being a citizen in a foreign land. You appear to be like everyone else but your culture is different. The way your family eats is not like others. Though you speak the same language, yours includes words and acronyms the others don’t know. Your family can’t attend events unless they intentionally turn down the volume and the house lights are just half dark. Sensory friendly events are few and even fewer are churches to welcome the entire family. Days are filled with vital stats checks and diaper changes and medications. Some nights sleep is regular and others it consists of only two hours. There is no rhyme or reason. It is just how it is.

    Complete assimilation just isn’t possible even though you once lived with the same customs your friends luxuriously enjoy. As much as they don’t understand yours, you can no longer imagine life being any other way than how it has become. For it to be any different would mean the worst of nightmares.

    But then you see a couple and even though they are strangers, you recognize a familiarity that is not just welcomed. It is sought. They know the words you do. They don’t just sympathize. They empathize because they live there too. The only thing you may have in common with them is that but the weight and joy of that encompasses who you are. So you just stand there for a few moments. You feel your soul relax in a way it only can when you are with fellow inhabitants.

    For a fleeting few moments the abnormality of your life isn’t there. You soak in the seconds when abnormal is normal. And you smile and thank these strangers, these co-inhabitants, for stopping to give knuckles to Wesley and a smile to your heart.

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • Soul Healing

    Soul healing is messy business. When I think of healing, my mind automatically goes to that of someone who needs to take it easy. I see someone resting in a bed somewhere. I don’t imagine the grueling hours of therapy. I don’t think of the sweat and the pain just desperately trying to get back to wherever you once were. 

    I like to identify with the type of healing that is passive. The type where you just lay back and let it happen to you.

    Soul healing is active. It is painful. It is humbling. It is admitting you have wounds that exist and scars that didn’t heal properly. Sometimes you have to excise those scars to get the infection out. That means opening up all that festered and became rotten. It necessarily stings. It downright hurts. It is exhausting. You would just rather let it be. 

    Ignoring it though doesn’t mean it isn’t there and growing in strength. It will still display its existence in the form of an unkind word or a broken promise or inability to be vulnerable and truly let someone in. It will infect another. An unhealed soul is contagious and does its best to damage others.

    Lean into it. Do the work. Admit when you are wrong. Make amends to those you have harmed. Forgive those who caused the broken part of you even if they never apologized. Forgive yourself. It isn’t yours to carry. Put it down.

    You deserve to heal. You deserve peace. The people you love and have yet to love deserve a healed you.

    Don’t be passive when it comes to your soul. Take time to cry. Rest. Seek professional help. Join a support group. Put in the sweat not to get back to where you once were but to not yield until you find a glorious new normal. And don’t ever let them tell you the damage is done whether it was to you or by you. You get to decide. It is your choice and I hope you choose to rehabilitate your soul.

    “Wounds don’t heal the way you want them to, they heal the way they need to. It takes time for wounds to fade into scars. It takes time for the healing process to take place. Give yourself that time. Give yourself that Grace. Be gentle with your wounds. Be gentle with your heart. You deserve to heal.” – Del Olanubi

  • Distillation

    Steve and I were at the store today. Shelves were empty. People were wearing masks. There was something sobering in the air. Life in America had changed very suddenly and very drastically.

    The cashier was telling me about how the truck was two days late. He said people were lined up before they opened and one woman bought six packs of toilet paper. He wasn’t sure what she needed that much for but surmised she was going to try to sell it at a markup, of course. I told him I can’t find rubbing alcohol anywhere. I explained Wesley has special needs and I need it for disinfecting and cleaning g-tube supplies. Supplies people are hoarding are the very things some families need to live.

    He called his manager over. With sympathetic eyes her heart listened to me. She told me they may be getting a shipment of rubbing alcohol tonight and to call later. She would see what she could do about setting aside a couple of bottles for me. As we were leaving, she came out chasing us. Handing us a box sanitizing wipes she asked if it would help. She apologized that it wasn’t alcohol based.

    I read a story later about a pair of brothers who, when the crisis first broke in America, bought as much hand sanitizer as they could find. They sold it on ebay and amazon at an enormous mark up until customer complaints had them taken off the sites. The brothers now have nearly seventeen thousand bottles of hand sanitizer with no way to sell it. Meanwhile, hand sanitizer is the most effective way I can protect my son with special needs. Wesley is eighteen years old but cognitively two. He can’t wash his hands for twenty seconds. He doesn’t understand to not put his fingers in his mouth. Yet I can not find it anywhere other than sweet friends who have found some and are willing to give it to us.

    There is something so powerful about a crisis that reveals the best and worst not just in humanity but in ourselves. It does not create something within us that was not already there. It simply exposes what already exists.

    A lifetime ago I wanted to become a physician though I took a bit of a circuitous route and never actually got there. After graduating college I was a professional ballet dancer in New York City. Realizing it was not a lifestyle conducive to my personality I moved back in with my parents. I worked full-time and in the evening took the prerequisites with the dream of taking the medical college entrance test.

    My organic chemistry class was twice a week in the evenings. Almost the entire student body was, like me, working full time jobs and then going to night school. Our lab class was once a week from 5:30 to 10:00 pm. The professor would give us each a small beaker with liquid. We were to distill it to get rid of contaminants and then run several tests. With our little lab books we would approach the professor and tell him what we believed the compound to be. If we were right we would pass. If we were wrong we would fail. There was no in between.

    As you can imagine in a class filled with people who had just worked eight plus hour shifts, we were prone to short cuts. Not one of us wanted to take the time to distill it so none of us did.

    A few weeks into the class we were all stunned when our answers came back wrong. My professor’s response to me was simply, “must have been contaminated” and a shoulder shrug. Indeed, I learned my lesson.

    The distillation process was necessary. The heat applied rid the compound of impurities and boiled it down to its very essence. It had to be purified in order to know what was actually there.

    Coronavirus is our distillation process. I don’t believe it is going to create heroes or villans. What it will do is reveal within each of us and one another exactly who the heroes and who the villans are.

    I’ve had times in my life I was sure excruciating heat was being applied to the core of me. My soul was being purified.  The distillation process was and is a painful one. Each time everything was stripped away and I was left with these simple questions:

    What is really important?

    Who am I now?

    What does this reveal about me and what I believe?

    Admittedly, life has a way of clouding those questions, contaminating them. Impurities make me forget the core, the purity, of what is vital to who I am. There is nothing like a global health crisis to immediately extract the impurities.

    COVID 19 has caused an heightened sense of survival unprecedented in my life time. My childrens’ schools have been closed. A few days ago I went to New York to extricate my oldest from NYU. Social activities have been canceled. No more shopping trips for fun. Life has come to a screeching halt for us and for every responsible person who understands the significance of self sacrifice for the greater good.

    My life has been distilled down to keeping my family safe and preventing spread of the virus as much as it is up to me. At this moment nothing else matters. I know some who do not feel the imperative need for social distancing. They either don’t understand or don’t care about the significance of continuing to engage in crowded social activity. Their carelessness could literally kill my son, my mother, and myself who are all in the highly vulnerable category. I imagine the distillation of their life reveals a selfishness and disregard and I wonder how they look at themselves in the mirror each day.

    The cashier at the store this morning has been distilled down to kindness. He didn’t know me but he heard my heart and showed extraordinary care for a perfect stranger. His manager who gave us wipes also showed us what was at the core of her and it was lovely and selfless. The brothers and all those hoarding supplies are distilled down to greed and are, I believe, some of the worst parts of humanity.

    This is just the beginning. It is surreal to be standing on the precipice overlooking the vast unknown but having the certainty that life as we know it has changed. Further distillation will happen. As our boiling points are reached who we are and what we are made of is revealed. There is no reason to believe, based on the path left by this virus, our family, our community, our country will escape unscathed. When it is distilled down to the core, when all the extraneous things are taken away what is left of you? What is really important to you? Who are you now? And what does this reveal about you and what you believe?

    My prayer for you and for me is that we find out we are kinder, more compassionate, more helpful, more loving, more selfless than we ever knew.

  • 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