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.
Tag: inspirational
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Co-inhabitants
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Survive
- 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.
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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.
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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
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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.
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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 40:1-3Hallelujah
-
Trust the Process
We drove to Lynchburg just to go to the mall. My son, Wesley, has significant special needs and this week is spring break. Because of those special needs we can not travel further than we can drive. Wesley’s favorite thing in the entire world is going to malls. So, instead of a fabulous beach vacation somewhere warm we go to every mall within a 90 mile drive. We pack up the RV and make a day of it. I would have it no other way.
As we walked past the Master Cuts in the mall I noticed that all three stylist were available. Both my youngest and I needed haircuts so we walked in and were immediately helped. A young man named Chase was my stylist. I explained to him I was a busy mom and wanted something that wouldn’t take too long to style. Typically, my hair has long layers and side swept bangs. Simple enough, I thought.
As Chase began cutting my hair I began to doubt this was a good idea. He was taking pieces of hair, twisting them, and then using a blade to cut. I had never had my hair done this way and was fighting the urge to run out of Master Cuts before he ruined my hair.
This was an unfamiliar process with an unfamiliar person. I had only met him moments before and had no time to establish trust. I didn’t know if he was even talented enough to pull off whatever it was he had in mind which was clearly different than the hope I expressed.
I fought back tears as chunks of hair went flying. It will grow back, I thought. I was sure I would be wearing a pony tail until it did.
Then he started to dry it and the shape started to be obvious. This wasn’t the worst haircut I’ve ever had. In fact, it might just be my favorite.
It is difficult to trust the process when we are in the hands of an unknown person. For it is not only the process we need to trust, it is the entity who is unfolding it. I would not have had the slightest trepidation had Chase been someone with whom I was familiar, who had cut my hair before, who had a proven track record.
Trust the process…
I was recently chatting with a friend. He said, “The journey is the reward.” How often do I take the time to recognize the reward is in the journey while trusting the process?
I replay my experience at Master Cuts only now I sit in God’s beauty chair. He is not unfamiliar to me. In fact, He might be the most familiar one to me. He has the greatest proven record of creating beauty from ashes not just in my own life but in the lives of people I love and in the stories I read in His Word – one hundred percent.
He takes pieces of my life and the twisting is uncomfortable. It is down right painful on some days. I don’t understand what He is doing. The process isn’t like anything I have ever endured. He takes a razor and cuts pieces He knows I won’t need but I can’t see it. I don’t have eyes that can tell. Sometimes I panic. My trust wavers and I ask Him to help me with my unbelief.
Pieces land on the floor and I am not sure I wanted them to not be attached to me. I trust the process but I mourn the loss. It feels as if I have been sitting for so long and my back aches a bit. I want to get up and move around. I have had enough.
He tells me it is not time yet.
He tells me I need the patience to endure.
He tells me what He is shaping for me will be the most beautiful life I can imagine but I have to sit for a while.
He tells me He isn’t finished.
He tells me what I see as a mess, He sees as a masterpiece.
I trust His eyes. I trust His vision. I trust His hands. If they created the universe from nothing surely He will create something beautiful in me.
And so I am not done waiting. I trust the process. I find the journey to be the reward because in the journey I am being molded into what He wants me to be. As I sit in His chair we talk. We grow closer. I learn to love Him more and the reflection staring back at me. Yet in the changing vision I come to realize that only He, much more than I, could be trusted to shape who I was meant to be, who I long to be, who He created me to be.
I surrender.
I surrender to His cutting, pruning, extracting, and twisting.
I surrender to His shaping.
I surrender my strength, mercy, compassion, kindness, love, and peace for His.
I surrender to whatever it is He wants to remove.
I surrender what I wanted to what He wants.
I surrender fear.
I surrender to the process.
I find the reward is in the journey.
As He begins to reveal to me what He has created, I smile. It doesn’t matter if the final product is what I had hoped. If it is what He wanted for me then it is, without question, more than I could have ever asked or imagined. That is how my God works. How can I do anything other than trust His process and find joy in it?
-
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
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
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?