More lessons from the Garden …

December 17, 2018 / walkingthisjourneysite / 1 Comment

The last time I wrote, I shared the hymn, ‘In the Garden’, as I lightly touched on a current season of life where I seem mostly alone with my Heavenly Father. If you like, you can read it here – Lessons in the Garden.

I’ve decided that I am going to continue lightly touching on various lessons I am reluctantly embracing as I sojourn on this portion of the journey. It is a difficult journey at present, but I find this makes the lessons I am learning even more poignant and valuable.

An ongoing lesson of late has been —

Finding courage TO change and finding freedom IN change.

When I married, 22 years ago, I moved into a picturesque, yet unfinished, log cabin that my husband had started to build prior to meeting me. It sat atop of a small mountain at the end of a mile long, rugged dirt lane. It was a small cabin, set into that mountainside, and designed for the life he intended to live alone. Instead, he ended up marrying me. Even so, it was definitely his house and even though we lived there from 1996 to November of 2007, it never truly seemed as though I belonged. These were hard years in many ways and my overall growth became stunted. I lived in fear and I generally lacked the courage, conviction, and ability one needs to grow and mature. Then my babies began to arrive, autism hit like a non-stop hurricane, and the isolation, loneliness, lack of sleep, and constant demands almost completely destroyed my sanity.

After a few years of praying and timidly advocating for a move to a different home that would be more suitable for my growing family — especially considering the added demands and needs the diagnosis of autism brought — the Lord finally opened the door to the house we have now.

Oh, it is a problem house for sure. It seems to be falling apart around me and currently I have at least two destroyed ceilings that I don’t think will ever get fixed. It is an old farm house that had been added onto over the years and the last update was likely in the 1960’s which means, the counter tops are orange, all the walls were ‘updated’ with paneling (and then covered with all different colors of paint), and the ceilings were dropped and covered in cardboard-like tiles (most of which are ruined and sagging).

But I love it. I love the four beautiful acres that my home sits on and the breath-taking view that surrounds it. I love that I can see the road and even though I often still feel a sense of isolation due to some life circumstances, I can at least look outside and see life happening. People can actually ‘just stop by for a minute’ without subjecting their vehicle to the beating of that old dirt lane and I am just minutes from family and the nearby town.

This is the home that I have raised my children in for the last 11 years and this is the home that allows me just enough safety to grow into a new place of Christ-centered identity and emerging freedom.

It is a house that is evolving and changing even as I mature and change and it is becoming a home that more reflects the woman I am … not the woman I once tried to project myself to be.

So what does that mean currently? Well, it means my home is not perfect nor beautifully staged — neither am I. It currently is in a state of flux and in desperate need of repair — just as I am. It means it is in a season of transition, as also am I.

The majority of the downstairs features a relatively open floor plan in the style of a typical old house with numerous add-ons over the years. One room flows into another and then another until you reach the large, sunken living room. The only exception to this flow of rooms is the one just off the kitchen — it has always been designated as the dining room. The dining room has always been my most favorite room in the entire house. It gives off cozy vibes and is generally the warmest room during the cold winter months when the rest of the house is freezing from the winds blowing through the drafty windows. It is a peaceful spot as it seems its own sanctuary set apart from the other rooms and it is the room that beckons me to enter most often. I have long desired to change it from a dining room into more of a library/office and create my own little space — a designated spot of my own to work out of or retreat into as needed.

I would share my desire of making this change from time to time but I always faced considerable resistance. It is sufficient to say, I have more than one person in this house who strongly resists any sort of change. There are more than enough battles to fight in any given day that I simply never had it in me to fight this one. So for years I’ve been telling myself that I would create the space I’ve longed for … “someday.”

They say ‘Necessity is the the mother of invention’ and that may be so, but I believe desperation tends to be the mother of change.

Desperation has driven me to a place where I need to take action. Positive, moving forward action.

So a couple of weeks ago when I began to feel the nudge over and over to switch two rooms around and set the dining room up in a different area of the house so I could create the space I’ve longed for within my favorite room, I understood that I needed to heed the promptings from above.

“Someday” is now.

God provided the courage I needed to initiate a change within my home that was not warmly welcomed by some in the household. In the process, I had to allow Him to make a change in the way that I think and perceive. I had to accept and affirm that:

1- My time, work, and many varied responsibilities have value even if no one validates them, and
2- My needs and the things I long for are important to God, even if no one else sees.

With this new courage and change of perspective that the Lord is graciously building in me, I am in the slow process of transitioning spaces and creating an environment within my home that will reflect who God is transforming me to be.

And in this state of transition and change, I am discovering a sense of freedom even in the midst of what has been a dark season.

The freedom to simply be who I am.

Lessons in the Garden

December 9, 2018 / walkingthisjourneysite / 2 Comments

“I come to the garden alone,
While the dew is still on the roses;
And the voice I hear, falling on my ear,
The Son of God discloses.

And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own,
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.”**

The early season snow fell steadily to the ground in the week prior to our Thanksgiving holiday. It blanketed the bare limbs of the trees and covered the brown, dry leaves on the ground. The air was frigid and while festive melodies were playing all around me and thoughts were turning towards the upcoming holiday season, the only words that were singing in the quiet of my heart were from the old hymn, In the Garden.

Not exactly a fitting song for the season.

Yet, a most fitting song for this season of life.

I started writing this post a few weeks ago but had not been able to get any farther than this point.

Finding and writing the right words to convey the beauty, sorrow, and importance of the lessons in this season of life, while still in the trenches, is challenging; However, I long to do so in an effort not to lose a single drop of wisdom and insight gleaned.

These lessons are hard … these Lessons in the Garden, as I have been calling them.

There is considerable wisdom and insight to be learned in silence and solitude and, in fact, these are among the topics upon which my thoughts and study have been dwelling. Allowing oneself to be drawn into a place of quiet, where one only listens to the voice of the Creator God and develops the discipline of cultivating a deeper relationship with Him. It is in this place that peace and trust are often developed to new depths.

Sometimes it can be a fragile, rather timorous peace for the one who does not understand the purpose of the lessons but who trusts completely in the One who guides her.

Kenneth Boa, in his book, Conformed to His Image, describes solitude as a most important spiritual discipline. He writes,

“Solitude is the most fundamental of the disciplines in that it moves us away, for a time, from the lures and aspirations of the world into the presences of the Father. In solitude, we remove ourselves from the influence of our peers and society and find solace in anonymity. In this cloister we discover a place of strength, dependence, reflection, and renewal, and we confront inner patterns and forces that are alien to the life of Christ within us.

Silence is a catalyst of solitude; It prepares the way for inner seclusion and enables us to listen to the quiet voice of the Spirit.”
(Conformed to His Image p.83)

“He speaks, and the sound of His voice
Is so sweet the birds hush their singing;
And the melody that He gave to me
Within my heart is ringing.

And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own,
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.”

It can be a temptation to attempt to fill these times of silence with distraction and noise, especially the noise of one’s own self trying to tell God what she thinks He should do in her difficulty and heartache. We can be alone with God but not listen –instead, we try to out-talk him. Perhaps we think we know better than He or perhaps we are simply afraid of what He might say. We may seek counsel and advice from well-meaning friends or even a Godly counselor, and while this certainly can be valuable, sometimes, to learn and apply the wisdom of the Holy One, we have to learn to walk in silence as He alone speaks.

I believe there is beauty to be found as one walks alone with the Savior.

There is abiding strength as His presence guides through the challenges of the day. There is wisdom as His quiet voice whispers instruction while parenting and loving others through tremendous challenges. There is courage as He helps us face the next moment even though the soul cries out that it cannot possible face one more day or one more battle. There is grace as His Spirit teaches us to sing a new song and trust Him even when the spirit is overwhelmed with sorrow.

“He speaks, and the sound of His voice
Is so sweet the birds hush their singing;
And the melody that He gave to me
Within my heart is ringing.

And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own,
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.”

In a world where silence and solitude almost seem to be feared, God is often pleased to draw us into these quiet places. Even Jesus in the Scriptures often disappeared from the masses for quiet communion with the Father. I find that it is in the silence that the voices of the world and people fade away and my hearing becomes more fine-tuned to the voice of my Shepherd.

I understand that for many, silence and solitude may be frightening prospects because there is a great tendency to find our identity in our productivity and what others think of us. When we step into a season where our trials become increasingly heavy, outward productivity becomes more limited, or perhaps the circle of influence around us dwindles, we often find ourselves at a loss and desperately seeking some way to generate activity and worth.

However, it is when we walk alone with God that we find the true source of our identity.

It is when we walk alone with God, we discover the strength to continue on a journey that often seems endless.

It is when we walk alone with God, we find the peace that passes any possible understanding.

It is when we walk alone with God, we often learn the lessons we need the most.

“I’d stay in the garden with Him
Tho’ the night around me be falling;
But He bids me go; thro’ the voice of woe,
His voice to me is calling…

And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own,
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.”

This post is lacking because the words inside are still not fully free to be written, but I share what little I have for my sisters who also find themselves in extended seasons of difficulty or heartache. We will not find an easy button in this life but we will find what we need to face each moment as we fix our eyes on the Savior.

Walk in the garden with Him … especially in the depths of your winter season.

“Find rest, O my soul, in God alone.”
Psalm 62:5

**In the Garden written by C. Austin Miles (1913)

Surely My Soul Remembers …

November 11, 2018November 11, 2018 / walkingthisjourneysite / Leave a comment

It has been a little while since I have written here but it hasn’t been from lack of desire or material. It is simply not a season for writing … it is a season of fighting battles and walking the rugged mountains of the journey.

This past week was filled with tremendous challenge yet, the compassion and faithfulness of God shone brilliantly through each situation and difficulty. As I prayerfully walked each step of the path, the very presence of the Lord went before me and surrounded me. I was and continue to be overwhelmed by His grace and mercy.

With those challenges behind me, I am now looking forward to even more challenges in the days ahead. Different kinds of challenges, but all significant in their own ways.

During this season, I have been drawn repeatedly to a long-time favorite passage in Lamentations 3.

“Remember my affliction and my wandering, the wormwood and bitterness.
Surely my soul remembers and is bowed down within me.
This I recall to my mind, therefore I have hope.
The Lord’s lovingkindnesses indeed never cease,
For His compassions never fail.
They are new every morning; Great is Your faithfulness.
“The Lord is my portion,” says my soul,
“Therefore I have hope in Him.”
The Lord is good to those who wait for Him,
To the person who seeks Him.
It is good that he waits silently for the salvation of the Lord.”
Lamentations 3:19-26

As I read this passage earlier this week, I was reminded of years gone by when it seemed that no matter what I did or how hard I tried, I was stuck. No matter what I tried with my autistic son, he made very little progress. No matter what I did in certain difficult relationships at the time, there was never any change or growth. I lived for years with no hope. I recalled feeling like I was trapped inside a solid concrete cell and my only tool was a toy foam hammer … absolutely useless against the walls that held me.

I remembered years of a most lonely and bitter wilderness experience.

I remember now and I do not ever want to forget because I have also watched the Lord step in and do what I could never do on my own. He began to break down those concrete walls, bit by bit … piece by piece. I have watched Him faithfully step into difficult moments and guide me over the roughest parts of the mountain peaks when it seemed I was about to fall. I have watched Him shatter the chains of bondage. I have watched my autistic son grow in amazing ways that only can be attributed to the hand of God. I have tasted freedom, while still within the most restrictive of circumstances. I have experienced the lovingkindness of a Savior and I have witnessed His compassion … time and time again.

“For if He causes grief, then He will have compassion
according to His abundant lovingkindness.”
Lamentations 3:32

I can look back over all those years and understand now that the Lord allowed all of it. He allowed the grief of the past but His compassion flows freely through each difficulty of the present.

My journey may be no less challenging and lonely today but now I understand the faithfulness of my one constant Companion. He is the Friend who sticks closer than a brother.

What a gift that is to a weary pilgrim.

And so even now, as I seemingly stand on the edge of a precipice and what lies beyond the next step is yet unknown, my spirit is gripped with anxiety. However, I can reach out my foot and take that next step, not in my own strength or abilities, but because I can trust in His great faithfulness and compassion.

Surely my soul remembers and therefore, I have hope.

The Brown Bird’s Song

October 28, 2018October 28, 2018 / walkingthisjourneysite / Leave a comment

In my last post, A Journey of Grief, I wrote about my experiences working through the grieving process regarding my son’s autism. As I reflected on the feedback I received after this and a few other of my posts, I thought it might be helpful for others to understand my thoughts and approach to writing. A few of my earlier posts had been written within a day’s time but now, most of my pieces are pondered for days in advance and then written over a series of days. Sharing a new post only on certain days of the week, helps ensure that a post is carefully thought through and written before seen by others. It is a considerable commitment and use of time and brain energy. In some of the pieces I write, there may a certain vulnerability that seems to make some friends a bit uneasy, but because I know what lies behind my writing and what I don’t share, I believe that my vague bit of vulnerability is helpful and wise. Interestingly enough, I have a seemingly growing group of readers and folks who visit the blog yet, this blog would never be considered a success.

So why do I do this? Why do I share the things I do?

Why do I write?

When I was in 9th or 10th grade, our English teacher gave us an assignment during class to write about a memory of some special moment in our lives. I remember writing about a simple memory, a sweet moment in time that I found endearing. As she walked around the classroom, she peered over my shoulder, read what I wrote, and then in her most sarcastic voice said, “Well, you’re a very boring person, aren’t you?”

Suddenly, the piece I had written, which seemed so sweet and innocent just moments before, became odious to me. I felt ashamed as I listened to her praise the writings of the other students, not because their writing was superior to mine … but because she found their memories … their stories … more interesting than mine.

In that moment, my writing changed … I changed. I no longer wrote anything that was real in my life. I only wrote the words I thought someone wanted me to write. Words that would be acceptable and even pleasing to others. Words that would bring praise instead of ridicule.

For that assignment, I chose to write a different piece instead. A completely made up story that never happened to me, but was filled with enough drama and pretense to excite the reader. That piece caught her attention.

It wasn’t true but it was engaging.

When I went to college, I took a writing class with a wonderful professor. She was encouraging and kind as she challenged us in our writing and verbal presentations to the class. With each word of encouragement, I found that I grew to enjoy the process of writing but, even so, very little of what I wrote was true.

Writing simply became a way to alter the perceptions I thought others had of me.

On a side note, I’ve been working on another blog post about pretense ~ I guess this will be its introduction.

After college, I didn’t write again for years. The next time I picked up a pen was after my son was born. I began to pour out my prayers and thoughts to the Lord in journal form. Inspired by a Christmas program being held at my church, I wrote and performed a one person drama written from the perspective of Mary, the mother of Christ. I considered the depth of love I had for my own son as I wrote about Christ’s birth, life, death, and resurrection … all from the eyes of a mother.

It is still scribbled on notebook paper but it remains my most favorite piece of writing.

Eventually, I had access to the internet and was introduced to social media. I began to share little stories from life on Facebook and eventually people would encourage me to write more … whether in blog or book form.

I opted for the blog.

My first attempts were mostly the outpouring of words held inside too long. Stories left too long unspoken. Yet, while those attempts may have engaged the reader and triggered the emotions, they were written in the style of the past. The stories were real but the way I wrote them didn’t reflect me … it reflected the past.

So that blog was left by the wayside … I don’t even remember what it was called.

Then, one year ago, it seemed like it was time.

It might be helpful for the reader to understand that my life tends to be one of significant loneliness and isolation. I am not free to be around people and involved in community life as I would dearly love to be. I have spent years trying, searching, and praying for relationship, friendship, and belonging, but to little avail. In this past year, the only answer I have received to my prayers has been that it was time.

Time to begin investing in writing, intentionally and thoughtfully …

As an outlet for me, sure. But more so for the glory of God and the potential good to others.

The first few pieces, I still struggled with the need to write in a way that I thought would be pleasing to people. But as God continues to work in the quiet places of my life, my writing is evolving into a more accurate representation of the way I think and live.

Not necessarily attractive or engaging to the masses but that is no longer my goal.

If you have made it this far, let me share the real reason I write the way I do.

A number of years ago, I wrote a short story. It was an allegory generically entitled, The Little Brown Bird and, surprisingly enough, the main character was in fact, a little brown bird. She was a nondescript kind of bird, nothing special or eye-catching about her. The story was set in a beautiful garden that had been designed and cared for by the Master Gardener and it followed her journey as she spent her days on the sidelines of life, comparing and desperately trying to be more like the other birds in the garden who were more beautiful, and those who flew higher and more majestically, and those who sang more beautiful songs.

The little bird could never understand why she was so plain and different from the others and she grew increasingly discouraged when all her attempts to be more like them ended in dismal failure and even injury. After the final attempt, which resulted in a broken wing, the Master Gardener captured the tiny bird and carried her to the cottage nestled where the edge of the garden met the deep forest that lay beyond. There, for her own safety, he placed her inside a cage on the cottage porch. He tenderly cared for her wounds but, in her fear, she fought against him and the bars of her cage, desperately trying to escape.

As the story progressed, the pitiful little bird ended up in a tiny cage, in a darkened corner of the cottage, with a blanket carefully placed over top. She was completely encased in darkness and consumed with a terror which was paralyzing.

In that place of darkness, her true healing began.

Interestingly enough, sitting in the restricted darkness of that enshrouded cage, the little bird began to listen, truly listen, for the first time. She could not see anything and she was not free to pursue her own plans or desires, so she began to listen intently to the Gardener as He moved about the cottage. His words were unlike anything she had ever heard before and she found her fear began to ease as his words found their way through the darkness and into her place of isolation. Often, as he worked, she would hear him softly whistle a lovely tune that awoke something inside of her that she had never felt before. It stirred both an ache and a desire.

The story continued with an ongoing dialogue between the little bird and the Gardener as she learned that the melody that he had been whistling, was actually the song she had been created to sing. A song that could only be learned in captivity. A song so achingly lovely, that it could only be learned through difficulty. A song that she could only learn when she was no longer free to compare and strive to be like the other birds … a song she could only learn when she was alone with the Master Gardener.

But it was a song that she had to choose to sing.

The Little Brown Bird makes her choice and if I were to write a follow up to where I left that story, I would expand on how her song and story fits into a much bigger story … a greater song.

Maybe someday.

But for now, it may help you to understand that I am that Little Brown Bird and she is me.

When I write my stories and insights now, I am singing the song that God has been gently and systematically teaching me to sing for years.

A song I am still learning.

It is a song filled with sorrow and longing. It is a song of quiet joy.

It is a song of love.

It is the song of a bird still held within a cage.

A bird still invisible to most around her, yet singing a song of eternal significance.

I write because this is the song God has given me.

And this is the voice He has given me to sing it.

The beauty of a song is not in who hears it, nor in who sings it.

The beauty is the song itself.

This is why I write.

This is The Brown Bird’s Song.

“He put a new song in my mouth, a song of praise to our God;
Many will see and fear and will trust in the Lord.”
Psalm 40:3

A Journey of Grief

October 21, 2018October 22, 2018 / walkingthisjourneysite / 3 Comments

I sat alone at my laptop, with the chilly early morning hours still holding tightly to the nighttime darkness outside. The rest of my family still slumbered upstairs while I sipped my first cup of coffee and quickly typed up a brief email to my son’s teacher. It was picture day at his school and I needed to make her aware that the necessary form and payment were safely tucked inside his communication binder.

I signed my name and sent the email without much thought, but as I took another sip of coffee, it hit me like a crashing wave.

This is technically my son’s senior year but yet, it isn’t. I just wrote his name and address in capital letters onto that tiny form that the school portrait photographer sends out every year, sealed a check inside, all the while hoping and praying for a school picture where my son does not looked distressed or anxious. Maybe even a picture with him smiling. Maybe this will be the year.

His reality does not match the reality of others his age who are getting their senior portraits taken in anticipation of their high school graduation.

In that moment, it hit so hard and so quickly that it caught me off-guard.

Grief.

Another milestone is passing by…

And I could only sit alone in the silence as hot tears flowed unchecked and the grief threatened to overwhelm one more time.

Grief is not my favorite topic to discuss and it most definitely is not something I have ever handled very well. Whatever I end up writing here, it will simply follow my pattern of thought as I continue to ponder the grieving process as it relates to my journey … in this case, the autism part of the journey.

When I first brought Ty home from the hospital, I was already a jittery, unsure mother. He had arrived a few weeks too early and had stopped breathing after birth. Bringing him home six days later, was one of the sweetest, yet most frightening, days of my life. He was not an easy baby and cried more than I thought possible, but I adored him and was so grateful to be his mother.

I dutifully took him to each well-child check up with his Pediatrician and checked off each little milestone on the paper they gave me at each appointment. I took him to get his picture taken every few months and loved dressing him up in the cutest little outfits.

I happily joined a local moms group and enjoyed sharing the challenges and joys of the early days of motherhood with these other ladies. I was sure I had found my place … my group … my tribe.

This was the life I had been waiting a lifetime to live.

It wasn’t the easiest of times because there were many other difficulties in life but I coped with those heartaches by pouring all my heart into this little boy of mine with the contagious smile and beautiful blue eyes.

Eventually, however, things began to change.

When I took him to the Pediatrician, I had fewer and fewer milestone markers to check off. Concern began highlighting those appointment as I watched him lag further and further behind.

I still attended those moms groups but I began to notice a separation as my child struggled towards reaching the most basic of milestones while the other children flourished on together. The challenges and joys the other mothers shared no longer matched what I was experiencing and no one seemed to understand that my child was different … my experience was different.

We still went to church but the differences showed there as well as he hyper-focused on certain toys, lining them up over and over, an often vacant stare in his eyes.

And that was all before the behaviors, elopement, night terrors, and chronic sleep deprivation began.

Not to mention the arrival of additional siblings.

Everything in life changed and everything that I had always known and wanted no longer fit.

For that matter, neither did I.

As I have watched grief play out over the years in the lives of others and in my own life, I have come to realize that our experiences in life, our faith and understanding of God, our worldview, our support systems (or lack thereof), and our personalities are all contributing factors to how we grieve.

I have watched people walk through significant losses and I have learned that the way we grieve is incredibly personal.

Everyone handles it differently.

I don’t know that there is a right or wrong way to grieve …

As long as you truthfully allow yourself to grieve.

As for me, I find grief to be very difficult waters to navigate.

Waters I prefer to avoid completely.

But I am coming to understand that how we grieve and how we walk alongside others who grieve can have a powerful effect … both positive and negative.

In the early years of Ty’s diagnosis, I was lost in a sea of grief, but I didn’t know how to grieve. I did not know how to cope with the diagnosis or how challenging life was to become. My faith was weak and my understanding of who God is was based on a very shaky foundation. I did not have a strong support system and the comments made and the silent distance from others reinforced my inability to acknowledge the loss and grieve in a healthy manner.

I do remember feeling guilty.

I eventually stopped talking and I stopped allowing myself to feel much of anything.

I didn’t grieve.

I birthed two more precious babies. I literally never slept.

I tried my best. I failed a lot.

I kept them all alive, fed, and clothed. All things considered, that is significant.

I loved them deeply…

Even if I didn’t know how to love them well.

I worked hard and threw myself into busyness … anything to keep from ‘feeling’.

I advocated for Ty. I took my children in church. I did the whole ‘autism awareness’ thing. I lost three loved ones very precious to me. I journeyed on through a challenging and lonely marriage. I struggled deeply with depression.

But I didn’t grieve.

Not for any of it.

Grief must have its due, however. It must serve its purpose.

Without grief, there can never be healing.

Or so I’ve been told.

“We have to account for the things lost.”

Over the course of this last year or so, there has been a lot of grieving.

God, in His infinite wisdom, allowed the shaky foundation of faith from my youthful years to be destroyed and now He is rebuilding me on a solid foundation of His truth.

I have learned that God will back me into a corner until I honestly look at the sorrows of life, acknowledge the losses, cry the tears, and give it all to Him.

He is my support system.

I still don’t like grief and if I could, I would outrun it forever.

But this time, when I experienced the sense of loss in those early morning hours, I cried the tears of grief…

and then I wiped the tears away and did the only thing I really know how to do anymore.

I cared for my children …

I fulfilled the obligations of the day …

and I looked to Jesus.

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted
And saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
Psalm 34:18

There is an interesting dynamic that can happen when a child of God allows herself to experience the process of grief. Grief actually draws me closer to my Savior. The chronic grief and stress of raising a child with significant, life-long needs and challenges is often overwhelming to me, especially when one takes into account the other realities of life. As I age and I become more aware of my own weakness and constant fatigue, the more I recognize my need of Christ.

This life I have must be lived through Him.

I lift the eyes of my heart and I see the Man of Sorrows crucified, risen, and advocating on my behalf before the Father and I realize that He gets this. He understands.

The world may expect me to be an autism warrior and blaze new trails. The Christian community may expect me to be strong, always smile, and only share the successes of hard-won battles.

But Jesus.

Jesus knows and is filled with compassion on the days that I need to grieve.

He is … “A man of sorrows and acquainted with grief…”
Isaiah 53:3

He may not bring a casserole for supper on those evenings when I am too weary to prepare anything more than a grilled cheese sandwich for my children’s supper but … He is the Bread of Life.

For the bread of God is the bread that comes down from heaven and gives life to the world.

“Sir,” they said, “always give us this bread.”

Then Jesus declared, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never go hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.
John 6:33-35

He may not sit across from me to share a cup of coffee and meaningful conversation but … He is the source of living water.

Jesus answered her, “If you knew the gift of God and who it is that asks you for a drink, you would have asked him and he would have given you living water.”

“Sir,” the woman said, “you have nothing to draw with and the well is deep. Where can you get this living water? Are you greater than our father Jacob, who gave us the well and drank from it himself, as did also his sons and his livestock?”

Jesus answered, “Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life.”
John 4:10-14

He may not offer a physical hug, hold my hand, or share a much needed verbal word of encouragement, but … He is the breath of life and my source of strength.

“The Spirit of God has made me, and the breath of the Almighty gives me life.”
Job 33:4

And He has said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.” Most gladly, therefore, I will rather boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me. Therefore I am well content with weaknesses, with insults, with distresses, with persecutions, with difficulties, for Christ’s sake; for when I am weak, then I am strong.
2 Corinthians 12:9,10

Grief is a personal journey that each of us will make repeatedly over the course of our lives. This is what I am learning on my journey …

There is healing to be found and freedom to be experienced when we lay those losses at the foot of the cross that once held the Man of Sorrows.

At the cross, those losses can begin to heal.

Healing can lead to change.

Over time, small changes can lead to steady growth.

The kind of growth that will transform our lives and and touch the lives of others.

It all happens at the cross.

“Therefore comfort one another with these words.”
1 Thessalonians 4:18

Near to the Heart of God

October 11, 2018 / walkingthisjourneysite / Leave a comment

I watched through bleary eyes as a severely damaged taxi cab pulled up to the gas station, just a few pumps down from me. Living where I do, it is rather unusual to see a taxi cab at the local pumps, let alone one that looked like the rear of it had lost a fight to a telephone pole. I was even more puzzled to see that, as the driver stepped out, she left the vehicle running and the car door standing wide open. This triggered my curiosity, which would explain why I paid attention as she walked around to the kiosk and prepaid $14 for pump 4. After that, however, my thoughts quickly dropped back into a fog of fatigue as I continued the relatively mindless task of filling the gas tank.

At least until I heard that same woman suddenly break out into a raging tirade filled with explicitly foul language.

That woke my brain up rather quickly.

I listened in stunned surprise as she yelled obscenities and struggled to figure out who she was screaming at and what she was screaming about. But since she kept repeating the same few phrases over and over during her harangue and would sometimes stumble over her words before getting back on track, I began to realize it wasn’t actually directed towards any one specific person … and given the overall nature of her words, I could only guess it was a somewhat practiced litany of words that had something to do with certain hot topic issues in our culture.

As soon as she finished pumping her $14 worth of gas, she ran around her still-running vehicle, jumped in through the still-opened door, and quickly drove away … leaving all of us who remained at the pumps completely confused in the wake of her unexplainable barrage of hostile verbal vomit.

Perhaps because the weeks prior to this had been so tumultuous, I found myself shaken by the depth of her anger and how she chose to share it.

Through these last weeks, I have pondered and continued to develop the idea of living a life marked with quiet joy, such as I wrote about here -> A Quiet Joy

A life I see as being grounded in contentment, cemented in faith, and balanced with hope. A life that does does not invite fear (or anger) to the party and firmly rejects its unwanted advances. A life that does not absorb the anger and anxieties of the world clamoring around her and a life that remains fixed on the Savior.

Absolutely easier said than done.

Especially since life involves … people.

I walked out to my clothesline with a basket filled with wet, heavy clothes and a heart that seemed just as heavy. The weekend before had been absolutely one of the most difficult in recent memory and my heart was still overwhelmed with the intense anxiety and resulting anger that my autistic son exhibited. He is typically a very sweet guy but when certain buttons get pushed and his ‘fear tornado’ gets fired up, things change dramatically. The mental exhaustion from those battles was still very palpable as I hadn’t had time to process and recover before jumping into the busyness of a new week.

Current news reports were weighing heavily on my mind as well and my own fear began to rise as I watched a culture rage and continue to disintegrate before me.

So that morning, when another child of mine grew frustrated and randomly threw their teenage angst against me, I was in a weak moment and caught completely off guard. I understood that they were simply projecting their fears and anxieties onto me and that it wasn’t really personal and yet, it certainly came across as an attack.

I was left feeling completely shaken and unsure, as my mind rehearsed the number of times I have been the recipient of another person’s angry response to something in their life.

The wet clothes in the basket seemed even heavier as I slowly made my way through the dew-dampened grass to my clotheslines … at least, until the words from an aged hymn suddenly rose to the surface from the hidden recesses of my mind.

“There is a place of quiet rest,
near to the heart of God,
a place where sin cannot molest,
near to the heart of God.

O Jesus, blest Redeemer,
sent from the heart of God,
hold us, who wait before thee,
near to the heart of God.”

The words of this timeless hymn, Near to the Heart of God, were penned by American theologian and Presbyterian minister, Cleland Boyd McAfee. He wrote it in 1903 after the tragic deaths of his two young nieces caused by diphtheria …

And in this moment, while still feeling the dampness of the morning dew wet upon my feet and the weight of the laundry basket in my arms, my soul grew calm and my emotions quieted as the words written through his journey with heartbreak reminded me of where I fit, where I belong, and how I can live my life in a world gone awry.

Near to the heart of God.

There is strength and peace to be found on this journey when we stay near the heart of God. Perspectives change from those of self-focused fear and anger and shift more towards outward-focused love for others in a manner that exemplifies the love of Christ. I can be on the receiving end of another person’s angst and anger, and yet, it does not have to affect me. I can learn to respond in love and kindness as the eyes of my heart remain focused exclusively on the Savior. I can learn to set appropriate boundaries and not absorb the anger of another, nor cater to any anger of my own.

This is the life I choose to live.

A life that remains near the heart of God.

“But as for me, the nearness of God is my good; I have made the Lord God my refuge, that I may tell of all Your works.”
Psalm 73:28

Near to the Heart of God

1 There is a place of quiet rest,
near to the heart of God,
a place where sin cannot molest,
near to the heart of God.

Refrain:
O Jesus, blest Redeemer,
sent from the heart of God,
hold us, who wait before thee,
near to the heart of God.

2 There is a place of comfort sweet,
near to the heart of God,
a place where we our Savior meet,
near to the heart of God. [Refrain]

3 There is a place of full release,
near to the heart of God,
a place where all is joy and peace,
near to the heart of God. [Refrain]

Hymn written by Cleland Boyd McAfee

A Quiet Joy

September 30, 2018September 30, 2018 / walkingthisjourneysite / 2 Comments

In that moment, something seemed to beckon me, drawing me towards that old piano of my youth. It has moved with me from home to home and yet, it has sat for a number of years, untouched and alone. A collector of dust and a mantle for pictures … nothing more.

Yet somehow, almost without conscious thought, I walked over to it, where it sat hidden in the shadows of a darkened room. I clicked on the lamp, pulled out the bench, picked up an old church hymnal from years gone by and carefully set it open in front of me. Slowly, I reached to lift the lid, noticing as I did, that the piano was due for a good dusting. I was surprised to see how yellowed the keys had become since I last played and how many of those keys were indented and stuck.

I tentatively laid my fingers onto the keys and played a few notes, wondering if I could even remember how to play. The harsh sound of an aged piano that is beyond the scope of being tuned clanged hard to my ear and my fingers had clearly lost the dexterity of their youth, and yet, I soon found myself lost in the melody of years gone by.

I learned to play the piano when I was a child, following in the footsteps of my older sister, wishing to do anything that she did. Once she stopped playing and moved on with her life, the piano that had originally been purchased for her use, became mine. I was never a very diligent piano pupil nor did I have much talent, but playing the piano soon became the expression of the thoughts and emotions I held deeply inside.

When I was still quite young, I was asked (or rather, told) to play accompaniment for our small church’s congregational singing during our weekly Wednesday evening service. For some reason, the memory of that phone call to my Mother and the list of hymns I needed to learn are still deeply embedded into my mind. I did not want to play in front of all those people, but I don’t remember being given the chance to say no. This was the first step of several years playing the piano within the walls of my childhood church.

I mostly blundered my way through those years of playing and looking back now, I wonder why I never figured out a way to gracefully step out of that lime-light. There were a number of younger girls coming along behind me who were far more talented and quite eager to take my place. I felt inferior to them and to the other talented pianists in our church and kept trying to change my playing style to match the way they played, but I could never boast their talent and I certainly couldn’t fake their skill.

At home, however, nestled in the living room of my parents’ home, away from watching eyes and high expectations, I found sweet release and freedom whenever I sat at my piano.

Only at my piano could I cope with the grief and brokenness my family was walking through, the isolation and difficulties of life at school, and not being able to find my place of belonging within the church. Life felt very confusing and only at my piano could I make sense of the chaos.

It was the only place I felt peace … a sense of connection with the One who often seemed most distant.

The concept of joy is one I have long pondered and puzzled over. As the years have worn on and I have found myself stretched between varying extremes, often fighting the grief I often know and feeling guilty that I can’t seem to show an expressive, outward joy. Isn’t a Christian supposed to exuberant and joyous in their faith?

That morning a few weeks ago when I first felt the nudge to play the piano again, I had been pondering this very thing, yet asking questions I never thought to ask before. I wondered if one could possibly feel joy and sorrow at the same time? Could I experience joy without it appearing as overt happiness? Could joy simply manifest itself as a sense of contentment in the middle of difficulty? Feeling the sadness yet trusting the Lord?

Does joy look any one particular way?

Must it be an effusive display of emotion?

Or could it possibly be quiet and subtle?

Like a faint rainbow arching across the sky as the rain droplets and sunlight meet …

Could joy shine out through my eyes, even when they are filled with tears?

I asked my pastor for his thoughts and his response was that “Joy is a contentment of the soul” and reminded me that this is rooted in accepting what God has given us, even when it is hard and doesn’t make sense. Paul refers to his experience with this in the book of Philippians …

^“Not that I speak from want, for I have learned to be content in whatever circumstances I am. I know how to get along with humble means, and I also know how to live in prosperity; in any and every circumstance I have learned the secret of being filled and going hungry, both of having abundance and suffering need. I can do all things through Him who strengthens me.”
Philippians 4:11-13

Joy certainly may manifest as an effusive display of emotion in some people, but mostly, I wonder if it should be a disciplined sense of contentment in the midst of every season of life because one knows and fully accepts the goodness and the character of God?

Joy is like a rainbow in the soul. A constant reminder of the promises of God.

I had intended to neatly wrap up this post here but then this morning happened…

I pulled into the church parking lot, very much looking forward to the service. The last few days have been very rough and because I had anticipated that I would need a break by this point, I had already asked a friend to sit in the back with Ty during the service. As I had shared in an earlier post, my other children are away with their Dad and my family this weekend, so it has just been me and my oldest son for the past few days. You can read about that here, if you like -> Someday …

My son has been unexpectedly very anxious about his siblings being away and between that and the illness he has been battling, the days have been difficult. I thought today would be the easy day and I have been hanging onto it as a lifeline. Unfortunately, as soon as we pulled into the church parking lot, my son began to display significant signs of agitation. It only took me a few seconds to realize what was wrong and once I did, I knew I was about to lose the battle. He evidently thought he would find his siblings and my vehicle at church and when he realized they weren’t there, his anger and anxiety surged upwards again.

The tears silently poured down my cheeks as I pulled back out of the parking lot for the drive back home. How often have I done this over the years? Been to church and left again without seeing a single person, making a single connection? How often have I left in tears feeling completely unseen? The sense of disappointment and grief was overwhelming as this journey of isolation struck an even heavier chord.

My tears flowed before the Lord as He ministered to my soul on that long ride home.

Once home, I went upstairs and changed back into my old, comfy everyday clothes. I stopped in the bathroom long enough to remove the remainder of my tear-ruined make-up and then came downstairs to sit before my piano again … feeling every bit of beaten-down and broken as it looked. The yellowed, stuck keys that struck harshly resonated with the confusion and disappointment I felt.

Yet, as I opened my old hymnal and touched the keys, the gentle songs of adoration for my Savior flowed almost effortlessly. Sure the keys stuck, the tone was dreadful, and I made plenty of mistakes, but the music still poured out of my soul through my fingertips as it did as a teenager, confused and lost in her way.

But now I know the Truth of the words that my soul sings.

God is forever good and holy.

I can learn to be content even when I am lonely.

I can learn to be content even when I don’t understand.

I can learn to be content even when tears fill my eyes.

This is where my joy lies.

Not a showy display that attracts attention or praise.

Nor an attempt to be like someone else.

But rather a joy that shines as a faint rainbow through the mists of life.

A joy that rests in the Savior for all things.

A quiet joy.

Someday …

September 28, 2018September 28, 2018 / walkingthisjourneysite / 1 Comment

This wasn’t a planned blog post nor is it the one I have been working on this week (yet, upon writing it, I’ve discovered it is a nice lead-in for my next piece). It is a hastily-written kind that I am hesitant to share because there is always a fear someone will think I am feeling sorry for myself or seeking pity … and that isn’t the point. Compassion is helpful, as well as, kindness, perhaps a bit of understanding … but not pity nor condemnation.

Just some thoughts …

Two of my children left yesterday morning for a short vacation to the beach. In the culture in which we live, this is typical and normal, but for my children, this is anything but normal.

They’ve not been on a vacation since they were babies.

They, along with some members of my family and their Dad, are finally going to experience a vacation. I planned this for them and I am so pleased that it has worked out.

The reasons why they have not been on a vacation and the reasons why my oldest son and I are staying home, are not relevant to this post.

If it could be different … we would all go.

And my heart wouldn’t know this sadness of being left behind.

I actually started this post yesterday morning before they left and planned to finish it once they were gone, but I did not anticipate the sadness that would grip me when I saw my van pulling out of the driveway with my children inside.

People often tell me how strong I am and I always look at them in puzzlement because I don’t ever feel strong … I just know how to distance myself from emotions in order to keep up with the demands of my life. This isn’t always the healthiest of options, but given all the realities of my life, it often has been my only option.

I wasn’t strong yesterday. Oh, my kids only saw the Mom who sent them off with hugs, smiles, and so much love … but as soon as I reentered my empty home, I started to shake and the tears flowed.

I couldn’t finish writing the thoughts I intended to share.

I will do that now.

The day before my younger childrens’ trip, I had to make the 50+ minute trip to pick my oldest son up from school. When I sent him in the morning, he didn’t seem to be feeling quite well, but since he couldn’t tell me and wanted to go to school, I went ahead and sent him. It is actually quite rare for him to be ill so it was hard to gauge what he might be feeling. I sent an email to his staff informing them and asking that if he appeared miserable and ill, to please call me so I could bring him back home. That call came around 11:30. There were no overt signs of illness that would require him to come home, but he was clearly not feeling well at all. So, I made the two hour round trip and brought him home.

It was during that drive that it really began to hit me that my younger children were leaving for the beach the next day but, not just any beach … my favorite beach. I have spent quite a bit of time in at Cape May, NJ and adore it’s peaceful, quaint atmosphere. It is a sanctuary from years gone by.

As I was telling my children about it and the different aspects I wanted them to experience, I tried to remember when I was last there … I think it was when my oldest was a toddler, before autism completely stole him away. So, I guess it has been around 16 years.

All of these years, I’ve been hoping for a day that I could go back.

A sadness began to fill me as I helped my children gather their clean laundry and begin to pack. I felt selfish feeling sad but it was a deep emotion.

I am a ‘still waters run deep’ kind of person and these depths of emotions are the kind I don’t have time to deal with.

I began what is typical for my counter-attack for sadness. I reminded myself to be thankful that my children were getting to have this experience and I truthfully have been quite thankful. I then began to pray and think about the possibility of Ty someday maturing to the point of being able to take a vacation with his family and being willing to sleep away from home. Or perhaps the day would come that he would be in an environment where he would be content and well-cared for and then I could go on a vacation myself, knowing he would be okay.

Someday, I told myself … maybe someday.

Hope like this is a fragile thing.

That someday may never come …

Which opens the door to a different kind of hope …

One that is grounded in faith.

“Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.”
Hebrews 11:1

As I fixated on the beach and the possibilities of somehow finding a way to fix what is broken, I was suddenly reminded of something of greater value …

I have been spending time lately reading and pondering on Hebrews 11 … commonly referred to as the ‘faith chapter’. My focus has been on certain specific verses … ones that someone pointed me towards a couple of weeks ago as I struggled with the nature of certain realities in my life. Specifically verses 13-16 …

“All these died in faith, without receiving the promises, but having seen them and having welcomed them from a distance, and having confessed that they were strangers and exiles on the earth. For those who say such things make it clear that they are seeking a country of their own.And indeed if they had been thinking of that country from which they went out, they would have had opportunity to return. But as it is, they desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God; for He has prepared a city for them.”

As well as, verses 39-40 …

“And all these, having gained approval through their faith, did not receive what was promised, because God had provided something better for us, so that apart from us they would not be made perfect.”

My earthly hope is always for me to have my children together … to live life together … go places together. The reality is generally the opposite, which always weighs heavily on me. The sadness that I often feel is a natural part of living in a sin-cursed, broken world.

But … faith reminds me that someday, in heaven, all that is broken will be restored.

There won’t be autism.

There won’t be broken relationships.

And someday, I will be in the glory of the Father with all three children by my side.

Never to be separated again.

Together to worship, serve, and glorify the Almighty God who redeemed and restored us to Himself.

It is okay for me to know sadness in this present life because I know that God has promised something better than a vacation to my favorite beach.

He has promised me eternity.

This is my hope.

A hope that is grounded in faith.

Something I cannot see …

but something that God is growing in me through the difficulties of this life.

There is a greater someday coming.

I can’t wait.

“Therefore, having been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom also we have obtained our introduction by faith into this grace in which we stand; and we exult in hope of the glory of God. And not only this, but we also exult in our tribulations, knowing that tribulation brings about perseverance; and perseverance, proven character; and proven character, hope; and hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out within our hearts through the Holy Spirit who was given to us.”
Romans 5:1-5

Let Us Not Lose Heart In Doing Good

September 22, 2018September 22, 2018 / walkingthisjourneysite / Leave a comment

I looked into her eyes and felt troubled. Perhaps it was because of something her son shared with me prior to our conversation that caused me to really look at her … to look beyond the tired smile and more deeply into her shadowed eyes. Eyes that were red-rimmed and wet from unshed tears with dark bags underneath that spoke of exhaustion and perhaps, something more? I approached her with a question but I don’t remember her answer because I was so focused on what I was seeing. Once she finished speaking, I hesitated a moment before asking if she was okay. Her response was classic. She hesitated herself and then stoically replied that she was fine and her watery eyes were due to allergies that she didn’t know she had.

I simply smiled, made a comment about her lovely appearance, and then moved on. I don’t believe what I saw was simply due to allergies but I had to accept her words and give her the space that she clearly was desiring.

I have seen those same eyes often as I have encountered various women over the years. Eyes that are tired and only able to focus on what is directly in front of them. Eyes that have seen hard things. Eyes that are guarded due to a hidden fear. Eyes that are confused, wounded … and maybe even, defeated. Eyes that show deep weariness from years of continually choosing to live in a way that she believes is honoring to the Lord, even when the cost is high. Eyes that speak of the friends who have turned aside and the loneliness of an isolated journey. Eyes that have known betrayal. Eyes that are grieved by the sin of others … as well as, their own sin. Eyes that are exhausted and unsure how they can possibly make it through another day.

I have seen it in the eyes of others.

I have seen it in my own.

Eyes carefully holding back the words they cannot speak.

The words that whisper, ‘I can’t do this.’

Thirteen years ago, I was living in an isolated cabin on top of a big hill with a mile long, extremely rough, dirt lane. I had two young boys, one of whom was profoundly impacted by autism and was having significant sleep and behavioral issues … the other who was highly emotional and anxious. I was also expecting my third child.

What I remember the most about this pregnancy was the overwhelming exhaustion. Between my autistic son’s various therapies and schooling, I seemed to be running non-stop. I rarely slept and every moment of my day and night was consumed with the many needs of my boys. When I did sleep, it was wherever I crashed after my oldest son finally drifted off into a restless sleep … sometimes on the couch but often, on the floor.

After one particularly long and rough day, my body went into labor very late in the night. I wasn’t having typical contractions but somehow I knew my baby was coming and there wasn’t much time, so I called the midwife and thankfully, she trusted my instincts enough to tell me to head to the hospital. I distinctively remember the horrible drive down that bumpy lane and can still point out the exact spot a brutal contraction ripped through my body as we hit bump after bump.

Once at the hospital, the midwife wasn’t there to meet us; Instead it was the doctor on- call within the same practice. A nurse did a quick check and told him that I was not in labor and wasn’t even barely dilated. I didn’t believe this but the doctor dismissed my concerns and said that he needed to head next door to deliver a baby that was ready to be born. He said he would come back later to check me again but planned on sending me home … WITH a sedative so I could sleep.

After he left, I had a contraction that lasted for several minutes and seemed to nearly tear me into pieces. By the time it was over, I was emotionally spent and exhausted beyond compare. I had already been awake for well over 24 hours because of my son not sleeping the night before and being told that I would likely have to make the 45 minute drive back home while having such long and severe contractions was overwhelming. The nurse stepped back in to tell me the doctor would soon be back to send me home but she checked to see if there had been any progress. She informed me that nothing had changed … I was not dilated (of course, I knew otherwise). When the doctor finally came back, he checked and discovered the nurse had been wrong. I was, in fact, completely dilated and it was the bulging water sac the nurse had felt … not an undilated cervix.

Everything moved quickly after this … fortunately, even though the doctor had called the midwife and told her to not bother coming in, she couldn’t rest easy. She chose to believe my instincts and came to the hospital anyhow and arrived right after the doctor realized the reality of my situation. She broke the bag of waters that held my child and my job at that point was simply to push out my baby.

Except, I couldn’t.

My strength was utterly depleted. Physical strength, mental strength, emotional strength … gone. There was nothing left. Tears slipped down my cheeks as I whispered that I couldn’t do this … I could not push my baby out. The midwife was calm and gentle at first, but soon she realized that I was completely fading and not far from shutting down completely. She began to yell at me and telling me I had to push … over and over, she kept yelling until somehow, God granted me just enough strength to push my long-anticipated, beautiful baby girl into this world.

Sometimes it is difficult to keep doing what we do, whether it is working long hours at a stressful job, staying home and caring for our children, serving within a ministry, staying in a dysfunctional, broken marriage, or even raising a special needs child. Sometimes life feels very much like labor and childbirth and it simply seems as though we cannot push through one more time.

My midwife saw the bigger picture and recognized what I had lost sight of in the weakness of complete exhaustion … I absolutely had to persevere in order for my daughter to be born. God knows an even greater picture. He knows the reasons for the sufferings of this life, He knows what lies ahead, and His will is for us to persevere through whatever we are facing.

We can never allow ourselves to lose hope because we have a Heavenly Father whose heart is tender towards us in our seasons of suffering. He can be our source of strength when the days are long, our comfort when the burdens overwhelming, and our constant hope in light of eternity.

^“Let us not lose heart in doing good, for in due time we will reap if we do not grow weary.”
Galatians 6:9

Hidden in the Depths of His Love

September 15, 2018September 15, 2018 / walkingthisjourneysite / Leave a comment

A wonderful Savior is Jesus my Lord,
A wonderful Savior to me;
He hideth my soul in the cleft of the rock,
Where rivers of pleasure I see

Refrain:
He hideth my soul in the cleft of the rock,
That shadows a dry, thirsty land;
He hideth my life in the depths of His love,
And covers me there with His hand,
And covers me there with His hand.

A wonderful Savior is Jesus my Lord,
He taketh my burden away,
He holdeth me up and I shall not be moved,
He giveth me strength as my day

Beloved hymn writer, Fanny Crosby, wrote these lyrics in 1890, almost 130 years ago and yet, these were the words on my mind tonight after a challenging day in the midst of a difficult life season.

Sometimes life has a way of encouraging the believer to forget the love the Father has for us. In those seasons, when it would be very easy to give way to despair, can there be any greater comfort than to be reminded that God has hidden our very soul and life in the depths of His love?

I may feel unwanted and unloved in my earthly life but I can rest securely in His love … even if I don’t understand His ways.

In Ephesians 3:14-19, the Apostle Paul writes, “For this reason I bow my knees before the Father, from whom every family in heaven and on earth derives its name, that He would grant you, according to the riches of His glory, to be strengthened with power through His Spirit in the inner man, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith; and that you, being rooted and grounded in love, may be able to comprehend with all the saints what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ which surpasses knowledge, that you may be filled up to all the fullness of God.”

This kind of love is beyond the capacity of my understanding and yet, it is a truth to which I must cling.

In Romans 8:38-39, Paul also writes this concerning the love of God towards us …

“For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

What a comfort to know that nothing can ever separate us from the love of God.

The Brown Bird's Song

Abiding Acres Farm

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