Christian Mom

Life

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Her Story

46 years ago, a woman was expecting a baby.  She was already the mother to an eight year old daughter and a five year old son.  She had severe endometriosis and, by all reasonable thought, should not have been able to conceive another baby.

Yet, to her surprise, she did.

She visited the Obstetrician and when she expressed her wonder at the unexpected pregnancy, the doctor informed her, quite seriously, that she did not have to keep this baby.  It was now legal for her to have an abortion.  The woman was horrified at his words and quickly told the doctor that she wanted her baby.

She wanted me.

This is my Mother’s story and I was the baby that the doctor offered to abort.

My Story

Close to 19 years ago, I sat huddled in a ball on my bathroom floor, as my hands shook and silent tears slid down my cheeks.  I was holding my first, long-awaited, positive pregnancy test.  Only I knew the depth of heartache that had transpired before I held that test in my hands.

Because of those secrets, I wanted to hold this most precious secret close to my heart until I was ready to share the good news, but just six weeks along in the pregnancy, I began to bleed.  Not little amounts but huge, massive clots.  What followed were weeks upon weeks of appointments, blood work, and ultrasounds, as doctors worked to monitor the life of my baby and determine what was going wrong.  I was told that I would most likely lose this precious little life.

I remember looking at the massive clots as they left my body, trying to discern if my baby was among them.  I remember taking the very first images of my baby taken from an early ultrasound to our family members so we could share the good news of life and the potential bad news of death.  In those images, my baby was only weeks in the process of life and yet, there he was … a beautiful, tiny person, in his own right.

By the time I was halfway through the pregnancy, the bleeding had stopped and even though the doctors believed that everything had stabilized, I lived in constant fear that I might still lose this life valiantly fighting inside me.

I remember the 20 week ultrasound and the incredible relief I felt when I saw my baby; His fingers and toes, his beating heart, and wiggling body that seemed intent on escaping from the Ultrasound Technician’s pursuit.  I remember my eyes filling with tears as I learned my baby truly was okay and thriving inside of me.

For the first time, I felt free to enjoy the journey of pregnancy and soon, fully embraced the journey.

I remember the flutter inside when my little one grew large enough to make his presence known.

I remember his little feet seeming as though he was trying to kick his way out as he grew larger.

I remember my belly rolling from one side to the other as he wiggled and squirmed.

I remember the odd sensation when he developed a case of the hiccups.

I remember the feeling of life growing inside of me.

Instinct to protect this little life grew stronger with each passing day.

I woke in the early morning hours of February 28. 2001 to a puddle of water in my bed … three and a half weeks before my due date.  I was alone and terribly afraid for myself and my baby.

I called my husband, who was states away driving truck.  I called the mid-wife, who told me to get to the hospital.  Then I called my parents, who drove me there.

What followed was a long, uncertain day and finally, a rushed and rough delivery with numerous issues along the way.

But finally, this little life was born.

My son, Tyler Jacob.

At 37 1/2 weeks gestation.

Perfectly formed.

Completely whole.

And absolutely beautiful.

That night, as I finally dropped into an exhausted slumber, my sweet baby lay in the hospital nursery, fresh from his bath, and sleeping himself.  The nurse was caring for another newborn when she looked over and noticed he was turning blue.

He had stopped breathing.

He was taken to the NICU where he stopped breathing several more times.

His 6 lb 4 oz body looked so tiny when I finally was able to hold him in my arms once more.  I rarely left his side for the next six days.  They kept me as long as they possibly could but soon discharged me and sent me home, leaving my heart behind with that tiny boy.

Each day I went back down to the hospital and sat beside him.  I watched the nurses and doctors work lovingly and diligently over the many babies in that NICU.  I watched other parents hover and care for their often, very ill babies.

I remember the day we finally were able to bring Tyler home.  I dressed him in the newborn outfit that completely engulfed his tiny frame.  The nurses took his picture and then we carefully placed him in his car seat for the journey home.  As all of this was transpiring, a mother sitting across from us was holding one of her twin preemies who was failing.  The baby was connected to all kinds of wires and life-giving support as the mother nestled her close for skin-to-skin contact.  Their Priest stood nearby as he prepared to baptized this little life.  I saw as that dear mother wept wave after wave of silent tears as she tried to say good-bye to the precious life she worked so hard to save.

I have never forgotten that mother … or her tiny, desperately ill baby.

And I certainly did not know what battles lay ahead for my own baby.

The Value of Life

Just over a week ago, I learned that the state of New York legalized abortion right up until birth for any reason.  I read the words before going to bed but I could not process the images rolling through my mind.

When I woke the next day, I watched news footage of the bill being signed and people … those voted into office … rising to their feet, with huge smiles on their faces, and applauding.  I watched the One World Trade Center as it was lit up pink in celebration.

I was overwhelmed with grief as I considered the absolute disregard and even hatred for human life.

I was deeply troubled as I considered all the precious lives callously tossed aside in our pursuit of freedom and self-indulgence.

I have never understood why some lives seem to have value, while others are treated as though they do not.

Some of my favorite passages of Scripture to read to my son with autism are from Psalm 139.  I have always wanted him to understand that his life, even severely impacted with autism and often devalued in the eyes of the world around him, has immense value in the eyes of His creator.

“For You formed my inward parts;
You wove me in my mother’s womb.
I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
Wonderful are Your works,
And my soul knows it very well.
My frame was not hidden from You,
When I was made in secret,
And skillfully wrought in the depths of the earth;
Your eyes have seen my unformed substance;
And in Your book were all written
The days that were ordained for me,
When as yet there was not one of them.”
Psalm 139:13-16

I believe every life has value.

Every life.

Every life impacted with a disability …

Every life currently waiting in the foster care system …

Every life living in abuse and neglect …

Every life sitting in a nursing home …

Every baby, whether wanted by his/her parents or not …

Life in all respects has value not because we get to determine the value of others but because God already has.

As I ponder on current (and past) events and consider all the death, abuse, and hatred I see in the news and all around me, I am troubled and can only whisper words of sorrow towards  those who will never hear me and then extend love and kindness to all I can.  I wish the world was different.  I wish we understood the value of all human life and I wish we loved each other as He loves us.  Especially towards those who cannot speak for themselves.

“This is My commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.”
John 15:12

 

 

 

 

The Faithfulness of God

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The Faithfulness of God.

Such a deep well from which to draw, knowing full well I will barely touch the surface.

Yet, a drink from this well is not meant to quench our thirst but rather it should draw us to toss the bucket aside and jump fully into the limitless supply.

His faithfulness has no bounds.  His goodness has no limits.  His grace overflows.

Even in the hard seasons.

I will say, most especially in the hard seasons.

Those times when it seems that God is nowhere to be found.  When it seems that our prayers are not being heard and our tears have evaporated before they even touched the ground.  When we simply cannot see God anywhere and we feel isolated and broken.

In those times, when circumstances insinuate that God does not care and we do not know which way to turn, I believe we have a few choices.

We can give into despair and believe that God has forsaken us.

We can create our own path and justify what we want in order to convince ourselves and others that God only wants us to be happy and therefore we are free to do whatever it is we want to make our lives ‘easier.’

Or … we can diligently spend time with God our Father by consistently reading and meditating on His Word with the clear intention of getting to know Him instead of picking and choosing Scripture to fit what we want.  We can apply our time in prayer as we learn to discern the voice of our Shepherd.  Then we can make the daily choice to pick up our cross and follow Him and in this process, we begin to die to self, learn to be content in all things, and ultimately, choose to obey and follow His will … and not our own.

The first choice leads to defeat and a sad, empty life.

The second choice certainly may lead to temporary happiness as we elevate ourselves and indulge in all the riches of this world while still using all the right Christian words to sound holy.  The problem with this is that it is truly temporary and terribly short-sighted.  What makes me happy now, will lead to trouble later.

I can eat an entire 5 lb box of chocolate now because it makes me happy.

But there will be a cost to pay later.

The third choice may mean limited earthly happiness.  Choosing to follow the example of Christ and dying to self is hard and rarely does it mean getting what I think I need to be happy.  It means taking my eyes off of myself and my needs and it means opening myself to hardship and trial for the cause of Christ.  This is where His faithfulness becomes real and the depths of His love supplies every need.  This path of obedience requires a heart and eye for eternity, understanding the promise of God may not be given to us until we cross the threshold of eternity and kneel before our Creator.

Only one of these choices lead towards an eternal reward.

The Trials of Yesterdays

When I  used to think back to the days when my children were young, I always felt a sense of guilt and failure.  Those were hard years raising three little ones while walking through the many difficulties and challenges of autism, depression, isolation, marital discord, family trouble, and more.  My perception of the past altered my memories and distorted my current sense of identity.

I believed myself to be a terrible mother.  A failure.

A couple of weeks ago, I was searching for some important paperwork that I could not find anywhere and in fact, had not seen in years.  After searching through every place I could imagine,  I finally thought about those boxes in the attic.  Those boxes that have been dodged through every purging and organizing frenzy.  Those boxes that rarely get a passing glance from me as I carry various other items in and out of the attic space.  Those boxes, filled with pictures and various memories, that signified to me, my complete failure as a mother and person.

However, desperation to find the missing paperwork and a sense that God was calling me to face those boxes, led me to finally start carrying them down from the attic and begin the slow process of sorting, organizing, and looking at these memories of the past.

Initially, I was overwhelmed with sadness.  My perception of the past has been so colored with certain memories I have held tightly onto that I simply could not see the reality.  But the Lord, with the utmost gentleness and care, began a healing process in the deepest places of this mother’s heart.  In almost all of the pictures of my children, I found smiles.  There are pictures of my oldest looking sober and somewhat vacant as the autism stole more and more of him away but for the most part, the pictures showed children happy and content.  My younger children would look over my shoulder as I worked through the pictures and would share happy memories with me.  As I continued I found picture after picture drawn by my children that read ‘I love you Mommy!’  Pictures that I had saved but didn’t remember saving.  I began to realize that my children do not remember how hard those years were.  Their memories were never distorted or broken as mine have been.  As a result, they have never viewed me as I have viewed me.  My children have never thought of me as a failure.  I am the only one who believed that.

As I worked through the memories of the past, the Lord began to change my perception of those years.  Oh, most definitely, if I could only go back, there is much I would do differently.  I would hold them more.  I would teach them better.  I would do almost everything differently for my son with autism.  But, the Lord began to help me see that even during those trying times, He was working.  Even when I thought He had abandoned me and my children, He was behind the scenes and faithfully filling in the gaps that were being missed.

In the last box of pictures, I found a photo that someone took of me and my children.  I have no memory of who took the picture or why it was taken but when I uncovered it, tears filled my eyes as my soul swelled with thankfulness.  The photo was taken in the nursery of the church we were attending at the time.  I am kneeling on the floor holding a felt board I had bought in an effort to teach my non-verbal, highly visual autistic son Bible stories.  All three of my very young children are across from me in various stages of busyness … and I remembered.

I remembered that there was no place for my incredibly busy autistic son in the other Sunday School classes and no nursery for my younger ones.  So every Sunday, I would prepare a lesson and try to teach them myself.  After Sunday School, we would go upstairs for the service where I sat every single Sunday back in the cry-room with my children because my oldest couldn’t handle sitting out in the service.

Most would not be aware of this, but that picture was taken as I was in the process of emotionally and mentally crashing beneath an unbearable load.  This is a season of life that I’ve always looked back on with sorrow.  I would have told you that I ruined my children.

Yet now, when I look at that picture and others with my children, I see the amazing faithfulness of a loving God who preserved both me and my children through some soul-crushing circumstances.

Where the enemy sought to destroy, God protected.

When I had given up, God refused to let us go.

When I ran from Him, God followed and brought me back.

When others deserted me and even spoke against me, God never left my side.

When I couldn’t see the next step ahead of me, God gave me the courage and just enough strength to take the next single step. And then the next.  And the next.

When I was weak, God taught me faithfulness and credited it to me as righteousness.

You see, the faithfulness of God is not dependent on us getting everything just right.  He does not call us to do life perfectly but He does call each of us to die to ourselves, pick up our crosses, and be obedient to the calling He has given us.

When I look back now, I see the hand of God working through all those fiery trials and challenges.

I can trace His rainbow through my tears.

I can see that He was in control.

And my heart is thankful.

His Faithfulness Today

This morning, as I finish writing these thoughts and try to bring this to a thoughtful conclusion, I am weary.  My almost 18 year old son with autism woke in the night with a sense of agitation.  I have been walking this journey a long time and often, the days (and nights) are still filled with difficulty.  But even when the way is rocky, I continue to learn  a complete dependence on the steady, never-changing faithfulness of God.

Hebrews 11 provides us with so many examples of those who have gone on before and how they lived a life of steady faith and reliance on God with the understanding that they might not see His promises fulfilled until eternity.  They trusted in the faithfulness of God and their own testimonies of faith that developed through their trials should be a resounding battle cry to us to never give up and to never take the easy way.

I have seen the fruit of God’s working in my children in these most recent years.  While my younger two children asked Jesus into their hearts when they were younger, just last year I watched God do a work in my oldest and I was able to finally lead him to Jesus.  A long-awaited answer to a prayer that was silently and tearfully given for years.  I am watching this same young man continue to struggle through the strong challenges of his autism yet, I am also watching him learn and grow in new ways.  My younger children have developed a heart of compassion and a hunger for truth.  They enjoy being involved with our church and are appreciative of Biblical teaching.  Just in these last couple of weeks, both have individually told me that they are so glad I am their Mom.  They live a life of simple appreciation for all things.  They regularly practice contentment. They teach me daily even as I endeavor to teach them.

I am humbled to be their mother.

As I write these words and ponder these thoughts, I can only lift my eyes to the One who has consistently loved, protected, and led us through all of these years … and offer a song of thanksgiving to our Faithful God.

He is so faithful.

This my song through endless ages, Jesus led me all the way.

He lowers us to raise us
So we can sing His praises
Whatever is His way all is well

He makes us rich and poor
That we might trust Him more
Whatever is His way all is well

All my changes come from Him He who never changes
I’m held firm in the grasp of the Rock of all the ages

All is well with my soul
He is God in control
I know not all His plans
But I know I’m in His hands

*Photo credit to my son, Andrew Shenk
**I have alluded to a number of songs in this post including:
All the way my Savior leads me by Fanny Crosby
All is Well by Robin Mark
Oh Love that will not let me go by George Matheson

 

Don’t Open that Box

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JUGGLING

I think most of us know the feeling. It often seems as though our days are spent juggling all the various responsibilities, obligations, needs, and concerns in life.  Oh I know, the balls that we juggle as women all look different and yet, there is a similarity between us.  It takes constant thought, constant movement, constant recalculating to keep all of those balls, all the responsibilities we have, moving and not dropping to the ground.

But what happens when someone randomly tosses another ball in our direction?  Maybe it isn’t even a ball that can be juggled.

A massive, heavy anvil comes to mind.   Or a cannonball.

It completely knocks everything out of kilter.  The balls go flying in every direction as we struggle to catch and carry a burden that is much too heavy.

Absolute chaos.

This happened to me a few months ago.

I am, like most of you, a woman who carries heavy responsibilities and concerns.  I was already juggling some heavy issues, on top of the regular day to day stuff, all the while looking ahead and planning for a number of significant issues concerning my son with autism in the upcoming week.

I had been, to put it mildly, feeling rather stressed, yet I was also systematically and prayerfully managing.

Until that moment.  Just as I had sent my oldest son off to school and was scurrying about trying to get the rest of us out the door to our homeschool co-op meeting, my husband randomly threw an anvil of potential bad news my way.

Wait, what?

Did you hear that?

It was the crashing sound of all those juggling balls as they flew out of my hands so I could catch that heavy weight of bad news.

It really was not the best time to tell me this kind of news.

Especially since it was purely speculation at that point.

However, I asked a couple of questions for clarification and then I proceeded to hastily gather all the scattered balls and carried them, along with the added weight of the potential bad news, as I hurried out the door.

It was a challenge.  I had lost my rhythm.  The balls, which I had been carefully balancing and juggling, now felt disorganized and disproportionate.  My mind raced as I tried to frantically consider what I might need to do in the event this bad news became reality.  My fears were triggered and life suddenly went from mildly overwhelming to a tidal wave of completely overwhelming anxiety.

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“For this reason I say to you, do not be worried about your life, as to what you will eat or what you will drink; nor for your body, as to what you will put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the [c]air, that they do not sow, nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not worth much more than they? And who of you by being worried can add a single hour to his life? And why are you worried about clothing? Observe how the lilies of the field grow; they do not toil nor do they spin, yet I say to you that not even Solomon in all his glory clothed himself like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the furnace, will He not much more clothe you? You of little faith! Do not worry then, saying, ‘What will we eat?’ or ‘What will we drink?’ or ‘What will we wear for clothing?’ For the Gentiles eagerly seek all these things; for your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things.”
Matthew 6:25-32 

 

ANXIETY

I carried that added heavy weight through the morning, along with the accompanying worry and anxiety, until I was able to call a trusted friend who reminded me that my upcoming week was already filled with numerous challenges and tasks that required all of my attention and focus.  These were real issues that were happening right now , not speculation nor gossip, and most importantly, these were issues that I could definitely do something about and for which I was responsible.

The potential bad news that I had been given was not definite — it was purely speculation and I would not even know for weeks whether it would come to fruition or not.  On top of that, it was an issue for which I was not responsible — so why carry the heavy weight of it which would hinder my ability to work in the areas of life for which I was responsible?

I never did start juggling all those balls again because, as it turns out, I don’t know how to juggle.  I also did not pick up and carry that heavy anvil of bad news either.

Let me try to explain.

BOXES

In front of us, on a daily basis, are always a certain set of boxes.  These boxes are filled with our daily responsibilities, tasks, and obligations.  These boxes are always open and always on our minds as we actively approach those responsibilities every day — no matter what.

Sometimes, we may get handed a different box, sometimes just for a day, sometimes for a season.  This could be a cancer diagnosis, aging parents, or a friend simply needing to talk.  I tend to view these as from the Lord and seek to adjust my day and my plans to accommodate these needs as they are placed before me.

Sometimes, however, people may hand me a box that is not mine to carry.  It may be a case of it not being the right time for that box to be given to me.  It may be that the person handing over the box is simply being selfish and wanting me to carry their box for them.  In these cases, that box becomes a burden.  A burden that distracts me from focusing on the boxes that need my immediate attention … the boxes filled with my personal responsibilities.

As I looked at that heavy burden of potential bad news,  I visualized stepping aside and watching the Lord as He placed it inside of a box, closed the lid , and set it on a shelf away from my daily working area. It was one box of many, neatly stacked on shelves … all things that could potentially happen but things I could do nothing about.  I could see it over there.  I knew the potential of loss that could be coming.  But I also knew that in that moment, there was nothing I could do about it … besides pray.  So, every time I would think about or see that box, I prayed and then moved on.  Every time I was tempted to open it and try to fix or worry about any impending problems, I prayed and moved on.  The only thing I could do about the potential bad news in that box, was to pray.

I never picked it up off that shelf.  I didn’t walk over to it and looked at it.  I didn’t shake it.  I didn’t worry about it or fuss at it.   I reminded myself that when, and if, it was time for me to deal with what was in that box, the Lord Himself would be the one to hand it to me and then HE would provide the needed wisdom, strength, and grace to deal with it.

Instead, I continued to focus on the boxes that were in front of me.  The boxes that were my responsibility for the moment and I trusted the Lord for the boxes still on the shelves.

DISCIPLINE

Coming from a woman who is prone to an anxious mind that closely resembles a pinball machine filled with hundreds of balls ricocheting and flying constantly, it has taken a considerable amount of work and discipline to train my mind to even visualize boxes neatly stacked against a wall.

I am a caregiver — a nurturer — a ‘must fix it’ type of person.

My nature is to be surrounded by ALL the open boxes, trying to do something about them all … while the ones I am most responsible for, lie neglected near the bottom of the pile.

Let’s be honest here — this way of living is not honoring to the Lord as we seek to control and fix everything within our circle of influence (and often OUTSIDE our circle of influence).  Developing the disciplined mindset of giving God the control of all in my life allows me the freedom to give the open boxes before me all of my attention and focus while trusting Him with the boxes not yet opened to me.  I understand what IS my responsibility and what IS NOT.

Approaching life in this manner lowers my overall sense of anxiety while it further develops my dependence on God and my trust in Him.  It also allows for me to be much more effective and efficient in what is placed before me.

END OF THE STORY 

In case you were wondering — that anvil of potential bad news that was thrown my way?  Well, God did a truly amazing thing and faithfully provided and took care of my family.   The box was opened, IN God’s timing, and I had the privilege of watching God use that situation for His glory and our good.

What could have wrecked me with anxiety ultimately became a stepping stone of faith.

 

‘Do not fear, for I am with you;
Do not anxiously look about you, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you, surely I will help you,
Surely I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.’ 
Isaiah 41:10

 

 

 

 

 

More lessons from the Garden …

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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.

 

 

Surely My Soul Remembers …

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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

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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?

 

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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.

 

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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

 

 

Walking With You

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It was only your first day of summer vacation, but already you were feeling restless with the change in routine.  You saw the picture icon for the park on the schedule and while you protested at first, you changed your mind and quickly put on your sneakers.  I wasn’t even showered yet but you were insistent that we needed to leave right then.  “Walk.  Little Buffalo.” you said as you followed me through the house, so I changed, brushed my teeth, and ran a brush through my hair and off we went.

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We pulled into the parking lot and I mentally groaned when I saw all the little children scurrying about.  Sometimes kids can stress you out and I was afraid you would change your mind about walking or maybe even get upset.  But you got right out of the van and even though you kept a careful eye on the children, you easily moved right on past them and walked towards your favorite trail.

 

With a sly grin tossed in my direction, you began the climb up the hill.  I used to teasingly complain when you first started taking this trail and you still think it is funny.  It used to be that this section of the trail was a bit rough for you and seemed to make you feel unsteady.  You would tightly hold on to me as we climbed the hill together … usually with me pulling or pushing you along. This time, you didn’t need me as you steadily
climbed up that winding, steep hill … over fallen trees, rocks, and raised up roots.

I followed behind with a watchful eye and a proud smile.

 

We got to the very top and then, without hesitation, you started down the stairs to pick up the next section of the trail.  For years you have always held onto me and leaned on me because these stairs made you feel nervous, but this time you simply held onto the rails and went down yourself.

 

 

This is the point of the walk when I can always see you relax … sometimes you look at the lake beside you, sometimes you just go into a zone and watch the ground.  But peace almost always seems to fill you as we enter these woods.

It’s my favorite place too.

 

 

Usually, I walk right beside you but this time, I wanted to give you more space. You were never out of my sight and always within a few feet but I wanted you to feel some freedom and independence.  It has to be hard to always need supervision so since the trail was quiet, I held back a little as you walked ahead.

 

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But during a time that we walked side-by-side, I held my hand out a bit and without looking, you reached over and took a gentle hold of my fingers.

 

 

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We walked the whole way across to the other side of the park
and usually I guide you into turning around at this point, but this time, I let you keep going.  I knew you wanted to see if the pool was open or not.  You haven’t been to this pool in years but you get curious about it sometimes.  We got close enough that you could hear the noise of the children playing in the water and could see the distant blue of the water, but then you quickly turned around to leave.  I offered to walk closer so you could see but you didn’t want to.  You seemed nervous as you walked a few steps and then stopped, turned around again, and asked, ‘Swimming pool?’  I told you that we could come back and visit the pool sometime if you wanted to but for now, we needed to go home.  You seemed relieved as you confirmed, ‘Home’, and turned towards the trail again.

We quietly walked the whole way back to the other side, listening to the quiet of the forest interspersed with the voices of those kayaking and fishing on the lake.

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This is always one of my favorite spots as we leave the shadowy darkness of the forest and step into the sunshine.

We walked across the dam and since you walked past the stairs that lead back down to where our van was parked, we had to take the long way around to the parking area.  I don’t mind … those steps are dreadful and I like the longer walk.

On the final leg of our walk, heading back down to the parking lot…

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Every day isn’t always this lovely.

The sky isn’t always this blue.

Every moment isn’t always this peaceful.

But I sure love walking with you.

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