Finding Rest in the Lonely Journey

March 16, 2019 / walkingthisjourneysite / 2 Comments

If the Lord sets you to guard a lonely post in perfect stillness from all active work, you ought to be just as content as to be in the midst of the active warfare. It is no virtue to love the Master’s work better than the Master’s will.
Hannah Whitall Smith

It’s been awhile since I have written here because my life has been a whirlwind for the last several months. A whirlwind of challenge after challenge and while I do have blog posts started and others floating around in my mind, this really isn’t one of them.

One thing I have learned about myself is that I have thinking seasons when I am battling through the challenges of life and learning about God and His ways and then I enter processing seasons when I can articulate those musings in writing.

This season of challenge started last fall when my son with autism entered one of his more difficult times of intense anxiety and anger. Coping with that personally, while desperately trying to help him, homeschooling my other children, teaching a homeschool co-op class, and trying to keep everything as stable as possible for my family as a whole, took a serious toll on me. Those I turned to for help didn’t seem to understand the depth of the struggle so I worked through it alone, realizing the greatest loneliness of my life.

In November, I injured my knee and that, compounded with a shoulder injury that happened in August when my 200+ lb son had a massive meltdown on one of our walks, and a strong negative reaction to medication I was taking, knocked me down even more. Physically, I have always been very strong and able to withstand and rebound from almost anything, but this time, I found myself in constant pain and not recovering well at all.

December eventually brought relief for my son as his doctor added a new anxiety medicine and he began to smile once more. What a blessed reprieve that was for everyone and I found my own spirits lifting somewhat as a result of not dealing with his intense anger issues day after day.

January and February were filled with school closings and delays for my oldest son and this created a fair amount of disruption and schedule changes for him, my other children’s homeschooling and co-op, and for me as I had to cancel quite a bit on my calendar and work in my cleaning jobs days when I could.

When I accepted that the knee pain was not going away and was limiting what I could do, I visited my doctor and learned that a ligament was stretched and inflammed and the meniscus were likely torn. This led to wearing a knee brace and taking inflammatory medication for two weeks, which helped the inflammed ligament but not the torn meniscus. I found this out the hard way when I was walking across the parking lot of our local grocery store and my leg completely gave out and cramped up so badly, I couldn’t move or put any weight on it. I had to call my husband to come pick me up, drive me back across the parking lot to my van so I could drive it back home (using my right, uninjured knee of course). I was completely incapacitated for a couple of days and could only move around using crutches and eventually a cane. I eventually saw an orthopedic doctor who gave me a cortisone shot, which provided significant relief allowing me to cautiously return to most of my activities, including regular exercise.

When I went in for my physical earlier this week, my doctor and I discussed the likelihood of future surgery for my knee and she determined that my left shoulder has a strained and inflammed rotator cuff. I didn’t bother to mention the discomfort I woke up with in my right shoulder because I figured I had only slept on it wrong and it would soon work itself out.

Boy, was I wrong!

By that evening, I was in agony. A throbbing pain in my right shoulder that kept me awake all night as I struggled in vain to find a position that would allow me enough comfort to rest. In the morning, I didn’t say anything to anyone but silently dealt with the pain as I got my son with autism off to school, my other children started on their day, and prepared to finally be able to attend a ladies Bible study at our church. I felt very rough but figured the pain in my shoulder would eventually have to ease. I was only at Bible study a short time before I received a text that I was needed at home so I swallowed my disappointment and left. I am so glad I did. The pain in my shoulder began to spread down my arm and throughout my right side, as my fingers tingled and grew numb. By that evening, I noticed a couple of odd spots on my wrist and hand and experienced some of the most intense pain of my life, while my body responded with a low-grade fever.

To my dismay, the next day I was diagnosed with shingles. A illness I had previously believed only affected folks much older than I. My family was very surprised when I shared this news and admitted to how much pain I was in but now they have watched the rash/blisters spread and seen my lips whiten with pain when I attempt to do certain tasks. They are stepping up to help as much as possible.

So, here I am this morning … the shingles have not responded to the medication as I had hoped and I am still in significant discomfort. My right hand (and arm up to my elbow) is covered in a painful rash and only my index finger tip has been spared, allowing me to slowly peck away at these words. My shoulder and ribs still ache from the pain but thankfully, it is nothing like it was earlier this week. I am exhausted from the toll this illness has taken on me, as well as, from my own sleep disturbances and those of my son.

However, what I have learned from each ugly battle of this long season of trial more than makes up for any hardship. The Lord has been so gracious every step of the way and I have learned more from Him than ever before. It has been a journey of settling into my own identity, following His voice, letting go of the past, walking in Truth, and practicing contentment in every circumstance. As a result, I feel more loved and cared for by Him than ever before, which allows me to love and care for others more freely than ever before. My relationship with my children, most especially, has blossomed even more abundantly.

I have learned the beautiful gift of prayer and surrender. I have learned that it is a privilege to lift the names and burdens of others to this Shepherd who walks with me and, as a result of my own trials, I have learned a greater compassion for those who suffer far more than I.

I have also learned that I have nothing to prove and it is okay to walk alone.

It has been a lonely journey but, through it all, I have learned to rest.

To rest physically with awareness of my own needs…

To rest inwardly with the practice of contentment in all things…

And ultimately, to rest fully in the safety of my Savior’s love.

“Contentment, then, is the product of a heart resting in God. It is the soul’s enjoyment of that peace that passes all understanding. It is the outcome of my will being brought into subjection to the Divine will. It is the blessed assurance that God does all things well, and is, even now, making all things work together for my ultimate good.”
A.W. Pink

The Faithfulness of God

January 27, 2019January 29, 2019 / walkingthisjourneysite / Leave a comment

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

A Lesson from the Christmas Garden

December 23, 2018December 23, 2018 / walkingthisjourneysite / 2 Comments

The last few months of my journey have been hard.

My son with autism entered one of his more difficult seasons and everything in life had simply become overwhelming.

The words from Philippians 4:13 that I have diligently been teaching my son were constantly on my lips as I walked through each day …

“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”

But as a deep anxiety riddled through me day and night and a depth of sadness and grief pervaded my being, I questioned whether I really could do all things … even with the Christ who offers strength in every moment.

Through it all, I have come to understand the depth of my Savior’s love as never before. He has faithfully walked with me on each step of this difficult journey — allowing patience to do its perfecting work (James 1:3,4) as He leads me into a new place of obedience and trust.

It is with all this in mind, that I share with you another lesson from the garden … (You may want to read these first -> Lessons in the Garden and More lessons from the Garden … ) This time it is A Lesson from the Christmas Garden.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

When I was a little girl, Christmas was a simple, yet magical and delightful time of year. We did not have Christmas parties, attend candlelight Christmas Eve services, or spend massive amounts of money, but we did have our family traditions. The Christmas season for us began the two weeks before Christmas, which is when we would make the yearly pilgrimage to the attic and bring down the boxes and boxes of decorations to adorn our home. It was a family ritual as we placed each item in its designated spot every year. There was such a sense of comfort and security in this tradition.

Then, the week before Christmas, we would head out to find our Christmas tree. I don’t remember if we had a traditional place to get our tree but we certainly had a traditional kind of tree we searched for … the fatter the tree, the better. Once we cut down and brought our tree home in the back of my Dad’s pick up truck, it had to stand in the garage for a day while Dad would perfect its appearance. More than once I remember him drilling holes into the trunk where there were bare spots so he could fill them in with branches he had cut from the bottom. When the tree was just right, he carried it in, set it in the same spot as the year before, methodically placed the lights around it, and then stepped back as the rest of us rushed in with our favorite ornaments. Our Christmas tree looked the same every year of my childhood and I loved it.

As a youngster, I think I loved Christmas Eve best of all. I would get in my pajamas (no special Christmas PJs needed), the tree would be glowing in the darkened house, Johnny Mathis, Jim Reeves, and Andy Williams crooned my favorite Christmas classics as the records would play on the old record player, and my Mom would set out all the delightful Christmas treats she had spent days preparing. My Dad would often make a fire in the fireplace and I would spend the evening going back and forth between the crackling fire in the front room and the Christmas tree in the living room, all the while anxiously anticipating the presents that I knew would be under the tree in the morning.

I never believed in Santa Claus, we certainly did not have Elf on the Shelf, I didn’t know you could make gingerbread houses, and ugly Christmas sweaters weren’t a thing.

My Dad would sometimes read to us the Christmas story from the Bible and then I would go to bed, almost bursting with excitement. It seemed I would never fall asleep, but soon enough, my sister would be shaking me awake saying, “Wake up, Tanya … it’s Christmas!” She and I would quietly sneak down the stairs where my eyes immediately went to the bulging Christmas stockings hanging at the fireplace. I knew they would be filled with all sorts of candy that we only saw this time of year but I never thought to dump it without permission from my parents. As I gazed at the stockings, my sister would turn on all the red and green lights around the house, bringing it to life with a festive glow. Then we would go into the living room and when she plugged in the tree lights, my eyes would widen in wonder as I looked at the presents neatly piled around the tree. My brother’s presents were usually on the left … my sister’s on the right … and mine were always directly in the center. My Mom always chose wrapping paper specific for each of us (mine often featured kittens) and my Dad used his technical skills to perfectly wrap each gift using a minimal amount of tape. I remember feeling so content as I sat on the couch in the darkness, watching the lovely lights on the tree flicker onto the wrapped presents below. As much as I wanted to open those gifts, I think I enjoyed this early morning time of anticipation most of all.

As a young child, Christmas was a time of tradition, family, and love … I was mostly oblivious to difficulty or grief and I am most grateful to have these memories.

But, while I was still quite young, my family experienced a Christmas that was completely different from all the ones I knew before. Heartache and trouble had hit our family in an unexpected way that year and everything in my world changed … even Christmas.

Photo by freestocks.org on Pexels.com

In the 35-plus years since that last magical Christmas, I have been, rather unknowingly, in pursuit of finding my childhood Christmas again. The Christmas steeped in tradition, family, and my greatest wish of all … security, belonging, and love.

Sometimes we can long for something so deeply that it takes a preeminent position in our lives. Our thoughts, actions, and emotions are all geared towards pursuing this ‘holy grail’ before us, even as we live out the day to day of our lives. On the outside, our work appears noble and loving, but on the inside, there is a sense of desperation as we drive ourselves to distraction in our search.

Essentially, the very thing we long for, becomes an idol.

Something that takes the place of Christ in our hearts and lives.

For me … that has been the sense of security, belonging, and love like I used to know at Christmas.

Photo by freestocks.org on Pexels.com

The unexpected beauty of trial and difficulty is that the Lord can use them to refine us — to essentially strip away the very things that we may long for, but which serve as a distraction from living a life honoring to Him.

As long as we can ‘do’ something in our circumstances, we don’t need Him. If I can surround myself with activity, chase every tradition, and give gifts, I can generate and even create the sense of the belonging, security, and love that I crave.

On this most beloved of holidays, we, as Christians and followers of Christ, celebrate the birth of our Savior — Emmanuel, God with us. It is a season that has become steeped in tradition, family, activities, and gifts galore and, while I find all of this delightful, let us not forget this most important truth.

Christmas is when we remember the birth of a baby — the baby who is the Son of God and who came to this earth to redeem us from the wretchedness of our sin.

In Him we find forgiveness for our sin. In Him we find freedom from tradition and vain pursuits of our own righteousness. In Him is life more abundant.

I sat in the Garden of Gethsemane this week as I contemplated my pursuit of Christmas and all my vain striving to find my own sense of security and belonging, not just at Christmas, but in all of life. I thought on my Savior as He prayed in that garden in desperation before acquiescing to the will of the Father.

I knelt at the foot of the cross and considered His suffering as he battled the very darkness and evil that seeks to destroy us. Then I remembered His cry … “It is Finished!” as He completed the work God had given to Him to do forever defeating sin and its hold on us.

I stepped into the tomb that now stands empty and remembered that death could not hold Him and that this very baby that we observe in a manger during this season, now reigns in heaven and in my heart.

In His birth, we are offered hope.

In His death, we are offered freedom through His sacrifice.

In His resurrection and ascension to glory, we are offered comfort and help.

Jesus came to this earth because this was part of God’s redemptive plan for humanity. He is the Light in this sin-darkened world — a Light that will always shine brightly through every circumstance of life and throughout eternity.

This Christmas how can I do any less than to give Christ the preeminent place in my heart, my thoughts, and my life?

Photo by Ylanite Koppens on Pexels.com

Our Christmas tree died almost immediately after we set it up this year and even though it is still standing, I have not been able to enjoy the delicate beauty of its lights. Our church had its annual Christmas cantata but because my son was having an especially difficult day, I was unable to attend, as has been the case for many church services lately. Even the smallest of traditions have not been available to me this year and these last two seemed the final blow to my heart.

But then Jesus met me in the garden — the Christmas garden. He reminded me that in Him, I have been given the greatest gift of all … Himself and the unparalleled wonder and joy that entails for all eternity.

For the one who may also know a sense of sadness this Christmas season, this little piece of writing is my gift to you — the reminder of the greatest gift of all. Jesus.

Then Jesus again spoke to them, saying, “I am the Light of the world; he who follows Me will not walk in the darkness, but will have the Light of life.”
John 8:12

Photo by Dhivakaran S on Pexels.com

‘Tis a Merry Christmas indeed.

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

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

The Brown Bird's Song

Abiding Acres Farm

Eternity