Faith

How Can It Be A ‘Good Friday’?

/ walkingthisjourneysite / 1 Comment

“One day when Heaven Was filled with His praises,
One day when sin was As black as could be,
Jesus came forth To be born of a virgin,
Dwelt among men, my example is He!”

 

It is has been an almost unparalleled season of trial.

So much so that our beloved Easter season is upon us and I am completely unprepared.

I have nothing to give my children, true, but even more than that …

my heart hasn’t felt prepared.

I haven’t done the reading I typically do.

I haven’t thought about the days leading up to Christ death.

I simply have not prepared my heart as I tend to do during this season.

By yesterday, as I stumbled through the day on two hours of sleep, kept after my 18 year old son with autism who seems to have reengaged in behaviors from his younger years during this spring break, and did all the work a mother needs to do whether she is sleep-deprived or not, I felt crushed beneath the weight of the load.  I have felt this way for months but this week has felt too much.

I went to bed feeling somewhat defeated.

Such is the case when the trials of life are of the long-term variety and your journey tends to be one of isolation and loneliness.

Sometimes your body just begins to break down and your spirit groans within you.

Sometimes you just lay in your bed too weary to weep, too broken to speak, yet too overwhelmed to sleep.

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“…He withdrew from them about a stone’s throw, and He knelt down and began to pray, saying, “Father, if You are willing, remove this cup from Me, yet not My will, but Yours be done.” Now an angel from heaven appeared and strengthened Him. And being in agony He was praying very fervently; and His sweat became like drops of blood, falling down upon the ground.”  Luke 22:41-44

 

After a somewhat challenging night of sleep, I woke this morning and was immediately reminded that it was Good Friday.

The day we Christians observe the sacrifice and overwhelming love of our Savior.

When He, after a lonely night of agonizing prayer to God the Father, He submitted His will and prepared to lay down His life … for mine.

And yours.

How can this Friday possibly be considered ‘good’?

Propelling my exhausted body off the couch at the insistence of my dog who wanted to go outside, I began to make my way through the house, letting her out, making coffee, and trying to wake fully.

When I did, I saw the beauty of sunshine.

I saw green grass and yellow forsythias blooming.

I saw trees filled with the promise of spring as buds filled their branches.

I saw new life.

And I began to ponder this day in history.

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“One day they led Him up Calvary’s mountain,
One day they nailed Him to die on the tree;
Suffering anguish, despised and rejected:
Bearing our sins, my Redeemer is He!

 

Sometimes I wonder what Jesus was thinking as He stood before Pilate and Herod.  When He was struck and beaten, scorned and reviled, mocked and stripped?

How did He endure such torment and torture?

When He fell beneath the weight of the cross on the way to Golgotha, was Heaven on His mind?  Or was it the reason for his sacrifice?

The creation that He came to redeem.

When He laid down on the cross, holding still as the soldiers nailed him fast …

When they hoisted the cross into the air, jolting his already broken body …

As He struggled to breathe while listening to the crowd mock and jeer …

Feeling a separation from His Father for the first time …

And all the darkness rejoicing to see the One they hated suffer …

Was He thinking, “One day, a child is going to cry out for forgiveness and because of this day, I will be able to forgive her and call her my own.”?

“One day that child of Mine will face incredible heartache and grief and will want to give up but because of what I am enduring, I will be able to help her endure.”

“One day she will feel broken but because of my brokenness, she will be healed.”

“And one day I will bring her home with Me to heaven and I will wipe away all her tears because sin will no longer touch her life.”

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“It was now about the sixth hour, and darkness fell over the whole land until the ninth hour, because the sun was obscured; and the veil of the temple was torn in two.  And Jesus, crying out with a loud voice, said, “Father, into Your hands, I commit My Spirit.” Having said this, He breathed His last.”  Luke 23:44-46

 

Have you ever wondered what all transpired in the time after Jesus spoke those words and in the days following?

The immense grief and fear of His followers as they cared for his broken body and placed Him in a borrowed tomb?

The awed silence in Heaven as the angels waited and watched?

The laughter and wicked rejoicing from all the powers of darkness and hell?

Sometimes this is what life feels like to us too.

Times of grief … times of waiting … times of uncertainty … times of silence while the wicked rejoice and seemingly thrive.

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“One day the grave Could conceal Him no longer,
One day the stone rolled away from the door;
Then He arose, over death He had conquered;
Now is ascended, my Lord evermore!”

 

I like to ponder that moment in heaven when God the Father told the angels it was time.

After three days of silence while watching the masses of hell scream in victory, it was time for the true Victor to rise.

The earth shook and the massive stone was rolled away as Jesus Christ broke free from the cruel clutches of death and stood at the door of His tomb … no longer in His broken earthly body, but standing tall as the risen and holy Son of God.

The quiet of heaven must have broken forth with glorious song as the powers darkness and hell now watched in stunned silence.

And then days later, that same Jesus, who had come to this earth as a baby, lived, loved, and served before dying an agonizing death on the cross, rose into the heavens taking His rightful place beside His Father.

The Lamb.

The Sacrifice.

Our Redeemer.

The One who paid the penalty of sin and death so we don’t have to.

The One who defeated sin and stands before the Father making intercession for us.

The One who is well-acquainted with grief and who helps us bear our sorrows.

Because He lives, we can face tomorrow with confidence, peace, and joy, knowing we are secure in Him.

It is a Good Friday indeed.

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“One day the trumpet will sound for His coming,
One day the skies with His glory will shine;
Wonderful day, my beloved One bringing;
Glorious Savior, this Jesus is mine!

Living, He loved me; dying, He saved me;
Buried, He carried my sins far away;
Rising He justified freely forever:
One day He’s coming– O glorious day!”

  ~One Day written by J.Wilbur Chapman (1910)~

beach clouds dawn dusk

Photo by Josh Sorenson on Pexels.com

~ A Girl, A Dress, and Jesus ~

/ walkingthisjourneysite / 2 Comments

My niece is getting married this summer and she has asked my 13 (soon to be 14) year old daughter, MB, to be her junior bridesmaid.  I am so excited this precious niece of mine is marrying such a wonderful man, but what makes it all even sweeter is having my daughter invited to be a part of the ceremony.

The wedding plans are being pulled together in a relatively short period of time and finding a dress for my daughter did not seem to be that difficult of a challenge, especially in comparison to finding a venue, the bride’s dress, or a caterer.  The fact that my niece lives a few hours away and is only able to visit home on occasional weekends, pushed the search for a bridesmaid dress lower and lower on the to-do list.

We finally found an open window with my niece (and Grandma) to visit our only local bridal store (local for us means a 45 minute drive) on a Sunday afternoon in the midst of an exceptionally busy weekend, which had left my ‘shopping-intolerant’ daughter already exhausted.

We met our consultant, ‘Cricket’ (Isn’t that the most fun name??), and began looking through the fairly small selection of junior bridesmaid dresses and picking out a few for MB to try on.  One, in particular, we were hoping would work because it was similar to what another attendant would be wearing and we knew it could be ordered in time in the color we needed.  Each dress was quickly dismissed by my daughter for simply not fitting her petite frame well or feeling very uncomfortable.

Except one.

Cricket brought a dress to the fitting room that I had eyed earlier but which had been dismissed because of its vibrant design. She suggested my daughter try it as she assured us that it could be ordered in the mint green color our bride desired.  MB tried it on, slowly opened the dressing room door, and there she stood with the first smile of the appointment!  She loved this dress and we loved it on her — it was absolutely perfect!

We were sure this was ‘the one.’

Then Cricket cautioned us not to get too excited because said she needed to make sure it could be ordered in time for the quickly approaching June wedding.  All of our hearts sank as she came back, shaking her head, and informing us that it was absolutely impossible to get this dress in time.  The soonest it would arrive in the needed mint green was a full month AFTER the wedding.  We were so disappointed and I watched my daughter wilt as she tried on more dresses, wanting to please everyone, but feeling dreadfully uncomfortable.  That unattainable dress was the only one she liked and felt comfortable in … the only one that was guaranteed to arrive in time was the one she hated most of all and felt the most uncomfortable in.

Finally, I called a halt.  I suggested that we stop for the day and that we would come back another day, just my daughter and I.  Our consultant agreed and told me to call and make an appointment with her … she insisted she would be able to find something.

I made an appointment for the following Saturday and tried not to think too much about it.  I saw the selection and knew we didn’t have a lot of options.  I checked local department stores, but none seemed to carry anything remotely appropriate for the wedding.  I kept praying about it and finally, Saturday morning, I asked the Lord to somehow provide a way for my daughter to get the dress she loved in the mint green color, despite the clear impossibilities, or if not that one, to provide another dress that she would love and be just as comfortable in.  I just wanted her to feel comfortable, beautiful, and wrapped in love for this very special day.  We all did.

We arrived a little before 4:00 for our appointment, only to learn that our appointment was actually scheduled for 4:30 and our consultant was working with a bride.  The lady at the front desk said that if we didn’t want to wait, other consultants were available and even though my time-efficiency instinct started to kick in, I felt deep inside that we needed to wait for Cricket.  So I told her we would wait and simply look around, which I did with a reluctant daughter in tow.  I finally drew out of her that she had convinced herself that she needed to get that one dress that we knew would arrive on time, even if she hated it for herself.

We only had to wait a few minutes before our consultant successfully sold her bride a lovely wedding dress and was ready for us.  We did decide to try that hated dress on once more in a bigger size, as well as, another one that I had found.  She started with the second dress and liked it but before we could celebrate, Cricket warned us that this dress probably wouldn’t arrive on time for the June wedding either.  So, with a heavy heart, I asked my daughter to try on the first dress … the hated one.

She tried it on and we helped zipper the back only to discover it was a size too big so Cricket decided to have her try on a smaller size  … a size six. As we waited for her to bring it to us, I watched with sadness as my daughter squirmed and itched and pulled at her dress.  I knew that the size six would not feel any more comfortable for her and that she was miserable in the dress.  But I also knew that given the time restraints, at the present time, it seemed our only option.

My heart cried out to the Lord to do something for her because I felt powerless.

Cricket brought her the dress in a size 6 and as my daughter was changing, she told me that she wanted to go grab another dress.  She said it was a really cute dress, it was actually in the mint green color we needed, and it was a size 6 … just like the dress my girl was trying on.

So she went to get it while I waited and hoped for a miracle.

And then she returned,  carrying a lovely, mint green, flowing dress …

the VERY DRESS my daughter had tried on the week before and LOVED!

The very dress we were told could never arrive in time for our June wedding.

Right there in front of me.

I am sure my jaw hit the floor as I exclaimed to the consultant that it was the same dress … the one we wanted so badly from the week before.  She looked at it again and her eyes widened before getting all excited herself.   She shared with me that this particular dress had been driving her crazy all day because it had been hanging by itself in the wrong section and every time she walked by it, she noticed it but she never had time to put it away.  Because she saw it all day and because it bothered her all day, it came to mind as she was helping us.

She then said in a hushed, awe-filled voice, “I think it must have been set aside in the wrong place because this dress was meant for Mary Beth.  It was just waiting for her to get here.”

I smiled as I remembered my cry to the Lord that morning and simply said, “Oh, I know it was.”

My daughter, completely unaware of what was transpiring outside her door, slowly opened it and asked if I could zipper the back.  I refused and told her that we had another dress to try on first and moved aside so she could see the dress Cricket was holding … oh, her face was pure delight as she immediately recognized it!

The next time she opened the door, her face was glowing and her trademark smile was back in place.  Cricket told her she looked beautiful and she glowed even more.  Cricket gave the dress a going over and while it was a little too big, she felt sure it could easily be altered to fit MB’s petite frame.

This dress, the only dress my daughter loved and which had been absolutely unavailable to us just a week before, arrived at the bridal store in the days between our first and second appointments … in the very color we needed.  Then on Saturday, it was misplaced and set apart in a section that caught Cricket’s attention all day until the very moment when she was drawn to it for Mary Beth.  The right color … an easily alterable size … the perfect dress.

Usually these dresses have to be ordered but Cricket said that this dress was meant for Mary Beth so she sold it to us, right off the rack.  It was even on sale!

As we walked towards the counter, all of us smiling and in complete awe of what had just transpired, my niece sent me a text asking how the dress search was going. We all stopped in the middle of the store as I texted her the picture I had taken of my daughter wearing the beautiful dress with a delighted smile to match … it was such a wonderful moment of shared joy between all of us.

At 4:31, one minute after our scheduled appointment time, I walked out of the store with the perfect dress in one arm and my other arm wrapped around my sweet daughter.  As the doors fell shut behind us, I said softly into her ear, “Oh my darling, do you have any idea how much Jesus must love you?”

She simply gave her little giggle, smiled her most beautiful smile, and said “Yes, I think so.”

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Life is hard.  Many of us fight incredibly battles every day and the journey can be wearisome.  I know there is often a temptation to doubt God, be disappointed in the continual hardships, and maybe even give in to despair.  But this is the beauty of a journey with Christ … even when the path is hard, He is caring and providing for us.  Maybe not always in the way we want or think we need … but He is always at work on our behalf.

He loves us so deeply, even if we aren’t always aware of it.

Sometimes it is a friend offering to bring a meal when she learns you are sick.

Sometimes it is a card in the mail or maybe a phone call.

Sometimes it is the lovely bloom of the first flowers of spring after a long, hard winter.

And sometimes, it is the perfect junior bridesmaid dress … in mint green.

 

The Pathway of Shingles

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Shingles

Once upon a time I thought shingles were only the things that covered house roofs.

They say ignorance is bliss …

In this case, I am inclined to agree.

The Facts

Not only did I not understand much about Shingles, I am learning that most people are similarly ignorant and have plenty of false ideas.  So, let me enlighten you without the pain of going through it yourself.

See the kind of friend I can be?

Shingles is a viral infection that causes a painful rash (although the rash was the LEAST of my pain). It is caused by the varicella-zoster virus, which is also what causes chicken-pox.  After you’ve had chicken pox, the virus lies inactive in nerve tissue near your spinal cord and brain.  Years later, the virus may reactivate as shingles and when it does, it travels along nerve pathways to the skin – causing blisters.

Shingles generally affects a relatively small part of one side of your body.  Often it presents as a single stripe of blisters that wrap around one side of the torso – but this was not my experience.

Signs and symptoms of Shingles may include:
– Pain, burning, numbness, or tingling
– Sensitivity to touch
– A red rash that begins a few days after the pain
– Fluid-filled blisters that pop and then crust over
– Itching

Some people may also experience:
– Fever
– Headache
– Sensitivity to light
– Fatigue

The actual cause of Shingles is unknown, although there are many theories.  Stress is commonly considered a possible trigger but typically, Shingles seems most likely to show up as the body ages and the immune system becomes weakened due to various circumstances.  Typically it is seen more often in adult over age 60 but I just turned 46 and I know of others who had shingles at even younger ages.

How the virus affects people is very different.  Sometimes folks get a light touch and they only have a few itchy spots, which seem to resolve fairly quickly.  Others develop pain and numbness, as opposed to itchiness, which lasts for weeks.  Some get it quite severely and it can takes months to heal.   I have found those who have experienced Shingles for themselves (or walked through it with a loved one) and have known the pain it can bring are the most sympathetic and compassionate.

Here is a big question that I have addressed many times in the last couple of weeks …

“Is Shingles contagious?” or the other version … “Where did you get it from?”

So, here is the simple answer – No, Shingles itself is not contagious.  I did not ‘catch’ it from anyone.  It was my own dormant virus that reared its ugly head for whatever reason.  If you have had chicken pox or the chicken pox vaccine, you have no reason to fear anyone who has Shingles.  You will not catch Shingles from them.

However, that being said … if you have NEVER had chicken pox and are NOT vaccinated, then you could potentially catch chicken pox from someone who has Shingles because it is the same virus.  Now, it wouldn’t be easy.  My Doctor assured me that someone would actually have to touch the blisters when they are in the contagious stage and then bring their hand to their face and breathe it in in order to catch chicken pox from a case of Shingles.

Can I just say … ?  If someone has Shingles blisters, they would appreciate if you stay far away from their blisters.  They really don’t want to be touched anywhere … let alone anywhere near their blisters.

If you do develop Shingles, be considerate and aware of those around you who may be vulnerable (especially pregnant Mommas and babies).  You obviously want to be careful and take certain precautions.  I will share later how I handled this.

For more information regarding the facts of Shingles, there is a plethora of material online.  Some of this information that I have shared here can be found at http://www.mayoclinic.org …. but I read from numerous other sources as well.

My Experience

It has been almost three weeks since I woke on a Monday morning with a random ache in my shoulder.  I thought I must have slept on it wrong so I ignored it and continued on my day, which happened to include a physical with my doctor.  We discussed many things, including the torn meniscus in my knee and the ongoing pain in my other shoulder so I didn’t bother mentioning the new pain in my right shoulder.  By that evening, I was in the most intense pain of my life … comparable only to labor and childbirth.  I tossed and turned all night as my shoulder throbbed relentlessly.  This dreadful pain, along with a low-grade fever and sickness, continued into Tuesday night and Wednesday.  I was as close as I have ever been to going to an Emergency Room … but I stoically hid the pain and waited until I could see my own Doctor Wednesday afternoon.

By that point, I was also experiencing pain in my ribs and down my arm with an odd numbness that traveled down into my hand, affecting my ring and pinky fingers.  I also began to notice some random red spots on my wrist, hand, and fingers.   Truthfully, I was getting a little frightened because I had no idea what was wrong.

When I talked with the nurse and shared the level of pain I was experiencing, along with the numbness, which only was affecting my right side, she began to get suspicious.  When I showed her the spots, she drew a breath and said, “Oh no.  This is looking like Shingles!”

My Doctor confirmed it to be so.

We spent some time discussing it and she settled a lot of my concerns.  She prescribed an anti-viral medication and heavy painkillers.  I expressed my concern about my plans for the next couple of days and the potential of being around babies and possible unvaccinated children, so we agreed that it would be best if I stayed home for a few days.  She cleared me to attend church on Sunday because of the medication I was on and the precautions she knew I would take.

Truthfully, I figured I would easily fight this virus and rebound quickly.

I was wrong.

The rash eventually covered my right hand, fingers, wrist, and all the way up past my elbow.  I also had a few spots under my arm.  My fingers swelled and I was unable to bend or move them for several days.  Even with the medication, the rash continued to spread until Saturday.  It was bright red and blistery raw.

The pain, which compared to labor and childbirth Monday and Tuesday, settled into a state of constant, intense toothache-type pain for the next several days after that.  It affected my jaw, my shoulder, my elbow, my wrist and hand, and even down into my ribs.  The pain medication made it somewhat tolerable but it was never bearable.  The hypersensitivity was unbelievable and even now, after almost three weeks, I can still barely handle anything touching the inside of my hand or the lateral portion of my arm and elbow.

The level of pain was surprising but even more so was the fatigue.  I have been experiencing a flu-like fatigue this entire time.  I have lived with severe fatigue for years due to the sleep issues my son with autism has experienced, but it has always been my nature to muscle through and keep going.  I couldn’t do that now.  My body routinely crashed through the day and I barely made it from one nap to another.  Even now, I can barely make it through a day without a nap and my activity level is well below my normal.

At this point, 2 1/2 weeks after the first spots, I think the rash is fading nicely.  My hand, wrist, and elbow continue to be the most noticeable when it comes to where the rash was and that skin will likely take the longest to heal.

I took the entire prescription of anti-viral medication, and have steadily been taking Ibuprofen and the prescription pain medication (this was only at night).  I began taking high doses of Vit. C in an effort to boost my immune system (this is when the rash stopped spreading) … and just yesterday I added Lisine and B-12 to my arsenal.  I also gingerly applied liquid Magnesium to my elbow and wrist and between the three of these gems, I began to experience my first bit of relief from the pain.

I have had very limited use of my dominant right hand and arm for this entire time but each day I try to use it a bit more, even though it still is difficult.  I can’t hold anything in my hand and it is still uncomfortable to use my fingers.  Holding a pen or pencil and trying to write is futile.  Beside the pain and continuing tingling numbness, my writing is horrendous.  Driving is uncomfortable, as is almost every other task you can imagine.  I have figured out how to use a hair dryer and gingerly (and painfully) apply eye make up … but the curling iron is still impossible.

For the first two weeks, I carefully avoided anyone I thought might be vulnerable and even then, I wore long sleeves to cover most of the rash.  If I left the house, I used first aid gauze to carefully wrap my hand.  Then I mostly kept my hand in my coat pocket.  These measures were largely for the benefit of others, but it was also a good way to protect my entire side from being jostled or touched.

At this point, I still tend to keep my right side protected as much as possible … even though the pain is starting to ease, my body is still very hypersensitive and uncomfortable.

So for now, I think I am starting to see a faint light at the end of this tunnel even though I still have limited use of my hand and considerable discomfort and fatigue as my body continues to battle this virus.

More than anything, this has filled me with so much compassion for those who battle with long-term significant health issues and pain.  These last few months, and these last weeks especially, have taken their toll on me.  I feel so deeply for those who deal with much greater health concerns.

The Lord has been so good.

I despise Shingles but I love the One who has been faithfully walking beside me through this journey, like He has all the rest.

Finding Rest in the Lonely Journey

/ 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

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

 

 

 

 

 

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?

 

Vintage_Birds_on_a_wire_Clip_Art

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.

 

bird drawing

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

 

 

Near to the Heart of God

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

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

That woke my brain up rather quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

Absolutely easier said than done.

Especially since life involves … people.

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

Near to the heart of God.

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

This is the life I choose to live.

A life that remains near the heart of God.

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

 

 

Near to the Heart of God

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

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

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

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

Hymn written by Cleland Boyd McAfee