He is Faithful

To You, O Lord, I lift up my soul.  O my God, in You I trust,
Do not let me be ashamed; Do not let my enemies exult over me.
 Indeed, none of those who wait for You will be ashamed;
Those who deal treacherously without cause will be ashamed.

Make me know Your ways, O Lord; Teach me Your paths.
Lead me in Your truth and teach me, For You are the God of my salvation;
For You I wait all the day.
Remember, O Lord, Your compassion and Your lovingkindnesses,
For they have been from of old.
 Do not remember the sins of my youth or my transgressions;
According to Your lovingkindness remember me, For Your goodness’ sake, O Lord.”

Psalm 25:1-7

These were the words I read early this morning as I sipped my coffee and pondered the days ahead, even as my soul remained downcast and unsure.

To You, O Lord, I lift up my soul … in You I trust …

I opted to interrupt my normal Bible reading to spend some time in Psalms this morning. It has been a challenging season and by last evening, I was becoming increasingly discouraged to the point of inching ever closer to the vile pit of despair. Like Peter in the narrative in Matthew 14, I was allowing my focus to shift away from the Savior who has called me to walk on the water, to the stormy waves that surround me on every side.

Those waves can be pretty intimidating, my friend.

However, God’s Word, especially the Psalms, is a refuge in the storm.

A shelter, a guide, and a perspective changer. A sword that is discerning and sharp.

Good and upright is the Lord;
Therefore He instructs sinners in the way.
He leads the humble in justice,
And He teaches the humble His way.
All the paths of the Lord are lovingkindness and truth
To those who keep His covenant and His testimonies.
 For Your name’s sake, O Lord,
Pardon my iniquity, for it is great.

Psalm 25:8-11

Truth be told, I think those waves begin to loom larger when we first begin to take our eyes off of Christ and instead, place the focus on ourselves. When we focus on our own efforts and what we are doing instead of looking to Him and trusting in Him to lead and guide us. Then, when we get smacked with a wave and find ourselves beginning to sink into the depths of the storm, we cry out in anger, “God! What are You doing to me?” Or perhaps in fear, “God! Where are You? Why have You deserted me?”

God forgive us.

“Who is the man who fears the Lord? He will instruct him in the way he should choose.
His soul will abide in prosperity, and his descendants will inherit the land.
The secret of the Lord is for those who fear Him. And He will make them know His covenant.”

Psalm 25:12-14

As Peter sank into the waters, he then remembered to cry out to Jesus for help and the Lord immediately lifted him from the waters and brought him to the boat with the others. But what is our response? Do we immediately panic and plead for God to rescue us from the towering waves? Do we thrash about in the stormy waters trying to find our own way to shore? Do we cry out in anger against the Lord for allowing the waves in the first place? Or do we tremble in fear at the thought of drowning in the storm even as we sink lower into the depths?

I sometimes wonder what might have happened if Peter had kept his eyes on Jesus?

But much more often, I wonder what might happen if I keep my eyes on Jesus?

My eyes are continually toward the Lord,
for He will pluck my feet out of the net.
Turn to me and be gracious to me,
For I am lonely and afflicted.
The troubles of my heart are enlarged;
Bring me out of my distresses.
 Look upon my affliction and my trouble,
And forgive all my sins.
Look upon my enemies, for they are many,
And they hate me with violent hatred.
Guard my soul and deliver me;
Do not let me be ashamed, for I take refuge in You.
 Let integrity and uprightness preserve me,
For I wait for You.

Psalm 25:17-21

The waves are real and the storms of life can be incredibly violent at times, there is no doubt about that. But as I pondered these things this morning, a different Scripture came to mind from the book of Matthew … here Jesus says,

“Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. 
Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me,
for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. 
For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.”

Matthew 25:28

As I then pondered this passage, the stormy waves around me began to lose their intimidating height because I realized I have the incredible privilege of learning to walk on these waters while sharing the yoke of my Savior.

I could get lost in that thought all day.

In fact, this is where I will end this unplanned post … contemplating the beauty of Who my Savior is and His boundless faithfulness … and the incredible privilege I have to learn from Him as He shares His yoke with me.

Suddenly those waves no longer seem as daunting as I ponder Him.

He is faithful.

My Soul sings

I plan on updating my blog soon so this will likely be my last piece on this format but I have a story to tell. A story of God’s faithfulness.

When I was a very young girl, my family had an old piano tucked away in a back room. It was terribly out of tune and many of the ivories were broken but it was my first introduction to an instrument that would one day become my greatest companion.

My older sister began taking piano lessons and my parents invested in a newer piano, which proudly sat in our newly finished living room. But in just a few more years, it was my turn to learn and that piano gradually became an extension of me. I’m sure I drove my poor mother almost crazy with my youthful playing but nothing brought me more joy and peace than coaxing music from those keys, no matter how jarring that music must have been.

I was still quite young when I was asked (or told) to play accompaniment to our church’s congregational singing at our Wednesday night services. I even remember the very first song I played … ‘I Gave My Life for Thee‘ (written by Frances Havergal).

I continued to play accompaniment for church all through my teen years and up until age 21 when I moved on. But it was at home, without eyes watching and on my own instrument, that my greatest joy was experienced. Playing the piano was what kept me sane during the tumultuous teen years when my family was walking through incredibly hard and dark things. I would come home from a difficult day at school, drop my books, and head right to those keys. I would play until my fingers could play no more, starting strong and slowly easing into the softest of notes as the stress of the day faded away.

Playing the piano had the same effect as writing does for me now. It was how I processed life and coped with life’s heartaches.

That piano moved with me into my first apartment and then it moved again a few years later when I got married. Eventually, we moved to our present home, and naturally, my piano moved with me. But around this time, the piano tuner noted that my piano was in bad shape and there was nothing more he could do with it. The entire inside needed to be rebuilt and honestly, the piano was not worth the cost and I certainly didn’t have the resources to rebuild it or buy a new one.

Eventually, I began to play less often. Life was stressful as my oldest son’s autism was often intense and life became increasingly difficult. Over time, the piano’s condition deteriorated until I could no longer bear the sound of its broken notes.

As I look back now I understand that I was just as broken as my piano. I was a jumbled mess of off-key notes and shattered ivories and just as the music ended for my beloved piano, the music began to die in me.

It has probably been 13 or so since I have played with any regularity. It has been 13 years of really hard things and 13 years of being broken down and slowly rebuilt.

I had to learn to process life differently and thankfully I had a Pastor who stepped into that role. What I once could only process through my piano, I had to learn to process in words as we walked through a long counseling process. In time, I found my words were most easily expressed in writing and I found a new creative outlet.

But music has always been the language of my soul …

a language that I thought had died.

Photo by Steve Johnson on Pexels.com

My son with autism turned 21 this week. I have to be honest and admit that I have long been afraid of this season of life because soon, the school van will stop coming and the routine of his school days will end. The adult world for an individual with a profound disability is a scary place and it has only grown more uncertain over recent years. All the plans and dreams I had for both him and I have disintegrated and I honestly have no idea what lies ahead.

In addition, I am watching my parents’ age and know my time with them is limited and, at the same time, I have had to come to terms with my life inside a dysfunctional marriage. My time as a homeschool mom is coming to a close as my second child will also be graduating this year and my daughter will then finish next year. I recently had to put my dog, my most faithful companion for almost 14 years to sleep just the other week and a few days after that, I learn that my Pastor was resigning from our church. I don’t even know if I have a future with the church at all considering the needs of my son and my rapidly increasing limited freedom to attend and be involved.

The depth of loneliness in these last weeks had reached new depths and the milestone of my son’s 21st birthday was one I did not feel ready to face.

But I should have known God was up to something. Even in the loneliest places, I have known a sense of peace. Even as I cried tears of sorrow over the losses, my heart could only whisper praise and thankfulness to my God who has sustained me through every season of life and in whom I knew I needed to trust for the future … no matter how scary it may be.

The Saturday before my son’s birthday, I was cleaning my home and preparing a small party for him. At one point I stopped and picked up my phone and opened Facebook and to my surprise, the first thing that popped up on my screen was a posting from Marketplace … of a baby grand piano.

Lord have mercy. What pianist’s heart doesn’t beat a little faster when they see a baby grand? Even one like me who hasn’t touched the keys of any piano in years?

But my heart began to beat even faster when I saw the local location of this piano and the cost … only $500! I have never seen a baby grand for sale at that price. I showed the listing to my daughter and confided in her that I wanted this piano so badly … but I knew logistically, it was out of my power to attain. I did not have $500 and I knew moving such an instrument would be difficult and I knew I would face more resistance than I had the strength to deal with. Owning a piano such as this one was beyond me.

So I let it go.

But God did not.

The next day, the day before my son’s 21st birthday, was his party. I only had a few family members there because I needed to keep it small for his comfort. As a few of us were sitting around the table, my Mother randomly mentioned she had been talking with a man at her church about finding a piano for me. I told her that I had just seen a local baby grand for only $500 and when I was questioned if I had called about it, I had to honestly admit that I didn’t have that amount of money right now. My Mom looked at me and said that she and my Dad did … and they would love to loan the money to me for this piano … I could pay them back later. This announcement set off a series of events that I could never have imagined for immediately those closest to me grew excited and begged me to find the listing again and to reach out to the owner. My hands started to shake and I couldn’t find the post anywhere so my sweet daughter took my phone and searched until she found it. Surrounded on most sides with encouragement, with only one lone voice of doubt and gloom, I contacted the person who listed the piano and set up a time to see it the next day.

It was surreal. I was going to look at a baby grand piano with the intent and means of purchasing it … this was something my mind could barely fathom.

The next day I sent my now 21-year-old son off to school and with an envelope of borrowed money, we drove a short distance to look at the piano. We met the owner’s daughter at the door (the owner was in the hospital at the time), and as we walked inside the first thing I noticed was not the piano, but a painted mural on a wall with a Scripture verse … a significant one.

Yet those who wait for the Lord
Will gain new strength;
They will mount up with wings like eagles,
They will run and not get tired,
They will walk and not become weary.
Isaiah 40:31

Friends, I have been weary. I have been barely holding on for months and I have questioned how I could possibly keep going. This verse has often come to mind but I reached a point where I had begun to dismiss it but there it was, beautifully displayed right in front of me. Then I looked to my side and there stood the piano … and something came alive in me.

I listened to the story of this instrument and learned that it is close to one hundred years old and that it has been a cherished part of this family since 1981. The Mother/Grandmother of this family was the owner of the instrument and everyone was attached to it. But due to downsizing, she had decided to get a smaller piano and needed a new home for this piece, not an easy thing to do with such a large instrument at its advanced age.

I didn’t sit down to play but I touched a few keys tentatively and felt the smooth touch. The notes sounded especially sweet to me and I knew without a doubt this piano was meant for me. I glanced at the hymnal that sat on top and then I looked in the eyes of the owner’s daughter and told her that I would love to give their piano a new home where it would be cherished and well cared for as it has always been. I handed her the money and after more conversation, we left, at this point uncertain how I was going to get it moved.

I listened to all kinds of planning and worry about moving the piano ourselves the whole way home but I felt such a peace that somehow, it would be okay. As soon as we got home, I had a message from the woman I had just met with asking if she could call me, and of course, I said yes … honestly a little concerned that there was a problem and they had changed their minds. Her words, however, stunned me for she gave me the numbers of professional piano movers and offered to pay for the move herself, up to a certain amount.

My goodness, when God does a thing … He does a thing.

Two days later, that beloved baby grand stood in my home.

I contemplated what would be the first song I would play on this instrument and the answer was clear … ‘Great is Thy Faithfulness’ (Thomas O. Chisholm) …

Because God is faithful.

On my son’s 21st birthday, a milestone I have long feared, God provided and brought music back into my life. In a season of loss and change, He has brought comfort. In a season of loneliness, He has brought a companion. The baby grand now stands in my living room as a testimony of the faithfulness and love of my God.

He will provide in all the uncertain days ahead, just as He has provided in the past.

He has brought music back to me and because of Him …

My soul sings.

My soul sings
Now my soul sings

What blessed assurance
I’ve found in You
I’ve found in You
I won’t be shaken, I will not be moved
How steadfast Your strong hand
Is keeping me
Is keeping me
I won’t be shaken, I will not be moved
Oh, blessed assurance

*CityAlight ~ Blessed Assurance*

The Shadow of a Dream

I listened as rage poured from my son. Verbally unable to adequately express whatever turmoil had built inside him, anger had built up and exploded like a volcano with lava erupting from its depths.

At 20 years old, he is a relatively big guy, certainly much bigger than me. It can be a little intimidating sometimes. This week, in particular, has been rough.

My son has autism and intense anxiety. Often sweet and usually gentle, he also is filled with landmines and ticking time bombs that can explode unexpectedly.

Life is often uncertain for me as his mom and caregiver. The weight of responsibility weighs on me constantly and fear for his future and mine nags at me night and day.

People have said that I should place him in a home for my own health and for the sake of my other children who are presently 18 and 16 years old. When I share this advice with them, wondering at their thoughts, their immediate responses are always frustration, touched with anger. The thought of forcing their brother out for their sakes is incomprehensible to them … and wrong. But more than that, they understand the reality and as my 18 year old wisely stated …

“Do people really think you have options? If you had different options, don’t they realize you would have already done them?”

Life is often hard but my teens understand hard realities.

These are not the dreams I had for life. This is not what I had planned.

When my son was first diagnosed, the entire direction and course of life was abruptly and forever altered. Doctor’s appointments, therapists, IEP’s, private schools, report and report after report, and meetings galore soon consumed my days. Worries, fears, and anger filled the nights as I was stayed awake to keep my son safe. Those years were undeniably heavy and I was horribly ill-equipped in the tasks before me.

I found myself desperate to find meaning, purpose, and even my identity in the autism journey and because of that, I often made my son’s diagnosis about me and my journey. I did some writing and was given opportunities to do public speaking and was often told my words were inspirational. “Ah, here,” I thought to myself, “this is my purpose. God, you heal my son and I’ll tell the story.”

But an interesting thing happened over the years. The opportunities to speak became fewer and fewer … the journey itself became increasingly harder … my responsibilities grew as I began homeschooling my younger children … my son’s behaviors grew more and more intense and exhausting … and I found myself often isolated.

It is hard to be ‘inspirational’ when you are falling apart bit by bit as your drag yourself through each day. It is hard to be ‘inspirational’ when you find yourself questioning the character and goodness of your God. The ‘fiery furnace’ was effective in revealing the true nature of me. It was not a pretty sight.

Sometimes I pause in my busy days and I remember. I reflect on those years and what has led to this place where I am now. I wish I had known then what I know now and I wish I could do things differently even though I have no desire to go back in time. Sometimes, especially lately, I find myself once more growing fearful and worried for the days that lay ahead.

My son will be transitioning out of school next year and into the adult world, which is presently in dire straits. There may not be funding for him and even if we can access it, it may not be much and there may not be staffing. I cannot really plan for our future because there is so much uncertainty and not much upon which to place my hope.

Except for God.

Can I tell you what I would tell the younger me if I could go back in time?

I wouldn’t tell her how hard the days coming were going to be. She wasn’t ready.

I wouldn’t tell her how lonely and isolated her world would be. She would have ran.

I wouldn’t tell her she was about to discover what the dark night of the soul means. She would have ended it then and there.

I would tell her that no matter what she thinks in the days ahead, God will never desert her. I would tell her that while it seems God is not hearing her cries or answering her prayers, He is working in a totally different way. I would tell her to love her son and not worry about family or friends who will desert her. I would tell her to love her son and not listen to the doctors. I would tell her not to pressure herself or her son to be anyone other than who God created them to be. I would tell her to trust God and rest in Him when nothing makes sense. I would tell her she has so much to learn in the days to come and all the hard things are part of the process. I would tell her to repent and turn from her selfishness and pride sooner rather than later. I would tell her stories of how God will provide in the smallest of ways and sometimes, in ways that will blow her mind. I would tell her that God doesn’t need her to be a certain way or to be perfect or like anyone else. I would tell her that His will and His plan for her son are not dependent on her doing all the right things.

I would tell her all the things I had to learn the hard way and I would whisper in her ear, “It’s going to be harder than you could ever imagine but God is going to prove Himself greater than it all. Trust Him.”

These are the things I am telling myself now … today.

All those years ago, I did not have any idea what lay ahead and I was afraid. I tried to find meaning in all sorts of ways and now as I look back, I only see that I made it about me.

It is no surprise that all those dreams turned to cinders in the fiery furnace of these years. It is no surprise that I find myself mostly surrounded by ashes as so much of my efforts and pursuits have burned away as dross.

But I also see what has been refined in the fire…

Me …

My children.

This is where I see God making beauty from the ashes.

I was thinking about dreams today.

I have one.

I have always wanted to own my own shop, ever since I was a little girl. I have dreamed on it over the years. I would sell the books I hoped to write. I would sell the candles that I poured. I wanted a shop in the middle of town where I could finally be in the middle of things and part of a community. I had all kinds of plans.

Most parts of that dream are in the pile of ashes.

But some of it remains and it too has been refined in the fire.

You see, my dreams these days consist of a little, white cottage-style shop right where our old, ugly cinder block barn now stands. I see a cobblestone or brick walkway drawing a visitor into the gentle warmth that lies behind the closed door. Inside I see crafts and goods created by the skilled hands of others from local and afar. I see a table or two tucked into a corner near the counter where teas and coffees are served. On one side I envision an open space surrounded by windows and filled with books, both new and old. A spot that beckons the reader to peruse, explore, and learn. Outside the shop, connected by another path, I see a small greenhouse with just enough greens to brighten someone’s day. Around that corner and connected to the back of the shop, I would build a room. A space that could serve as a retreat or a possible source of added income. And all of this is surrounded by the lovely four acres that God has given to me to love and someday to hopefully share with others. I dream of this land being a refuge for others as it has for me.

A refuge even as the storms of life rage.

My greatest dream is that I long to share this with my son and others like him that the world wants to cast away.

A place to work. A place to be part of a community. A place to be loved and welcomed. A place where God is at work and honored in all we do and I am not the focus, but only Him.

For He is our refuge.

This is my dream. It is but a shadow of a dream since I haven’t the means or abilities to make it happen. But even as I hold it loosely and hold the fruition of it up to Him, I know my lack has certainly never stopped God before.

I walked by a flower bed yesterday and I was startled by a burst of color I had not seen there just days before. Most of my flowers are slowly fading as October guides the way into autumn, so I had to investigate this unexpected delight. To my surprise, it was a plant I had planted earlier in the spring. It was supposed to bloom in the summer but never did it even bud. I thought it had died in the brutal summer heat we experienced this year and honestly, when I weeded that flower bed the last time, I pulled some of it out, thinking it was just another weed. Something stopped me that day, I remember, and I left the rest of those greens in place, thinking I would deal with them later.

But now that the burning heat of summer has passed, that plant has bloomed into a lovely display of late autumn beauty.

It was only a shadow of a plant. Planted in the spring, forgotten about over the summer months and scorched by the sun’s heat, and then ripped from the dirt and mistaken as a weed … only to arise from the ashes and gloriously bloom at just the right time.

God’s time.

That’s how He works.

How blessed is the man who does not walk in the counsel of the wicked,
Nor stand in the path of sinners,
Nor sit in the seat of scoffers!
But his delight is in the law of the Lord,
And in His law he meditates day and night.
He will be like a tree firmly planted by streams of water,
Which yields its fruit in its season
And its leaf does not wither;
And]in whatever he does, he prospers.

Psalm 1:1-3

Confidence

I will rest
In Your promises
My confidence
Is Your faithfulness

(Yes and Amen by Housefires)

Regular readers of this blog may have noticed that it fell silent some months ago. This extended break from writing was not intentional on my part but it has been a needed time for me to work through some challenging life issues and heart matters. It has been a season of quiet, as well as, a season of work, wrestling, and waiting. But I noticed that when I did want to try writing again, my words froze — I became almost paralyzed and could not continue. The longer I stayed away from writing, the harder it became to even gather and process through my thoughts. I understood somewhat what might be causing the block in my head but I did not know what to do about it … so I stayed silent. I would rather not speak at all than to speak foolishly.

A couple of weeks ago, I began to pray about my inability to write because quite honestly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to continue. The last months have taken the last bit of steam I have had left in me and the future has been weighing heavily on my shoulders. “What is the point of my writing?” I often wondered.

But last evening as I pondered the future once more regarding what lies ahead for my son with autism and myself, I asked the Lord what I could do … and I heard one word, ‘Write.’

And I, foolish person that I can be, argued with Him. “Lord, I don’t know. I’m really not that good of a writer and my style of writing is not what most modern people who call themselves ‘Christian’ want to read. I’ve read the successful blogs and I see who attracts people and readers and Lord, I am just not that person. I don’t want to be. Isn’t there something else I can do … something more hidden and behind the scenes? I just … I just don’t think I can continue. I don’t think I should try to write anymore. I just don’t know.”

Have you ever been in a conversation with God where you can almost hear Him sigh and you can almost see His eyebrow lift as He bestows a fatherly glare upon you?

I tend to get that a lot.

But like the gracious, heavenly Father He is, He did not just give me ‘the look’ but slowly began to enlighten my heart and mind … He began to teach and instruct me in His ways … and He is helping me to understand some things that have been eluding my thoughts.

You see, I have not been able to write because I have lost all confidence. Now you should understand this about me: I am not a confident person. Never in my life has the word confident been applied to me – never. My Pastor is wise to this so years ago he began to tell me that I was capable. Over and over, he used the word capable to describe me and eventually, it began to stick. Eventually I would look at a hurdle or situation and while my first instinct would be one of fear, I was able to say, ‘Hey, I am capable of handling this’ and handle it I would. With that new foundation, I slowly began to build a little confidence as I grew and matured in my faith and that was what allowed me to write here and on social media.

But that confidence slowly dwindled away over these last months/year and once I stopped writing, I could not seem to be able to begin again. Any confidence that was being nurtured in me has since faded and so I did the only thing I know how to do … I grew silent and waited.

Reader, I have lost confidence.

I have lost any confidence in myself.

I have lost confidence in the world around me.

I have lost confidence in many believers.

I have lost confidence in church.

It is a rough place to be for a woman who started life as a Pollyanna of sorts. A girl who was often nick-named ‘Sunshine’ when she was little because her gentle smile glowed. It is perplexing for a girl who grew up in the church and believed if she just ‘hung in there’ and tried to do right, God would make it all okay some day.

But in these last months, I have been navigating through the somewhat bitter reality that it will not be okay … at least not as I thought it would be.

God has not done what I asked of Him. He has not fixed my family and restored any relationship with my siblings. He has not allowed me the community, friendships, nor the safety for which I have longed; In fact, He continues to take more and more away. He has not fixed or changed a broken and dysfunctional marriage but instead, He has caused me to walk alone and to lead my children in His ways while dealing with great loneliness and loss. He has not cured or made the way any easier for my son with autism and as I look at the days ahead once he enters the adult world with limited supports and services, God has actually taken away most of the help and freedom I thought I would have.

At this point of life, my reality is looking pretty bleak and frankly, help and encouragement seem hard to find. The last years of political unrest and pandemic craziness seems to have caused even the strongest Christians I know to become increasingly cynical and calloused. When I have a rare opportunity to share conversation with an adult, it seems as if politics, the pandemic craziness, and vaccines are all that can be talked about. I have grown weary of this.

So last night I lifted my eyes and my heart heavenward as I cried out to God with the sorrows that perplex my soul and He, with all the gentleness and kindness of a gracious Father, showed me that my confidence needs to be in Him and Him alone.

I always believed I couldn’t be safe in this world unless I was loved and accepted fully by others and He has never allowed me that. I always believed I wouldn’t be safe until I was loved and cherished in the marriage setting and He hasn’t allowed that either. I always believed I wouldn’t be safe until my son’s autism was easier and not as hard and perplexing and He has not made the way any simpler. If anything, God has allowed my life to become increasingly more difficult with each passing year and any hope I may have had of earning the love of those around me or attaining some level of confidence in myself has been destroyed in these last months and carried away like ash in the stormy winds.

So what do I have left? How can I lift my head and take the next step when everything seems so uncertain and grim? I can do so by trusting in the faithfulness of God. My confidence as I face each day can only be found in Him and through Him.

The truth is, I have had to learn that things really will be okay but I may never see that until I enter the gates of heaven. The truth is, I am loved but I may never really understand that until I stand before my Savior and see Him face to face. The truth is, in this world we will have trouble and it is a fallacy to think that God is all about making life easy for us so we can be happy and without trouble. The truth is, we can have peace, contentment, happiness, and rest in the fiercest of storms because we can know absolute confidence in Who our God is and that our lives are not about us. This truth stands in absolute defiance to what so many around me seem to believe.

So like a single candlestick that stands alone in a darkened room, God seems to be challenging me to shine His light, even if my thoughts and words flicker uncertainly in the night. He can use the most unimpressive and diminutive light for His glory and His purpose … and that is my confidence.

But blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord,
    whose confidence is in him.
They will be like a tree planted by the water
    that sends out its roots by the stream.
It does not fear when heat comes;
    its leaves are always green.
It has no worries in a year of drought
    and never fails to bear fruit.”

Jeremiah 17:7,8

The Perfect Storm ~ A Perfect Savior

“Be not far from me, for trouble is near;
For there is none to help.”

Psalm 22:11

Her weary, red eyes were dull as she shielded her face from the sun’s harsh rays, flinching in pain as another piece of driftwood crashed into her. It was bad enough that her boat had capsized in the waves caused by the great storm, but now she floated helplessly as the restless water continued to toss the splintered pieces haphazardly about, mindless of her plight. She had lost track of how long she had been drifting along, sometimes trying to swim, but mostly just grasping at pieces of her old boat as they drifted by and clinging tightly, it hopes one would carry her to shore.

She no longer cared upon what shore she landed for she was despairingly desperate to feel solid ground beneath her feet once more. The dreams she cherished when she first set sail, the plans she painstakingly mulled over as she planned her trip, and the boat she had meticulously crafted herself all had descended to the deep, destroyed and swept away by what only could be described as a perfect storm. A storm so unexpected and intense that she never could have planned for it.

She was not even sure how she survived.

But here she was, clinging to a splintered piece of driftwood as she drifted along in the current, alone and afraid, searching for land but seeing none. Her will to fight was fading fast, her desire to live seemed to be sinking with the setting sun. Hopelessness encircled her, ever-threatening like the fearsome sharks that lurked nearby. Her grip on the driftwood was slipping as her eyes slowly blinked once — then twice — and then remaining closed as she let go, her body sinking silently into the depths.

It seemed the storm had won and the deep waters were eager to claim their prize as darkness began to engulf her lifeless body as she sank lower still. But suddenly a brilliant flash of light tore through the waters, enlightening the blackness as a strong hand reached down and grasped her limp one, quickly lifting her from the depths, bringing her into the light once more. She gasped as new life was breathed into her lungs and slowly opened her eyes to see the eyes of her savior.

In my most recent posts, I have alluded to what I perceived as unanswered prayers from the past, as well as, my concerns for the future, specifically as it pertains to my son who has autism. You can catch up with those posts here, Taking the Next Step and Thoughts on my Son’s Birthday – How Deep the Father’s Love.

For this post, I intended to delve deeper into those prayers of the past and how the Lord is changing my understanding of prayer and teaching me to fully trust Him in all matters of life. That is what I started to write but, as I sat in a quiet place and pondered the past, old memories rose to the surface, details that had been lost in the stress of the season, seemingly irrelevant at the time. I wrote down a timeline and then began putting some of the old shattered pieces together and soon, I saw a picture I had not seen before. It was a picture of the final blow that sent me floundering for years, destroying the boat I had built to reach the land of my dreams, and leaving me adrift in the ocean’s current.

It was the picture of a storm — a perfect storm.

If I were to develop the above story a bit more, I think it would illuminate the life of a woman determined to reach a desired land, desperate for the safety she was certain it held. I would have to ponder it a bit more but I believe if we picked up her story at the beginning and followed it through, we would have seen how she built her little boat on her own and placed all her earthly possessions inside, believing she had no other choice; Not seeking guidance, but rather, relying on her own understanding and instinct while being driven by fear.

We all have a story and sometimes I tell portions of mine not because I am particularly comfortable opening the doors of my past but because stories have a way of illustrating the way God works in the life of a believer — even when she thinks He is nowhere around.

Just over 15 years ago, I stood in my little log cabin with my three young children — a four year old son with autism, an almost two year old son, and an infant daughter. This was the day the storm sent the wave that finally crashed the little boat I had built myself and repaired time and time again. This day is forever lodged in my memory as the day I shattered as my boat, or the very foundation of my life, finally fell apart.

I know the years that led up to this cataclysmic moment and I’ve always known it was more involved than PPD (Post-Partum Depression), but there was one detail I had forgotten — one event that I’ve talked about before but I never pieced together with this season of life.

2005 ~ I was expecting my third baby, just 20 months after my second one. The needs of my firstborn son with autism had escalated to their highest point and this was the season where he rarely slept. I usually dozed on the floor of the tv room while he watched Thomas the Tank Engine or Veggies Tales all night long. Days were spent keeping after my toddler, who was a challenge, and running my older son to therapies, appointments, or preschool. This was also the season where I began to understand the realities of my marriage and the utter helplessness I felt in it. The way my mind worked during this pregnancy began to change and I shifted to a life lived in overdrive, always striving towards something.

I was intent on reaching a land of stability and love. A world where things felt normal and secure. Years before I had built my little boat and in it I had set sail, certain I would reach my dream. But, by the time my third baby was due, my ship was battered by the harsh storms that had already hit it. There were leaks and missing pieces but I drove myself and my ship hard, determined to reach that distant shore. The harder the storms hit, the harder I pushed.

The night I gave birth to my daughter, my third little love, I had already been awake for over 24 hours. My son had not slept the night before and I had been pushed hard all day to keep up with him. When it was time to bring my sweet daughter into the world, I did not have any strength left and my body began to fail. It was the frantic yelling of my midwife that kept me awake long enough to finally birth my little girl. The only thing I remember in the moments after was the now quiet voice of the midwife telling me she was so sorry she had to yell at me and then softly telling the others to let me rest — I was too exhausted to remember anything else.

Despite this, I made sure I was discharged from the hospital 23 hours later because I was needed at home. Once there, I promptly drove myself to the store because we needed groceries and I knew I would be completely on my own the next day. I never stopped moving. I never stopped trying to fix my little boat. I never stopped watching for the destination I was so desperate to reach.

This much I remembered and this is what I thought led to an emotional crash later that year that was so devastating but, as I reflected this week, I remembered what else happened that year — that was the summer I took my oldest son to see the Developmental Pediatrician, the one who officially diagnosed him with autism. I remember I left my toddler with my parents but I had my infant daughter with me when we entered the doors of that office. This was the appointment where I was told my 4 1/2 year old son had severe autism and would likely never talk and would never be independent. There was no kindness or compassion but rather, a harsh telling of facts.

I don’t remember anything after that until one particular spot on the way home — a stop light at the top of a hill just a few miles from the hospital. It was there darkness overwhelmed me, completely obscuring the far shores of the land I hope to reach one day. It was then I lost hope.

On the outside, all continued as normal. I still ran my oldest to various therapies with two little ones in tow. I still cared for my home, ran a small business, and did as many of the ‘Mom things’ I could. I still drove myself with an intensity that sometimes amazed others. I still never slept and dealt with countless autistic meltdowns. But on the inside, I had detached. I had lost the hope of reaching dry land. My boat was listing badly and taking on water but I no longer had the means to repair or cover the holes.

It was the perfect storm and those waves that started after my son’s appointment stirred up more waves that dredged up hidden memories of the past. All of them combined continued to pummel me for days, weeks, and even months. These waves hit under the shadow of that darkness, telling me that God obviously did not care about me or my prayers. The lightening strikes that accompanied the storm hit me with the harsh words that He had left me alone in this fiercest of storms. It was in that storm I began to repeat to myself the words I heard in the darkness that I was truly alone and God was not there.

The final wave hit that day as I stood in my little log cabin with three little loves all around me. My boat shattered beneath the force of those waves and I was tossed into the depths of the sea, grasping for anything to hold onto, constantly pummeled by the debris around me.

I floated helplessly along, carried by the currents, subjected to the fiercest of elements.

I would have told you all was lost.

I would have told you there was no hope.

I believed this completely for there seemed to be no other explanation for the storms in my life.

Yes, I believed there was a God and that He was holy and good —

I just stopped believing that He loved me.

My eyes were dull and blood-shot with exhaustion as I cast one last glance towards the land of my dreams and then they slowly began to blink, once — twice — and then remaining closed as my hands slipped from the wood to which I had been clinging. The darkness cheered as I began to slip into the depths of the water that were so anxious to claim me as their prize. But the darkness had not reckoned with the Light that broke through those depths, nor the Hand that reached down to grasp mine. The darkness had forgotten that it was trying to claim a life that belonged to another — One who never lets go of His own.

It was a perfect storm most certainly —

But it was no match for a perfect Savior.

I share these words cautiously, as they represent difficult memories I prefer to hide. Memories that have long been shrouded with a sense of shame and failure. But now looking back, I no longer see it exclusively as a devastatingly hard season but rather, I understand it as when God stepped in to rescue me. As I study and learn more of His sovereignty, I realize that the One who created the water and could calm a storm by simply speaking, is the same One who brought the waves that destroyed that boat of my own making. As long as I was self-sufficient and depending on myself, I did not need my Savior. As long as I worked to build my own identity, I could not find it in Him. As long as I believed He did not love me, I lied to myself and mispresented the truth of Him to others — especially my children.

That day now represents to me the turning point of my life. The beginning of a new journey — at times, an even harder journey than before for the way of the cross is a life of sacrifice and dying to one self.

Then Jesus said to His disciples, “If anyone wishes to come after Me,
he must deny himself, and take up his cross and follow Me.

Matthew 16:33

I am not sure entirely how to close this post. It has taken a few days to process and write these words and I planned this morning to pen an ending that would offer encouragement and hope to a reader who might be in a season of life when the storms are heavy-hitting. But my autistic son must have decided I needed a refresher in sleep deprivation so he has kept me awake since midnight — just like old times. As a result, my brain is a bit muddled this morning and I simply cannot find the words to express the point I long to make. So, I am going to close this instead with a passage from the Bible that I held onto through some of my hardest years — a passage that offered hope when I thought there was none.

I waited patiently for the Lord;
And He inclined to me and heard my cry.
 He brought me up out of the pit of destruction, out of the miry clay,
And He set my feet upon a rock making my footsteps firm.
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 40:1-3

There will be storms, fierce storms in this life —

But they are no match for A Perfect Savior.

Thoughts on my Son’s Birthday – How Deep the Father’s Love

It is wonderfully appropriate that when I first began writing this, the song playing in the background was, “How Deep the Father’s Love for Us”, for nothing more identifies our life together than God’s incredible love for us. It is with those words in mind that I write my thoughts today.

My son turns 20 years old today. Of course, his birthday and his life looks considerably different than most young people this age because of the way autism significantly impacts his life. He is not in college like many of his typical peers nor does he work a job or attend a trade school. Driving a car is not an option nor is having his own apartment. In fact, as far as I can see, he will continue to live with me and I will continue to be his 24/7 caregiver for all the days of my life. What happens beyond that, only God knows.

This is not the life I expected for my firstborn child and it certainly is not the life I dreamed of for myself.

But both are lives covered by the love of a merciful and gracious Heavenly Father.

When I discovered I was expecting, it seemed the pieces of my life were finally coming together. I had waited and longed so greatly for a child of my own but I recognize now, as I reflect back upon the years, that longing was rooted in selfishness. I wanted a child so I could feel complete. I prayed many years for a baby and when I learned I was carrying this firstborn child of mine, my prayers intensified. I begged God not to give me a child with an illness or disability; I pleaded, as most do, for a healthy baby.

For the first few weeks of my pregnancy, I held the sweet secret close to my heart. I was not ready to share the news because no one knew of the heartaches that led up to that positive test. No one knew what was happening in my world or the deep secrets I carried and I found I simply wanted to cherish my happy news myself before I had to share with the world. But, just six weeks into the pregnancy, I developed heavy bleeding that sent me rushing to the doctor. For the next several weeks, I had countless ultrasounds and blood tests as doctors struggled to determine the cause of the bleeding and whether the life inside me continued to live.

For indeed, there was life inside of me even then.

Ultrasounds continued to show a tiny heartbeat, beating still despite the doctors’ dire warnings. Blood tests continued to show elevated levels in my blood, indicating I was still pregnant. The bleeding gradually lessened as the life in my womb continued to grow, but I only grew more fearful.

It is hard to explain my thought process at the time, but I believed that I had to earn love, even the love of my Heavenly Father. When it seemed likely I would lose my baby, I began to sink into a place of survival, willing myself to withstand another failed attempt of being worthy enough to be loved. I numbed myself and I waited — waited to see what would become of my baby — and me.

At the 20 week ultrasound, I saw a wriggling little body moving all around as I watched that little heart beat steady and strong. I received the welcome news that my baby was whole and seemingly perfect. For the first time, since I initially saw the positive pregnancy test, I began to feel a shadow of hope again.

But it was only a shadow.

It was that shadow that carried me through the remainder of the pregnancy as other dreams continued to fade and struggles grew. It was what carried me through the crisis of an early and traumatic delivery. It was what covered me even as I cared for my baby under the watchful eyes of the NICU nurses for the first six days of his life.

I continued to carry that fragile shadow of hope when I finally brought my newborn baby home, completely unprepared for the days that lay ahead. I rocked my baby for endless hours as I sang over him and pleaded for God’s working in his life. Over and over, I told the Lord what I wanted him to do. What I was convinced He needed to do.

The sleepless newborn nights eventually transitioned into not meeting developmental milestones, toddler night terrors, countless appointments with doctors, therapists, and specialists and finally, the words, “Your child has classic autism. The most severe kind. He will probably never talk and he will never be independent.”

The fragile and weak hope that I had been tenaciously hanging onto dissipated in that instant, for it seemed as if God Himself had turned His face away from me.

But that little heartbeat that fought against all odds in the womb of his mother, continued to beat strong.

For the little person who held that heart was being held in the merciful hands of a Heavenly Father.

My son turned 20 years old today. The little heart that fought to keep beating as the placenta surrounding him hemorrhaged, has grown into the strong heart of a young man. A young man who continues to live with some very challenging aspects of autism and deep anxiety. A young man who continues to struggle with being able to express himself and rarely uses words. A young man who will always need 1:1 support and constant supervision. A young man who loves well and works hard to develop self-control even when in the deepest of internal battles. A young man with a crooked smile that shoots straight to the heart. A young man who loves his mamma and who is treasured in return. Today is his birthday.

I considered all the things I wanted to say on this birthday but the amount of them would fill several pages and take a lifetime to write. I pondered the stories I could tell and the heavy concerns I carry for the future as adulthood is looming ever closer. I weighed the lessons of the years of raising a child with great needs while balancing raising two other children who have their own needs. So much I would love to share on this day I pause to remember his birth and all the many years that have followed. But I will end this post with these two thoughts that are most pressing on my mind ~

First, I wish the world could understand the value of all life. In the womb, as my tiny baby fought against all odds to grow — he had value. As a newborn who stopped breathing and required around the clock nursing care — he had value. As a toddler who stopped meeting milestones and regressed with his language — he had value. As a young child with boundless energy, no words, and challenging behaviors — he had value. As a pre-teen with emerging anger issues and great anxiety — he had value. As a teen with all these issues and more — he had value. And now, as a young man who does not meet the norm of society and who continues to require constant supervision and care — he has value. His value was not assigned at birth when I held him and gave him a name. His value comes from God alone — the Creator of all life. He knew my son long before I held him in my arms and He counted the very hairs on his head. Life, all life, has value.

Secondly, as I considered all these years and contemplated the stories, the challenges, the victories, and the heartaches, I am left with this one final thought … How deep is the Father’s love for us. God could have answered my prayers as I wished and given me a child with no extra needs. He could have allowed me the sweet, easy life I wanted simply so I could ‘feel’ like I was loved and worthy of love. He could have patted me on the head and mollified the great need I had with superficialities that would have never satisfied the deep longing in my soul. Instead, according to His own plan, He gave me a child with such intense needs that I would have to walk a lonely journey to learn the truth. That truth? I do not need to ‘feel’ any superficial kind of love to be okay because I have learned that I am loved fully and completely by God. My value, just like my son’s, comes from God above. He knows my son’s name and He knows mine.

On this, my son’s 20th birthday, I can only lift my eyes to heaven and say ‘Thank you.’

How deep is the Father’s love towards us.

*How Deep the Father’s Love for us, written by Stuart Townend

Taking the Next Step

By faith Abraham, when he was called,
obeyed by going out to a place which he was to receive for an inheritance;
and he went out, not knowing where he was going.”
Hebrews 11:8 

She reached the crest of the hill and there, overlooking the valley below, she finally saw it. A river so wide, the bank on the other side was indiscernible. Up until this moment, it had only been a thin blue line marking a boundary on her weathered map but now, she had her first glimpse of the real thing — and it was a terrifying sight to behold.

Other travelers she had met, those somewhat familiar with this river, warned her that it was especially treacherous in the section she was to cross and, now that she could see the watery giant herself, she understood their concerns.

She knew there was no bridge that spanned those waters, nor was there a ferry nearby to carry her across. All she could see on her map was the long, winding road of her journey leading right to the very edge of the river — and there it seemingly ends. She knew not how to cross nor what lay beyond.

Standing silently on the hillside, overlooking the river below, she pondered the remainder of the path that would lead her down towards its banks. She considered the dreams she had been carefully crafting all these long days on the trail, plans for crossing the river and hopes for the land that lay beyond. Now that she had seen the river, however, she understood it was beyond her power to navigate and cross alone — her hopes and plans suddenly seemed futile and useless. Hopelessness tugged at her as she shifted her gaze back towards the path that would lead her downward, into the valley where the great river waited for her.

There was nothing else she could do — but take the next step and trust that her map would guide the way.

I sat at my desk, allowing the words of the email I just read to sink into my thoughts like a rock tossed into the lake, slowly working its way to the bottom. My almost 20 year old son with autism is growing ever so much closer to aging out of the school system, a system that has been a guiding force in one form or another since he was three years old. Back then, the age of 21, which signifies the end of his schooling and transition into adult life, seemed so far away. It was but a cloud on the horizon, yet now, we are just over a year away from the adult world that is not suitable at all for an individual with his depth of need.

His adult years were rarely far from my thoughts once my son hit his teenage years. That’s when the word ‘transition’ began to become a constant refrain in meetings with school and staff. At the age of 14, it becomes a regular part of plans and communication. The school setting he was in at the time was no longer suitable for him and they offered no plans or support in regards to the adult years that lay ahead. After much prayer and seeking of direction, the Lord opened a door that had long been closed to me and He provided a way for my son to attend a much better autism school, with a program that has a strong focus on preparing students for life after school.

At the time, there were great hopes and big dreams, which were just starting to form and take place. Group homes designed for individuals like my son who require a high level of support and care, as well as, an adult day program, which would support job building skills, volunteer work, and all manner of community involvement. As fearful as I had long been of the future, I began to feel a sense of relief and hope about the new possibilities that now lay ahead for him — and for me.

Unfortunately, like many big dreams, built on intense needs, grandiose ideas, and massive hope, it all began to dissolve before my eyes. The funding for such programming in the adult world for those with great needs is very limited — simply put, the cost to fund and staff these kind of homes and programs is substantial and that level of financial support simply is not there. As a result, the decision was made to close all the group homes. The adult program continued to function but the demand was great and the finances so limited that it was uncertain if it would still be an option for my son once he was of age to need their services. Each step I took with my son, leading closer to his adult years, the more I learned how difficult it is to access the funds needed and how limited our options would be. Yet, I held tightly onto the remaining hopes of the adult program since they had assured me that they could come to our community and build a program for my son here. Whenever my thoughts or conversations regarding my son’s adult life transpired, I held out that option like a lone, flickering candle in the dark.

Two weeks ago, I met with the team (via phone conference) that is vested in and working toward his transition from school to adult life. We discussed our limited options and the devastating impact the closures from the pandemic have had on his schooling and preparation into the adult world while they continued to reiterate the challenging obstacles of getting the support he needs. I continued to hold out the hope of the adult program — surely that would be the lifeline.

I hung up the phone from that meeting, drained and exhausted. I stood on the crest of the hill, overlooking the river of transition for my son, the great divide between school years and adult life. The journey leading up to the point had been so hard and now, the hopes I had for both of our futures were fading away as I gazed at the immense body of water.

Then I saw the email — it was a response following up on my query regarding the adult program that I hoped would come to us and work with my son in our community. I was informed that they have tightened the area in which they will work and to which they will travel and, unfortunately, we live well outside that area. The candle I had been holding was snuffed out and I lost the last hope I had. The last plan to help my son and I cross that great river of transition, into the unknown world of adulthood and autism.

Hopes, dreams, and plans … years of working towards goals only to have them dissipate before my eyes, never coming to fruition. So now I sit on the hillside, while my eyes gaze over the broad expanse of water below, and I can only wonder — what now?

 Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. 
For by it the men of old gained approval.

Hebrews 11:1,2

Now I have to tell you, I love stories with happy endings and honestly, for years I have dreamed of the Lord giving my son and me a ‘happy ending’ of our own by this point of life. I thought things would be different. I hoped and prayed they would be different. I longed for healing for my son, not necessarily from autism, but from the deep anxiety and incredibly challenging behaviors he lives with and that I live with as his caregiver. I hoped for marriage and difficulties within the family to be different. I hoped for church life and involvement to be different. I prayed for a community and for so, so much more. In full transparency, I thought by now, I would be standing before a group of women and sharing a story of God’s triumphant working in my life and my son’s life — just as I have heard numerous speakers do over the years. I wanted a happy ending because that’s the kind of story that we all love to hear and I didn’t think I would have a story worth telling without one.

But I am going to be even more honest with you — while I appreciate a happy ending, I have never found them to be especially encouraging or helpful. I would often read a book or sit in a ladies conference, desperately hoping she would tell me how to persevere in the incredibly hard situation I was facing — multiple hard life circumstances which held no promise of relief or end. I hoped, just once, that I would not hear a happy ending or another story just to make us laugh, but rather I longed for a woman, while tears of grief rose in her peace-filled eyes, to look at us and say, “My story didn’t end the way I wanted. God didn’t answer my prayers the way I asked Him to but, in the process, He taught me about Himself. He is teaching me to love Him more and to trust Him even when I can’t understand. Yes, I wish I had a happy ending right now to tell you but I wouldn’t trade these hard things I am living in even now for anything. Let me tell you what He is doing in the midst of the darkness. Let me tell you about my Jesus.”

These are the kind of stories I most want to hear and I doubt I am the only woman who thinks this way.

So I sit on the hillside, pondering the journey behind and the path that lies ahead — the path that leads right up to the deep waters of that unknown river. I cannot see a way to cross it nor can I see what lays beyond its far-reaching shores. I lift my eyes up to heaven as I remember the One who has been my guide through every step of the journey thus far and I do the only thing I can …

I take the next step, trusting that my God will lead and guide in all the uncertain days ahead because He alone is faithful and good.

This is my story.

~But As For Me ~

But as for me, I will watch expectantly for the Lord;
I will wait for the God of my salvation.
My God will hear me.

Micah 7:7

I have been silent here and the silence has been intentional — purposeful. The weeks leading up to Christmas and the end of 2020 were challenging and heavy, not only due to all the stress of the past year and the very different holiday season, but more so because of a dental surgery scheduled for my adult son with autism just a few days after Christmas.

Because of a heavy burden I have long been carrying and the realities that few knew, I entered a season of quiet prayer and waiting. I shared songs and thoughts on social media but I did not share what was driving those meditations and ponderings. I did not share the fear, anxiety, and memories of the past that were hounding me day and night. Truth be told, I needed to see God work. In this past year of one hard thing after another, I needed to see God and Him alone.

My soul, wait in silence for God only,
For my hope is from Him.

Psalm 62:5

As the weight pressed in, I understood anew how little control I actually have. Matters of life that I have fought so hard to figure out and fix were simply not mine to control. The safety that I struggled to have so I could feel secure was not mine to create. As blow after blow continued to fall and worry began to consume me, I realized there was really only one option left to me ~

Worship.

To worship simply means to express reverence and adoration towards God. To worship God is to ascribe to Him what is true and rightfully His. For years I did not quite understand how I could do that while the sense of fear troubled me so or as tears filled my eyes. I thought that to worship God meant I had to defeat fear and sin first. I thought worship meant I had to always be joyful and radiant.

I’ve come to understand differently.

When the news came to Job that all of his children had been killed and everything he owned was destroyed, his initial response was not a surprise. He tore his clothes, shaved his head, and fell to the ground in grief. But there is a second part to this that I missed before ~ in that place of intense grief and sorrow, Job worshiped.

Then Job arose and tore his robe and shaved his head, and he fell to the ground and worshiped. He said,

“Naked I came from my mother’s womb,
And naked I shall return there.
The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away.
Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

Through all this Job did not sin nor did he blame God.
Job 1:20-22

Job, in the midst of great sorrow and loss, did the only thing he could ~ he showed reverence and adoration towards God. He ascribed to God what he knew to be true. We can read the beginning verses of chapter one and discover why God allowed such great trouble to touch his life, but Job did not have that knowledge. He did not know the why ~ but he knew Who was in charge.

So he worshiped.

Through Job’s example, I have learned that lifting our hearts and minds in worship, in the midst of difficulty, aligns our soul with the proper perspective that God is in control. It does not mean I will not feel sorrow or grief. It simply means I can ascribe what is true of God while grieving. It does not mean I will not be impacted by the stress and cares of this world. It simply means I can be reverent as I carry my cross. It does not mean I will not cry. It simply means I can lift my eyes in worship, even as they fill with tears. Worshipping God is not about waiting until everything is okay and life feels momentarily safe, but rather, it is about trusting God and praising Him even as the storm clouds gather.

As I considered the story of Job, I realized my only option was to lift my weary soul and tear-filled eyes to the heavens and worship that very same God — the One who is still in charge.

So I worshiped.

Do not rejoice over me, O my enemy.
Though I fall I will rise;
Though I dwell in darkness, the Lord is a light for me.

Micah 7:8

On Sunday, the day before my son’s surgery, I grew overwhelmed. After this past year of crisis after crisis with no breaks or rest in between, I was depleted and exhausted. I felt alone and not the least bit capable of the demands required for an undertaking such as this. No one really understood the history of my son and dentists. Not many knew of the trauma his first dentist caused to both my son and I. Few knew of the harsh words of blame thrown at me that I have carried all these years. Few knew how I tried to find a dentist willing to work with my son or one who would attempt sedation to limit further trauma. Few knew how many times we were turned away. Few knew the weekly drives to a distant dentist office trying to acclimate my son to the environment, to desensitize him to the very place he knew great fear. No one knew of the sleepless nights as I tried to figure out what to do. It has been a lonely battle. In December of 2019, it seemed we were finally going to have help we needed, but, just one week away from a dental sedation appointment with a new dentist at an out-patient surgery center, the anesthesiology team cancelled it. They deemed my son too uncooperative to be seen in their facility. I was heart-broken.

Then 2020 hit with all its nastiness ~ emotional breakdowns, pandemic, shut downs, extended school closures, heart surgery, illness, and hospital stays with my Dad, and so much more. It has been a very hard year.

Near the beginning of December 2020, the Lord reopened a dentistry door and after one email from me to last year’s dental office, He began to move mountains. I learned that the dental office now had hospital privileges and were more than willing to try helping my son again in that setting. I learned that where there had been no openings for almost two months, a surgery slot suddenly became available. In a short period of time, every little detail fell into place with very minimal effort on my part for my son to finally receive the dental help he needed in the environment that was necessary. It was amazing to watch God work.

But I was afraid. Not of the sedation nor the care he would be receive, but I was afraid of my son’s response. I knew it would be hard and I knew it would potentially be ugly. I knew he would fight and I was afraid that his response would hinder him from receiving care as it always has in the past … and if I am honest, I was also afraid more harsh words of guilt would be heaped on my shoulders.

I did what I could do to prepare my son but I knew the one thing I could not control was his response. I could not control his fear or the ensuing behaviors that were sure to follow. This opened the door to worry, which I knew would not help the situation at all.

What I could do instead, however, was worship.

So as fear wrapped its fingers around my throat until I could barely catch my breath, I worshiped. When memories threatened to lash at me once more, I worshiped. Over and over, I entrusted my son and the days ahead to God and I worshiped Him, even as my body trembled at the thought of what was to come.

Full disclosure ~ while certain aspects of his surgery day went surprisingly well, the hours before my son was fully sedated were ugly and difficult. They were every bit as bad as I feared they would be. I feared the anesthesiologist would cancel the procedure because we struggled to get my son safely sedated but he looked me in the eye and told me not to worry. “We’re fine. We’ll get through this and we’ll get him there.”

And we did. The stories I could tell from that day would fill a book. It was hard and at times, quite ugly, but God was there. Every moment of that day is etched on my mind, not only because of the difficulty, but more so because of the love and care that was poured over my son and his weary mother as well.

In a place of impossibility, God made it possible. In a season of despair and weariness, God brought hope and strength. In a situation that was filled with darkness and fear, God brought light and peace.

He will bring me out to the light,
And I will see His righteousness.

Micah 7:9

In the quiet hours of the following morning, as I reflected over the events of the day before, this song of worship filled my soul:

“And I stand, I stand in awe of You
I stand, I stand in awe of You
Holy God to whom all praise is due
I stand in awe of You.”

I can only stand in awe of what God has done.

So my friends, I leave you with this final word as I close the year 2020 ~ As I have pondered the personal hardships I have walked through in this past year, the intense spiritual journey, the desperate loneliness, the hidden sorrows, and ultimately, the great care of a sovereign and holy God, I am left with only one thought to carry me into a new year that will surely be filled with its own uncertainties and trouble ~

But as for me, I will watch expectantly for the Lord ~ and I will worship.

*“I stand in awe” ~ Written by Mark Altrogge

*“Ascribe Greatness to our God” ~ Written by Don Meon

The Reluctant Traveler – An Unexpected Detour

A few weeks ago I wrote a post entitled, Survival 101 – Probably Not What You Expected. Today’s post is a follow-up to that so you may find it helpful to read (or reread) it before continuing. The key points I mentioned in that piece were Experience, Preparation, and Navigation and how they are absolutely necessary on this journey of life. But what happens when the unexpected happens? When a tsunami-sized wave comes crashing in over us or when our journey faces an unexpected detour? When happens when we are at the very end of our resources and everything seems lost? Come with me as we follow the experience of another traveler who finds herself in exactly that situation.

She lifted her backpack slowly and hoisted it across her weary shoulders, as a grimace of pain lightly crossed over her face. It was a heavy bag but she always carried it with her wherever she went, it was her constant companion. She was a well-seasoned traveler with many miles already logged in, but now she was facing an unexpected detour, a delay that would hinder her from reaching a much-needed shelter, a resting place. Weary though she was, there was nothing she could do but adapt to the ever-changing circumstances and keep going. So with a heavy sigh, the reluctant traveler adjusted the straps on her bag and started walking.

But then more news reached her — the two week detour was going to be extended. It grew to four weeks and then six, without a single rest in sight. Then it went from six to eight weeks. Finally she learned it would be at least five months of non-stop travel before there was even any chance of reaching a place of rest or replenishment. The bag on her back became burdensome, as the days and nights grew longer and discouragement and weariness began to overwhelm her. The journey was hard and what she carried suddenly seemed much too heavy for her to bear.

Her eyes were filled with tears so it is no surprise that she didn’t notice how close she was to the edge of a deep ravine. It only took one distracted moment for her to lose her footing and tumble deep into the darkness, her bag and all its contents breaking open and scattering across the bottom.

Our traveler laid silently on the rocky bottom of the ravine. She hadn’t made a sound as she fell and no one knew the danger she was in. She didn’t have the strength even now to call for help and she didn’t believe anyone would care anyway. So she curled up and settled into a troubled sleep as the darkness descended like a blanket covering her.

For days she lay huddled on the ground, unable to move and no longer caring whether she lived or died. The journey had proven to be too much for her and the detours had taken her to her very limit. The bag which had been with her all her life had become a burden, much too heavy for her to carry anymore. She looked at its contents strewed across the ground and she began to understand the absurdity of the weight she carried. Her bag had been filled with memories of her travels, relics of the past, and the weight of them alone was too much for her to bear. Her situation seemed dire, even hopeless, as the sense of abandonment and loneliness threatened her every thought.

But one morning, just as all seemed lost and her body and spirit began to fail, a gentle wind came whispering through the valley that held her captive, echoing with these words,

Remember my misery and my homelessness,
the wormwood and bitterness.
My soul certainly remembers,
And is bent over within me.

And remember she did.

She looked around her until she found where her well-used guide book had fallen. It had been some time since she had bothered to read it, but she knew where those words came from and suddenly she remembered where to find help. She crawled to the book, carefully opened its worn pages, and tearfully began to read the rest …

“I recall this to my mind,
Therefore I wait.
The Lord’s acts of mercy indeed do not end,
For His compassions do not fail.
They are new every morning;
Great is Your faithfulness.”

Lamentations 3: 19-23

This is when our weary and broken traveler knew she was going to be rescued. She didn’t know how and she didn’t know where the strength would come from to follow the voice that whispered in the wind, but in this moment of deep despair, her rescue had begun.

Can you relate to the reluctant traveler in the story above? I think after the year we’ve had, all of us can to a certain degree for it has certainly been filled with detours and challenges.

During the summer, I wrote a post simply entitled, Rescued. After I wrote that, someone asked me what the story was behind it but I never was able to answer that question, largely because I was still very much in the battle. I was still in the process of being rescued.

What I didn’t understand until recently, however, was that I wasn’t being rescued from danger, but rather, the danger was my rescue.

Hang on, I’ll try to explain.

With March of 2020, there came a huge detour in life; It affected everybody. No one was exempt although I think it is safe to say, it impacted each of us differently.

For me personally, it has been a hard detour, one that followed a very long series of other detours. But tell me, what would you say if I told you those detours, although hard and often soul-crushing, were actually for my good? Would you understand if I said that the path I am on, even though it is not a path I want or would have chosen, is the one God chose for me, therefore, it is good?

What if I told you the things that are the hardest in my life
are the very things God is using to rescue me?

I grew up in church, Bible-believing churches, all through my youth and young adult years. I asked Jesus into my heart as a child. I attended every church service (and there were A LOT) and I participated in every child and youth ministry. I served in the church in almost every capacity from my youngest years. Church was my life — it was my community.

I was a believer and by all appearance, a ‘good Christian girl’, but on the inside I struggled terribly. I was afraid all of the time, vulnerable to all kinds of things and people, and prone to searching for a sense of safety/security wherever I could find it. I was an empty shell of a person, always seeking identity, validation, and love. I was on a path that was clearly heading away from God, although I would have denied that at the time.

When I was 21, one of the first real ‘detours’ of my adult life hit. I moved into my first apartment and lost my home church (through a difficult church-split type of situation), all in one weekend. Losing my church meant losing my entire community that had been in place since I was a very young child.

That life detour led to another detour … and then another. What seemed like speed bumps on the road at the time, proved to be life-altering changes that led me on a path I never intended for myself.

Like the traveler in my story, I’ve carried a bag on my life’s journey and it too has been an often heavy, burdensome piece to carry. At various points of my journey in the past, the Lord has caused detours to come my way that helped me begin to understand how heavy that bag was and how useless much of the contents were. The longer the detour, the harder the path I had to walk, the more I noticed and fell beneath the weight of the baggage I carried. What was all in the bag I carried? Fear, bad memories, legalistic thinking, hurts and wounds from the past, guilt, shame, poor Biblical teaching and understanding, and a incorrect view of God and who I am in Him … and much more. It’s a bag I kept hidden for years because I was so ashamed of the contents it held inside.

But as the detours of life continued and as the intensity of my journey increased, the Lord began to deal with the contents of my bag, sifting through the nonsense and replacing junk thinking with His truth. Over the years, through this work of the Holy Spirit, the weight of the bag has grown significantly lighter.

But over this past summer, the detour that hit my life proved to be especially grueling, with little to no support or reprieve from the intensity. I was weary and grew distracted from the weight I was carrying and, as a result, I took a wrong step and tumbled down into a steep ravine. Just like the weary traveler in my story, the remaining contents of my bag went flying through the air, scattering across the ground.

For a time I laid still, also not caring whether I lived or died. The journey had been much too hard for me and the burden on my shoulders too heavy to carry. The darkness of the night covered my soul in deep silence even as I carried on outwardly with the responsibilities of life.

I would have stayed there for I had lost any will to fight … but God.

But God.

Down in the ravine where I was hidden from view and completely alone, God stepped into the darkness and brought His light. He gathered some of the wretched contents of my bag and began to show me the absurdity of the things I carry. Remnants of a broken past tampered with my own understanding, instead of His. Then, as the old hymn says, ‘I traced His rainbow through the rain…’ and in the quiet of the night, I began to see the detours of my past from His perspective, instead of my own…

I saw beauty. I saw love. I saw discipline. I saw the protection of a sovereign and holy God towards one of His more vulnerable, yet stubborn, children. I saw grace, immeasurable grace. I was humbled as I sat in silence at the feet of my Savior.

All the detours that, from my perspective, made life so much harder and different from what I wanted, were actually the paths my Father laid out for me to bring me to a place of rescue.

Rescue from myself and my own sin tendencies. Rescue from a faulty understanding of who He is and who I am in Him. Rescue from a life lived in constant fear of others.

Reader, the hard things in my life that I so often fight against and resent, are the very things God is using to transform me into the image of His Son.

He is using the dangers and detours of this life to rescue me.

So where does that leave me now? Well, I’m not sure honestly. The last couple of months have been a slow process of climbing out of the deep ravine with the steady assistance and care of a loving Shepherd who will leave the 99 to find the one that is lost. Life continues to be uncertain, challenging, and wearisome and I am not sure what lies ahead for me or what direction my path will take. So I endeavor to take each day one step at a time, trusting in Him to lead me in the direction He wants me to go.

Reader, I shared all this to challenge you — Whatever path you find yourself on, whatever detour seems to have changed the trajectory of your journey, you may find it helpful to look to the Savior. Could it be that He has a purpose for the detours and hard things in your life too?

Don’t waste the detours.

Oh, the depth of the riches, both of the wisdom and knowledge of God!
 How unsearchable are His judgments and unfathomable His ways!

Romans 11:33

Life Lessons from my Son

My son is nineteen years old — and he is profoundly impacted by autism. Unless the Lord grants a miracle of healing, my son will never live on his own and will never not need constant supervision and care. He will likely not become completely verbal and his behaviors will probably always be a barrier to a life of independence. Most people would feel sorry for him. People often feel sorry for me and the rest of the family. Autism is hard and the way it impacts him and those of us closest to him is significant. However, please do not think this means his life and his journey are meaningless — that is not true at all. In fact, I think if you listen, watch, and engage in his world, you will find many life lessons.

The last few days have been especially challenging for my son. I am not sure what triggered the increase in agitation and frustration, but it has been rough — for him and for me. Presently, due to the pandemic, he only attends his specialized school in the mornings, which means he gets home every day in time to eat lunch — his current daily meal of choice is frozen pepperoni pizza. My guy loves his pizza and he really does not like to share (even though I sometimes take a slice to work on that whole sharing thing). Yesterday I made his pizza like normal while also preparing lunch for his siblings. I am not sure what clicked in his head or exactly what instigated his next move, but after he ate one piece, he suddenly wrapped a slice of his pizza in a paper towel and offered it to me. He shared his favorite lunch with me.

My heart melted as I accepted his gift. You see, the day was a heavy one for me as it was an important election day in the U.S. I was at peace myself, but the words, fear, anger, and behavior of others in regards to the election had begun to weigh me down. I was starting to feel fear and dread, worrying about the days ahead. But in that moment, with an offering of sweet kindness and love, the fear began to melt away and my spirits lifted from the depths.

Yes, it was only a slice of frozen pizza, something that most of us might take for granted, but that pizza was of great value to him. It was what he had to give and because of that, his simple offering of kindness, turned my day around.

He shared what he had — he shared his pizza.

Later in the day, my son began to struggle. I could see a meltdown simmering below the surface and as much as I wished to avoid such a scene, I knew we were working our way to an explosion. Things were nearing a boiling point just as he was finishing up his showering routine. I helped him complete the final steps as I quietly reminded him that while the emotions that were churning inside of him were understandable and okay, he needed to remember that taking his anger and frustration out on me was not. We feel what we feel, but learning to respect ourselves and to love others enough to practice self-control of our emotions is so important.

Then that evening, it hit. The boiling at reached its limit and the explosion was intense, releasing all the strong and overwhelming emotions that had been building up for days. I admit, my spirit sighed within me as I rose to my feet to help him through the crisis, like I always do. But this time, he took himself to his ‘safe spot.’ A chair that used to be his time-out location but now since he is older, it is a safe place to work on calming down. Since he took himself there, I opted not to follow or remain in the room with him — I wanted to see if he could control himself and be able to self-regulate his emotions. Within a couple of minutes, he returned to his computer, still a bit out of sorts, but without the intensity of the previous behaviors. I continued to wait and remain silent. Within ten minutes, he was mostly calm and within 20-30 minutes, he seemed completely at ease.

My son’s emotions are deep and they are powerful. They are every bit as valid as yours or mine. The difference is, he is largely unable to process them and is not able at all to verbally express them. It has been extremely hard trying to teach him how to navigate whatever he is feeling inside, while also trying, oh so carefully, not to minimize the emotions and reactions that I can’t even begin to understand. However, I believe it to be important for my son to learn the value of self-control, for his own good and the good of those around him.

I have spent years teaching him Scripture that speak of self-control and I talk to him frequently about the importance of loving others and respecting ourselves enough to not unleash our fury on another. Of course, I also work at teaching coping mechanisms and whatever other tools I can think of to help him navigate this often tumultuous life. But I truly believe, if I can help him understand the concept of self-control, it will be for his benefit and good. Like most of us, sometimes he gets it — sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he is that overwhelmed in the intensity of the moment, the mere thought of self-control is unimaginable. But on this particular night, I watched and listened as he stood in the midst of an intense storm raging inside and practiced self-control. He handled it completely on his own — without my help at all.

He practiced self-control and in doing so, he respected himself and loved his family.

Friends, I get it — this is a hard season for most of us. We are struggling beneath the weight of a world-wide pandemic, which knocked any sense of ‘normal’ off the radar. We’re out of sorts and frustrated, whether by the restrictions set in place or by the refusal of some to follow the restrictions. Some of us are experiencing true hardship and life has become increasingly more difficult. Many of us are watching the chaos and hatred swirling around our nation with amazement and fear while some of us are engaged in the fray, looking for a fight.

It is an uncertain time and not one of us knows what tomorrow will hold, but rest assured, almost everyone is feeling the weight of it in some way. So what can we do? I can’t save the world. I can’t fix everything. I can’t make it all better for you, myself, or for my children as I wish I could do. I can’t change the world.

But as simple as it may sound, in light of often harsh circumstances, I can follow my son’s example. I can share my pizza … whatever that means for me. It may be a gentle word of encouragement to a cashier at the grocery store. It may be a nod of greeting to someone on the street or a smile of welcome. Maybe it is something I write on social media or a Bible verse I share. Whatever my ‘pizza’ is, whatever small kindness that is in my power to offer, I can share it with someone else and in doing so, God might use it to lighten their load or encourage their spirit.

Or, maybe I can practice self-control, developing a respect for myself while seeking to love another. I can refrain from posting that angry rant on social media or posting that mocking meme of a public official. I can choose to hold back my impulsive words when I see or hear something with which I disagree. When my kids push my last button, I can step away and deal with the sin in my own heart before I tear them apart with my angry words. Developing self-control takes discipline and time, but the Bible lists it as a fruit of the Spirit — it is honoring to the Lord.

So life lessons from my son — in the days ahead, no matter what happens, no matter how hard things may be or what struggles we may face, share your pizza (my new mantra) and practice self-control.

It might not change the world, but it might impact someone’s life in a way that leads them to the Savior.

And whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.
Colossians 3:17