No Light, No Grace

When I began this blog and considered the title, it seemed fitting to establish my roots in faith. I sought examples of God’s light and wanted to document experiences of grace as I journeyed through each day. But what now, when darkness seems to close in unexpectedly, when grief overcomes my ability to see or trust the Light? Certainly I have been shown grace as my emotions rule, as tears flow in the midst of everyday conversations or when I appear hardened and aloof, trying desperately not to feel in order to complete tasks. Truthfully though, I have discovered during this mourning time that I don’t find the light to be bright enough,  the grace I once knew was from God is little comfort. Marooned, angry, unable even to recognize a thirst for healing waters, I realize I have lost my ability to write as well.

What was comfort, a means to express what I often couldn’t say out loud, now feels like whining and moaning and pointless. Shall I say each day that I am sad? Shall I list all the ways I have displayed my anger? Who really wants to read such depressing drivel? How can I find my way back as a light-seeker when I am distrustful of the rays that break through, knowing the night is coming again, the inky blackness that mutes colors and turns all who move around me into shadows? Eleven years I was faithful in praying to a God, asking fervently for the prayers of others who seemed more deeply faithful, that my son would be given a way out of his addiction, that he would be safe and redeemed and restored. A pastor told me once, through the darker times, that my Arrow was working on his testimony, that one day he would share his witness. Taking this as a promise from one who had the inside track to God, I just knew Arrow would stand in church one day and thank everyone for coming alongside him in prayer, for propping up his family and caring for his child He would say he was now a believer and committed to a different life. I held this as a promise even when he was homeless and filthy, even when he was missing and the police were searching for him. I trusted this plan when he was in danger in prison and when he attempted suicide. I trusted God with my child, yet God took him anyway.

Tricked, I feel tricked. I search for a way back to God, a reason to go back to God. I still beg him to protect my daughter, to keep my husband safe, to watch over my grandchildren but I know He may not be listening to me. After all, why hasn’t He restored my daughter to us? Why is life often complicated and difficult with Plum’s mom? When is it going to go our way, when? Yes, we have a safe home and food in our fridge, we are mostly able to pay all the bills and our health allows us to participate in our church ministries. Still my deepest yearnings, my fervent prayers lay at the altar, abandoned neglected shriveled. I want the easy joys of restoration and relationship and celebrations, when do I get my share, my payback for the mistake of taking my son? Kubler Ross might notice I am angry and bargaining and oh so far from acceptance.

I listen as others who are mourning or have grown in their grief talk about the assurance of a better place for their lost loves, knowing I am rejecting their faith, rejecting the idea that the timing was God’s intention. How can I believe that Arrow was supposed to die alone in his kitchen with drugs coursing through his body, destroying the chance of listening to his children laugh and walk and run and play football? What sense does that make? How can I not feel rejected by the One I have followed, to give me this child only to rip him from our lives?  No, writing does make me feel better, see truths I may have missed. I can only rant and scream out with the ragged voice of one who has suffered a wound so catastrophic that wholeness will never be possible.

I am sad. Everyday I am sad. Every minute I ache and I search for answers that won’t come. Acceptance of this loss and of a new relationship with the One who pulls the strings seem far off, out of reach to a mother who just wants to hear her son laugh again.

Sweet Discoveries

I noticed the special bags of candy already appearing in the grocery store as I ambled along, I resisted at the first pass but gave in to another display. Bags of bite-sized chocolates, sweets that curb cravings without the guilt of full bars. Hiding this treasure in my office where mostly no one goes, I thought they were safe, that I could dole them out slowly and gingerly to the child, to my hubby. Instead, my Plum chose that weekend to explore my get-away, he loves the rolling chair and the bowls and baskets of gran’s specials. He found the candy, a pile of wrappers on my desk shouted tiny portions be damned. Aside from the issue of him not cleaning up after himself, I know now that the candy was leading me to a sweeter discovery, equally unhealthy if I over-indulge.

An old flash drive filled with pictures and videos, a remnant of an older laptop wiped of important content, lay forgotten in a clay pot my mother made many years ago. When Arrow died and I sought pictures to no avail, knowing I had them somewhere but my scattered thoughts and shocked soul couldn’t formulate where to look.  Swooshing silvery packages into the trash, my eye finally noticed the equally tiny drive that held the memories I sought for 8 months. Once it was attached to my Mac, thousands of images greeted me, luring me into high school, to days before Plum was born, to Stella and her cats and her new car and Sunday dinners with her friends each week of her early college career. Scanning, clicking, devouring the photos like my Plum surely indulged in the 3 Musketeers and Twix bars, I couldn’t stop. Then I found the videos.

Stella holding Plum, gently moving on the porch swing while Arrow blows bubbles, the delighted giggles of my Plum as he watches his father’s face and the resulting laughter of both my children. It is all there. Off-screen, separate from the joy of the moment but recording it unaware that the day would come when hearing that voice, watching that face would mesmerize me. Stella and Arrow, united in bringing joy to the child they both loved first, fiercely. Here in the sanctuary of my porch while they focused on the baby, I recorded my son engaging with his. I can’t stop watching.

I am seeking a new hiding place for the candy jar, somewhere out of reach of my Plum. I wonder if I need to do the same with this flash drive, I have that sick feeling in my stomach that comes from too much sugar. I watch, I get lost in memories, I reject the knowledge that my Arrow, so big and funny and full of life, will never appear in another video, that he will never elicit giggles from his children again. All motivation, the forward movement, the busyness that has kept me rising each day has disappeared, replaced by the sugar low of watching the scene unfold over and over and over. Layers of my denial litter the table where my laptop rests, a trail of tears as messy as the evidence of Plum’s binge.

Was I supposed to find this treasure trove of memories right now? Can I believe that the Holy Spirit led me to by bags of candy and stash them exactly right there? How much of a reach is it to think God believes I am strong enough right now to revisit those days and not get lost? Seeking affirmation that I can do these hard things, magical thinking that assigns power outside of me, I know that if I don’t hide that jar, Plum too will sneak more and I will stay in that day 7 years ago when joy abounded.

Tomorrow I will move the candy and hide the flash drive, maybe. Knowing they both exists though, Plum will search and I will sneak. That moment when the chocolate coats his tongue, bliss. That moment when I see my smiling son, ecstasy.  Pretending we won’t feel sick afterwards, ignoring the warnings that scream for moderation, he slides into my office, I click the play arrow again. Tomorrow, tomorrow we will regain self-control.

 

Why I Forgave the Dog Who Bit Me

I tell everyone it was my fault but really the dog had a choice. Sure, I shouldn’t have feed the visiting dog at the same time as my own beasts, I should have realized this other dog didn’t see me as a pack member. I forgot that often one can be perceived as a threat even when intentions are honorable. The dog (not one of our beasts) bit me, leaving me with 6 stitches and a thumb that aches a month later. Still, the fight was a choice and the aggression was unnecessary.

I immediately recognized my mistake, I took the dog’s side, looking out from her perspective even as blood soaked the towel and dropped onto the floor. I understand fear and protectiveness and poor impulse control. I too have bitten when I should have backed off. I know I have caused rips and tears and bloodied up those who merely want to come near. Forgiving the dog was easy, forgetting is harder. I’m leery, a bit anxious when I am around her. When you discover the harm one is capable off, do you ever truly let down your guard? So it is with relationships I long for, can I ever ask them to forget harsh words when the ache surely reminds them I have teeth and may let instincts rule sense when I feel threatened?

I keep visiting the dog, I pursue relationship. Respect and awareness are heightened as we move forward. I choose not to let fear and distrust destroy either of us. To those who have felt bitten by my responses to perceived danger, I ask, “Can you see for even a moment how situations looked through my eyes?” It isn’t in my nature to toss our harsh words, to hurl judgements and leave scars, yet I did just that. During the first few days of learning my son died, I drew boundaries around my pack, I snapped and growled and said things I so wish I could take back.  My objectivity was non-existent, my assessments faulty, just as the dog who bit me. She sensed danger from those around and a fight ensued. How can I not forgive this canine and accept my role in it, I have been her?

The truth is that this dog is kind and loving and gentle. I approach her slowly, I allow her to sniff around, I am working on regaining her trust. I pet her with my other hand, the wound barely healed, often throbbing and reminding me that relationships are hard and rife with wrong moves and restarts. Determining that ignoring her or excluding her or avoiding all potential interactions is not workable for a member of the family, I move slowly and gently reach out to her.  She in turn cuddles and offers comfort. We offer grace, we are careful with each other and we allow each positive moment to blur our difficult past.

I pray that one day I will be offered the chance to show that I don’t normally bite, that I usually offer love and comfort to those around.

The Long Saturday

Many years ago, our family watched a movie together that struck the children deeply, The Passion of Christ. None of us have been able to attend a second showing, the images of Jesus nailed to the cross, suffering and mourning so clear, we got the message and haven’t been able to shake it, even during difficult times. I remember Arrow being especially moved and vocal, he was angry at how Jesus was treated, he couldn’t grasp the cruelty. During later years as he moved away from believing, when he resisted going to church and he began to play with other religions during his incarceration, I trusted that the child who once read every book in the Left Behind for Kids series and who ached over this movie still had the seeds of faith within him. No one was witness to his last moments, we cannot say for sure that he called out to God or begged for forgiveness or even rejected it all as he took his last breath. I can only continue to believe that the Holy Spirit was with my son, given to us by God’s Son during his last breaths.

I attended the Good Friday service this week at our church, or part of it. I made it through the beginning songs but when members stood on the altar and portrayed those who witnessed Jesus’s death with an authenticity I could feel and get lost in, I found I couldn’t witness this murder. One young man gave insight into the soldiers who carried out the job of crucifixion, a horrible job that becomes doable when only with detachment, the separation of one’s heart and one’s body. I have been that guy, witnessing horror, participating in the destruction of others by mocking and questioning and above all, not stepping in to say no. Plum asked me the other day if there was ever any kids I didn’t like when I went to school. As I struggled to answer his question, memories of one particular little girl came to mind. She was different, annoying, she was too skinny and wore odd clothes. She had no friends so the day she decided to sit with me at lunch, to join my group, what to me was an implication that I accepted her and maybe could be like her, my fragile identity and need for acceptance from the larger group resulted in a shameful bullying incident that has haunted me for 45 years. When she refused to move even after we told her to, I dumped my tray of spaghetti on her. I cringe as I write this, unable to fathom the cruelty I lived out. When I was disciplined, it was not with suspension or spanking, instead a favorite teacher took me into his room and said the worst thing possible, that he was disappointed in me. That moment solidified for me that I had a choice about how I was going to grow into my character. I could follow the group, I could seek acceptance by behaving horrifically, or I could see the humanity in all around me and choose kindness. I evaluated the popular group I so wanted to be in with and found that I really didn’t have anything in common with them, I really was more like the girl on the fringe. I cannot say that she and I became great friends but I never again rejected her, I did eat lunch with her and I found she had gifts I had previously overlook and discounted. As that respected teacher spoke to me, I lost the ability to detach my heart and crucify others. I didn’t share the whole story with Plum who is kind to the odd kids and would be shocked that his grandma once behaved so poorly. One day though, he will hear this truth and will know that kindness is always our best choice.

Our pastor gave a moving portrayal of the man who hung on the cross next to Jesus, his gasping breaths and last minute acceptance of the offer of salvation, so real and true and horrific, I wanted to bolt from the room. I have been that guy, living a life of deception, suffering the consequences of mistakes that have taken away any dignity or hope, only to turn my soul over to the only One who continued to hang with me, the One who has offered me forgiveness again and again. When I was first imprisoned, when I sat in the jail cell in shock trying to absorb my reality of two and a half years away from my children, I too was gasping for air, only to find it stale, piped in, rife with desolation as others struggled to breathe as well. I begged God to let me die, I sought some means to end it all, the agony of it all wracked my body. Yet in the darkest moments, when I couldn’t escape my horror, I was flooded with the presence of the Holy Spirit, the reminder of the Footprints poem would not leave me, I found a peace I didn’t want, didn’t believe I deserved, as I knew Jesus would carry me when I couldn’t walk. I survived, I healed, I returned a stronger, surer woman who was determined never to be used by a man again, who would seek out God for my redemption always. Unlike the man on the cross, my conversion moment has been stretched over decades, a constant need to turn my eyes away from the harsh realities of this world and focus on God.

Next came the sounds of Jesus’s mother, wailing as she watched her son die. During the last three months as I have sought out God to make sense of my son’s death, I forgot about another mother who lost her son. Alternating between finding comfort knowing God fully knew my pain and being angry that He didn’t stop the loss, I never imagined how Mary must have felt. Yet her son offered comfort even to her in that moment, He instructed another to be her child. He assigned her another son, he solidified that even if she was childless through His death, she would continue to be a mom. He knew they would need each other as they grieved, as mourning threatened to destroy all hope. My wounds are too raw, too fresh, my other child is not joining with me to mourn. Mary’s sorrow was too real to me, I had to leave. As she proclaimed that she didn’t want Him to be Jesus, savior of the world, but just her son, I knew in that moment her mother’s heart just wanted her son back, not this man who made His own choices and suffered the consequences. She couldn’t rescue the baby she had carried, bereft, she cried out at the injustice, at the death of her joy. I have truly been Mary, my son  imperfect but loved by so many,  he too left way too young, he had much left to do on this earth.

Listening from outside the sanctuary, I heard bits and pieces of the witness of others. I considered that Jesus was someone different to each, multiple levels of mourning and relationship were evident during His execution. Friends and followers watched, confused and searching for answers. Left wondering how it all could go so wrong so swiftly, dreams of a better future shattered, swept away as the crowd celebrated. Considering how my son died as suddenly, warning signs clear just as Jesus foresaw His own death, yet ignored, discounted. Still those around my son mourn in shock. His friends, his family, co workers, teachers, all  replaying what happened, searching for answers, desperate to find a different truth than the reality that this was inevitable, that the choices Arrow made led him to his own destruction. Our sins led to the death of Jesus, we are complicit, our very nature made it necessary for the sacrificial lamb to die. Is the same true for my son? What did we miss, what wrongs were committed that encouraged his substance abuse? What more could we have done over the 11 years of his addiction to help him chose life over this disease? Yes, the witnesses to his death are left wondering, wishing for an answer to explain this loss, knowing none will ever bring him back. Hopes for a better future died that morning as they both took their last breaths. The long waiting through Saturday, after that horrific Friday, filled with confusion and seeking ends with the joyous discovery of the empty tomb on Sunday, for the followers of Jesus. My Saturday blanketed Sunday and Monday and all the days after. I’m struggling to get to Sunday, the day of restoration and affirmation.

My son’s birthday falls close to Easter each year. I know there is a story in that, preparation during 26 years to remember the promises of God at the end of the story, to not get stuck in the desolate Saturday of a hard life. As I look back on each year with him, as we baked cakes and blew out candles and sent cards to prison and rejoiced that he was among us for another chance of a bright future, I was being trained, conditioned. Don’t look merely at the emptiness of my heart, rejoice in the transformation of a life. Watch as my sins as a bully in elementary school and his drug use are opportunities to turn toward the light, see grace scatter shame like bits of colored egg shells swept into the trash. The good stuff is inside of us, the flashy colors and decorations an enticement to us to go deeper, find the prize within, to gain nourishment for our souls. Still I am stuck on Saturday, a seemingly endless wait to discover joy again and accept all the grace that Easter brings. I replay the voices from the sanctuary, listening to the witness of believers and doubters alike and know that Sunday will come, one day I too will delight in the empty tomb. Spring is late this year, vacillating between sunny 70 degree days and late snow showers and I find comfort in that. I’m easing into this slow spring season, beginning to notice the birds excitedly chirping, allowing the rain to fall onto my head and sprouting shoots of early flowers to remind that Sunday is around the corner. Embracing the humanity of those who witnessed the execution of my Savior, of those who missed signs to save my son, I realize there is hope enough for me.

 

 

On The Bridge

Growing up, I didn’t hear much about evil in church.  The focus was more on gaining a relationship with Jesus, accepting God as the foundation for our lives. Yet more and more I realize that light cannot be appreciated without darkness. I’ve read tons of quotes about the stars shining brightest in the dark of night, I get the concept. What I didn’t realize though was the role of evil, how much the hard times in my life have been the devil attacking me when I am the reaching out to God, when my faith was getting stronger. I have to admit it feels weird to even type that, such is my discomfort with “devil talk”.  What has seemed like a foreign way for me to understand and practice my faith, an attitude more fitting for those other kinds of churches is now becoming a clear concept of how this world works. It certainly has aided me in recognizing the role of shame and insecurity and even depression, removing my sense that I have brought this stuff on myself, furthering the need for self-punishment. I’m not suggesting I don’t have personal responsibility for my actions but understanding the goal of magnifying and distorting and oppressing me is strictly that of the evil one, I begin to find the power of choice, of turning to the Light.

When it became clear that the abuse I experienced as a child was deeply impacting my relationships and I needed help to right my thinking again, I entered therapy. This time though, I didn’t search for a counselor who had years of experience dealing with sexual abuse, although she does. I sought out a faith-based therapist who could help me resolve the questions of how could God have allowed this to happen. Spoiler alert: she doesn’t have that answer but what she did offer was a bridge to God that encouraged me to cross over into trust, where I could see not a God who shares responsibility for my suffering but a God who ached with me and wants more of my life. She has also exposed the role of the evil one, something I had always discounted, pooh-poohed as more hocus pocus than spirituality. Opening my mind to the dangers of darkness, the way my heart and soul have been pursued not just by a relentless God but also a sneaky destructive evil, I have become empowered to make different choices. I can not only desire the light, I can choose it.

When bad things happen, we instinctively wonder where God is, how can these horrible events occur, much like the admonishing Jesus endured on the cross: if you are who you said you were, why can’t you stop this, prevent this, make it all better. What I am finally grasping all these years later is that the two are not mutually exclusive. God is indeed who He says he is and bad things happen as evil seeks to rule this world. It comes down to choice, when we have the option to magnify hurtful words and promote violence through bullying we have turned away from the light that seeks to shine through it all. We give power to the oppressor, we abandon the One who aches to accompany us even when all is horrible, maybe especially when our hearts are broken and we are frightened and when we begin to feel blanketed by sadness.

I was almost to the surrender part, the place where I could see with clarity that God had not left me alone in the room with my father, that God had not left me to sit in prison with a shattered soul, that He had been right with me and gave me tools to survive, then unexpectedly my son died. Rocked, shocked, shattered, I almost gave in to the darkness, allowed the loss of my son to turn me away from God. Seriously, could there be a better time to question the faithfulness of a God who didn’t save my son? Yet over and over, in spite of what felt like the ultimate betrayal of God’s love, I found countless ways that He was shining through. His disciples have walked with me, guided me back to the bridge, bringing dinner and sending cards and asking me again and agin how I am, listening to me cry and giving me opportunities to serve in the midst of it all. God spoke to a friend who was herself feeling darkness of fear and hopeless descend and she offered me the opportunity to sit daily with her mother, a beautiful woman who is losing herself to Alzheimers. In the midst of my sorrow, I was given hours each day to step outside of my pain and stay just in the present moment as I guided her through daily living tasks and listened as her snippets of past memories replayed on a continuous loop. Each time she told me about her time as a bus driver, we spoke as if I was hearing it for the first time and I felt delight. Each time. Because I was with a woman who was living out her joys over and over, not one who sat in bitterness and shame and sorrow. She was not reliving the hardest times, those she had already released from her memory. I saw the power of looking always towards the Light.

Turning my perspective away from a personal character flaws and into realization that evil is afoot, hardening hearts and sowing discord, I am free to see the real person, the true struggle and feel compelled to share more of my light, more of my hope and certainly more of my prayers. For too many years, I internalized the darkness, accepting the blame for circumstances, doubting my own worth. Bad things happened, I must be bad. God must not extend His promises to the likes of me, why else would all this keep occurring? These days, I am leaning into the complexities of words like because, in spite of, even though. When taken into context of relationships, causation and blame and responsibility are highlighted. Heartbreaks don’t find us BECAUSE of God, He remains present IN SPITE OF our circumstances and the evil we face, He will bring good and joy EVEN THOUGH we may not see it or even want it. It all changes how I see our Father.

More clearly I perceive how evil breaks up marriages, how children are led into estrangement, how we accept others as lesser because of color or bank accounts or political beliefs. Giving into the darkness of judgement and division, of depression and resentment, satan wins and we all lose. Conversely, where the Light shines, we live out   grace and forgiveness and compassion and a deep desire to right wrongs. The Light is always there, waiting to warm us and show us joy and purpose. A bridge has been built and I am stepping onto it, trusting that I will be held securely even when I stumble, even when I fall.

Will you join me on the bridge? The view is amazing.

 

 

Carrying My Elephant

When I explained to my friend that I felt disconnected to my Plum, that I knew I wasn’t being emotionally available to him, that I feared for our relationship but felt helpless to muster the energy to play our pretend games or create my own Lego robot to battle his, she offered many gentle suggestions but one stood out. I needed to tell him the truth. Hardly shocking or earth-shattering yet I hadn’t even in my foggy state, considered the power of offering him my truth.  Her ability to discern and deliver hard truths and beautiful insight with a softened tone and gentle words has aided me in correcting my paths too many times to count now. I trust her, I believe she has my best interests and even more, my soul, in mind as she listens to me. What if I offered my Plum the same gift of truth?

Her ideas about how to stay present with Plum, to create some space for even a few moments of engagement that would carry him as I sunk back into the fog of memories and heartache, they changed our weekend and brought me closer to this sweet child. Putting the plans in motion alleviated the guilt I was trying to add onto over-burdened shoulders. We built some Lego guys, we chitter-chatted. By Sunday though, I was exhausted and weepy and just needed some alone time. “Gran can we play our pretend game?” When life was our normal, he and I took on the role of characters, or more accurately, I did. He always stays Plum but I am a cast of friends who have different voices and attitudes and agendas. Our group tackles the concerns in his mind, we work out proper sharing and competitions and word choices and even a new crush. This play forces me into giving him my full attention and he loves it, craves this secret activity of ours (if Chef approaches, SILENCE!) By Sunday morning, I was completely unable to take on any more roles, I barely had my own voice. “C’mon here Plum, let’s talk.” Instead of playing any other parts, I gave him my truth.

“Gran’s sad is so big, so heavy, it is as if I am carrying an elephant.” Spreading my arms out wide, I showed him how heavy they were, how cumbersome this elephant actually is.  “Gran is so tired because this elephant is huge and heavy and it is wearing out my arms, making my shoulders ache, my body is exhausted.” I asked him if he noticed that I wasn’t very attentive right now, he said I was grumpy. Yes! I owned his label and told him this elephant is making it hard for me to see anything else, my view is blocked. I get distracted with the heaviness of it, I forget to be nicer and I can’t pick up anything more. Apologizing for not being more with him, expressing that I so missed our special times together, I told him I wouldn’t be carrying this elephant forever. “But Gran, I thought you love elephants?” Clarity and history broke down my metaphor, I struggled to explain that indeed, I do and yet this one was coming between us. Still, he said he understood and he offered grace to his Gran, tempered his invitations to play and met me in the light of our truth. Even as I pondered my promise to him, that this elephant carrying wasn’t forever, I realized I had no idea how to set it down. Slowly, carefully, with great care so neither of us were permanently damaged, I imagined.

“Your joy is your sorrow” writes Kahil Gibran in “The Prophet,” a work that has greatly steered my thinking for over 30 years. The words of this poem have been echoing around my thoughts as I consider the question posed by my Plum. Yes, one of my greatest joys ever was when Stella and I interacted up close with elephants in a sanctuary in Thailand.  The opportunity to side atop one as she played in the river, to be dunked under by the mahout, her tender, and gasp in delight as a baby elephant swam under us and popped up spraying water all around us, this joy is deeply connected to my daughter and my time of discovering her fully as a young woman. Why didn’t I tell Plum my sad was as big as a whale? A huge building? When the words left my mouth to this sweet boy, I said elephant and it was truth. My most joyful moments are the self same deepest sorrow, forever joined in my love for these two children. Remembering how carefully we made meals for the elephants within this sanctuary, how we marveled at their size and gentleness, I am reminded that my grief deserves the same consuming tenderness.

One day I will merely visit with this elephant, I won’t be carrying it. That day seems quite out of reach in these early dark moments. For now, I got honest with my Plum and we are both better for it. While I am weighed down with grief, we have offered each other space to feel how we are, be where we are, we are finding language to share difficult emotions. Mostly though I was to free up a hand to reach out to this child.  Joy will come again, I am confident this child will we teach me the way back. Reconnected, I release the guilt and hold my sadness tenderly.

 

 

Could I Survive A Zombie Attack?

I have a friend who teases me sometimes about riding out a zombie apocalypse, she questions my ability to survive. As an extremely non-violent person, I have little chance apparently, fortunately she has offered to protect me. What I have come to understand though is that I am already a survivor, I have the skill set needed to withstand all that comes at me, I have been practicing nearly my entire life. Every day up to this one has prepared me for the worst that could happen, the loss of my child and the darkness that would ensue. I found my safe space not in a bunker filled with bottled water and canned goods but in a family of faith, open and light-filled, the fresh breath of the Holy Spirit breezing through the open windows of my soul. those who freely offer grace and forgiveness, who have listened to my fears, my shame, my heartaches and still usher me into their sanctuary, these light-bringers invited me into the Kingdom and asked me to call it home.

An advantage of making as many public mistakes as I have is that you cannot run from the truth, it is all out there. The choice is to live in shame and the judgement of others or rise up.  Accountability and atonement are my guiding principals, seeking the next right thing and making hard choices that are not in my best interests or even what my heart yearns for, these skills have served me well and are leading me back into the fold. Beyond what I would desire, I will survive this grief and the pain because I have been preparing for this my whole life. I am a survivor. In fact for many years I merely survived, I existed. I eased through each day making as few waves as possible, standing in the shadows, silent and grateful for the crumbs of joy that entered my soul, I was a zombie. Then God said, “Enough.” I was washed of shame and offered transformation and a full life in the Light. I accepted, not realizing that very act would prepare me for the greatest loss of my life. That building of trust with others who share my faith and guide me to restoration are all I need to withstand attacks from evil worse than any zombie.

This spat that I have been having with God changed over the course of a weekend, when I lost a filling in a tooth and then caught the stomach bug that has been circling around our community and then found a comment on this blog that was absolutely cruel.  Physical agony that compounded my soul ache, utter helpless that sent me to my knees pushed me where I was meant to go with my broken heart. I had time to think, no puzzles and crocheting and feverish house cleaning to keep me distracted. Finally it occurred to me that I couldn’t blame God for not saving Arrow, He had done so too many times before, Arrow had been protected and rescued countless times, I know of those exact moments that God interceded on this child’s behalf. Arrow chose not to cherish that intervention, to see what more he was and stay in the Light. As clarity came about fault and blame and accountability, I found God hovering patiently, waiting for my confession for doubting HIs love. I needed more though, to allow God to be off the hook. It came in the form of insight from my daughter, from Stella, shared cruelly from one who wished to cause harm. Yes, you read that correctly.

As I read the words of my daughter, the first insight into this estrangement, the first communication that gave insight into her thinking, I became free. That which was meant for harm God turned into good.  Of course the missive was ugly yet it brought total clarity as I realized just like my son, my daughter is choosing to use and others are supporting her destructive habit. Rather than substances, she is consumed with hate and distortions and twisting of truth in order to maintain this estrangement. I recognized for the first time, IT IS NOT ME! Just as I couldn’t stop Arrow from sliding back into the darkness but provided him with every resource to choose a different life, so I am not responsible for my daughter’s  graceless existence even as I recall that she was raised in the faith where forgiveness, atonement and grace are practiced. Genesis 50:20 comes to mind: 19But Joseph said to them, “Do not be afraid, for am I in God’s place? 20“As for you, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good in order to bring about this present result, to preserve many people alive. Yes, I am going to survive this and continue seeking what direction God is leading me, I certainly cannot do that and maintain my fight with him.

As the chains broke loose, as I realized evil was trying to push me away from God, I chose instead to live, to more than survive, to reenter a lasting full relationship with the One who had been mourning the loss of me, who was hurt by our separation. As a friend prayed with me, I heard her speak of God mourning and the last brick in my wall crumbled. I had hurt God by turning my back and He was mourning my loss. How could I as a mother awash in grief inflict that on anyone, especially the One who had interceded before, who was with my child in the final moments, who lost His own son and who cried at the wasted life of mine son? Who would ever choose to add to another’s pain, who would intentionally bring dissension and hurtful words to one already aching? I cannot be that person, I cannot treat God this way. I am called to seek reconciliation. Thus I confessed to God my sin and my sorrow. And I began to rise. In accepting that God was mourning me, I couldn’t deny that I was WORTH mourning, that my life holds value and meaning. Mind blowing stuff that destroys the evil that has attempted to overtake me. The ugly words, at the attacks on my right to grieve the loss of my son, the horror of how my son’s death was handled, all banished as the dirty work of the evil one. The Truth and the Light prevailed.

The distractions of evil that have swirled around the loss of my son are gone, I am left with the freedom to mourn, to grieve, to celebrate Arrow’s life and to ache over the death of my child. I have survived the plague of iniquity, the zombies are banished. No special weapons, no stockpiles of blankets and flashlights, I did it with my first-aid kit, one filled with the Holy Spirit and the Truth.  Love and grace from the children of God who battled alongside me showed me the relentlessness of God as they tended my wounds and shared their oxygen. Indeed, I am a survivor and I am even more. I don’t really know what zombies could bring but my heart isn’t troubled by that worry.  God and I are on speaking terms again, together we are in mourning and we are healing, one breath at a time.