Tag: Faith

I See The Moon

On By LisaIn Arrow, Plum, Stella, The Chef4 Comments

I see the moon and the moon sees me and the moon sees somebody I want to see

God bless the moon and God bless me and God bless the somebody I want to see

This lullaby, written by Meredith Willson, was a particular favorite when my children were tiny, we almost reflexively repeated it each time we caught sight of the moon. Certainly as I was imprisoned, we chanted the words over countless phone calls, taking comfort that the same moon they looked at was within my view as well, we couldn’t truly be that far apart. I silently said these words during the time was daughter was on another continent, while my son was missing or jailed or homeless. Somehow, knowing the moon was watching us all, wherever we happened to be, regardless of the distance between us, gave us all peace. 

During the memorial service when Chef talked about our Arrow, he again used the imagery of the moon, illustrating how he was the brightest thing you would see whenever he entered a room, much like the moon that always overtakes the starlight. The moon has special significance in our family, each night for the past year, as sleep eludes me and I wander the house while Chef is seeking rest, I look out at the moon and the words to the lullaby echo in my thoughts. I chant the words, I wish to see someone I can’t. 

It is no secret that this year has tested my faith, that I have battled with the need to understand and the knowledge that I never will. The anticipation of Christmas has been excruciating, remembering how blindly I celebrated last year without the knowledge that just 4 days after all the presents were opened and the cookies eaten, I would hear the devastating news that my son had died of a heroin/fentanyl overdose. Christmas this year has brought dread, a reluctance to put up the decorations and hang the stockings, still knowing that the season is important to Plum, that we must carry on has forced me to go through the motions at least. Each night though, I look up at the moon and say the words and entreat God for what I cannot have. Often I take a picture of the moon, filling my camera roll with shots of the night sky to replace all the pictures I will never again take of my son. 

Two nights ago I was following my routine, sitting on my back porch and considering the moon when I noticed it was oddly shaped. Not a truly 3/4 moon, it seemed to have a bit more hidden but just in one section. Yet in the picture, the moon appears full and bright. Not understanding what I was seeing, I pulled out my camera to capture the image when I saw something else on the screen, a blue ball, a floating orb. I wiped off the lens and tried again. Same thing. Snapping several pictures, I looked to see if  changing my position would cause the ball to disappear. I inspected the sky, I couldn’t see it yet every time I raised the camera, it appeared. Finally I went back inside to get Chef’s phone, thinking surely it would be gone and the mystery would be solved, something must be wrong with my phone. It remained in the viewfinder. Wondering at the image and needing an explanation, I posted the photo in a subreddit called @whatisthisthing, knowing someone out there could offer an answer. What I learned has shaken me, given me pause and a sliver of peace and a large helping of hope. I apparently was capturing the image of the Christmas Comet, something  visible only that night and not again for centuries. 

I don’t know if it is really true that I saw the blue of my son’s eyes as it traveled in the night sky, appearing to play by the moon. Maybe it was a lens flare, as some redditors suggested. Yet I am embracing the ones who explained about the Christmas Comet, who posted links to astronomy sites and assured me it was so. What I can be certain of is that while I couldn’t see this blue in the sky with my naked eye, that I needed a strong, different lens, I could find it with the a different view. Much like I cannot know for certain where my son is and my view is most often cloudy regarding most things these days, with some help I can be offered the truth that there is more to the story, there is a greater plan and God rules the heavens and the earth and sometimes we can have a pleading to see somebody we want to see, if we look around differently. 

I was given a Christmas gift that I will treasure forever, the image of my boy traveling the sky under the watchful gaze of God, a quick visit to assure me that Christmas is still relevant and magical and deeper than the presents under the sparsely decorated tree in our home. I am still puzzling out what all it means for me, much like the shepherds of old who heard the angels sing, it is awesome and holy and frightening, to have had this encounter with the God who saw me too, who knows that I wander in search of assurance and beg for the closeness that disappeared Dec 29, 2017. I was given this sign that He does know there is somebody I want to see and he is blessing us both. 

Changing Time

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The Chef7 Comments

The wonder of waking to see that my phone and the clock that has rested on the table on my Chef’s side of the bed are an hour apart, understanding that someone somewhere created a program to automatically adjust time while I slept on my device, leaving me with the chore of adjusting all the other clocks around the house to accuracy as time change Sunday arrives. Mentally considering each one that must be pulled from the wall, manually turned back to give an extra hour today, I can’t help but question why I should stop at just one hour, why not go back days, weeks, months. I was given an extra hour to sleep today but what if I had an extra year, 4 years, to go back and redo all the wrongs and the angry words and the missed calls and and and.  Where would I stop?

Ten and a half months have now passed since my son died, 7,665 hours that continuing to accrue and yet I am given this one extra? I want more, I want to go back years. I want to travel to the days of relationship with my daughter, I want to return to when her laughter filled my soul. I want to go back to the days before Arrow’s addiction charted a course we couldn’t alter, back to when he was silly and safe.  How many times must I twist the dial to get back to when life felt sweeter and full of possibility? Each day now brings me closer to the anniversary, December 29, which means all the first times so far have been preparation for this big event, the milestone that shows I have survived without him against what I have often desired. I made it through his birthday, his son’s, mine, Chef’s. Through holidays and spring flowers and starry nights and full moons, through little days and every damn Friday since I got that call that will always mark the before and after of my life. I could go back to before that, but really to set things right, I would have to go much further.

We must be careful with adjusting time, taking only that one hour. If I go back 9 years, I could mess up the sequence and never know my Plum, never hold that tiny baby and sing him to sleep, never teach him to drink from a cup and drop the bottle, never potty train this little boy or help him learn to sleep in the knowledge that he was safe and secure.  I wouldn’t hear his giggles and find Lego everywhere in my home. No, I must only take the 1 hour given, there is still too much to lose by going back which means I must have a reason to go forward. Just as I taught him to tie his shoes and step into the world with confidence, I take the next step and the next, stumbling and tripping and resting often, but moving ever forward.

Looking back is risky. My breathing slows, my thoughts create an impenetrable fog, I miss the sunlight on the leaves. Trusting that timing is above my station, that I cannot return to former days and cannot rush forward to a place where it doesn’t  hurt, I am left with today. One extra hour to wallow, to wonder, to wish, yet still the same 24. A fresh start, a chance to not make the same mistakes and seek forgiveness for those already committed. An opportunity to live into trust, that someone is programming the time to be exactly what I need. I’ll take that extra hour to be gentle with myself, I’ll offer kind words to someone who needs them, I’ll go to bed a bit early tonight and pray to visit with my children at least in my dreams.

How will you spend your extra hour today? May it bring you a sliver of peace and an offering of grace, a chance to tell someone you are sorry and you love them and you delight in their presence in your life. As we move the clocks back, we still must go forward awash in the grace of the Ultimate Timekeeper who understands every minute counts.

 

What Does It Mean to Pray For Another?

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, The Chef8 Comments

Often when news of health crises, family discord, employment or financial unrest or the ultimate, the loss of a loved one travels through social media or is lifted up in our church,  the response is a quick “sending prayers.” One never can be sure that the words aren’t empty, that the promise of prayer is truly acted upon. Is the phrase tossed out as a way to make the speaker feel less helpless, is it said in haste, as a reflex like “bless you” when someone sneezes? I am guilty of repeating this assurance, knowing there is little else I have to offer to someone who is in my heart and is carrying pain I cannot ease. Is it enough to say I am praying for you, does it make any difference? My wonderings about the power of prayer, my own especially, wax and wane as the results I want don’t immediately appear. Yet as we have continued to breathe and eat and muster the strength required to get out of bed each new morning after the horrific news that came two Fridays ago, I am a believer in others faithfulness, if not my own ability to carry out the assurance. I know when friends and family say they are praying for us that someone is hearing those prayers. I am convinced because I can feel the pleadings to God from all those around us, I am the evidence of their power.

Sometimes prayers are more like wishes, as in a snow day request from a child, a winning basket or touchdown for our favorite team. These prayers are like our lists for Santa, have little to do truly with spirituality. Maybe our hopes are realized, maybe they aren’t this time, yet we have shared our desires with God in the midst of hopeful desperation. I have little belief in the words we lift up during these fevered moments, I think God is too busy with starving children and war torn countries for His intervention in sporting events. Still it seems significant that we turn to Him even with our wishes.

Some prayers come from abject fear, like those I spoke aloud to God each morning many year ago, as I drove to work before most others were awake, begging for the safety of my son as he experienced homelessness and seemed lost to me. I ranted and cried each morning in the silence of my car, begging God to do what I couldn’t, keep my child safe and bring him out of his addiction and home to us. Left with nothing else to do, no where else to turn, I sought out the One who I believed loved my child more than me. He eventually came back to us, extremely under weight, eyes clouded with experiences we would never fully know, bringing his broken body and deep misery to the safety of a new start with us. Whether it was my petition or just the next step that was always in the plan, I felt better for taking the only avenue left as a mother of an addict, I trusted God to hear me and I think He did.

I am better with the lifting of joys, the celebratory “Thank you God” that easily escapes my heart and lips when life is going well, when our Plum is bringing laughter and joy to our bruised souls. I firmly hold with confidence that those moments are from God, I carry the conviction of all good things are from Him during the realization of blessings that I certainly could not have engineered. Yet it often feels as if there is not enough joy to carry me through, to keep my firmly in the embrace of this God. Another blow comes, another round of troubles that I didn’t expect, and my joy blows away with the winter wind or the summer storm, elusive fleeting fragile.

We heard immediately that others were praying for us as the news spread that our 26 year old son took his last breath surrounded by pill bottles, as questions arose about our involvement in caring for his body one last time, as a cruel obituary was published in the local paper. We read the words on the cards that came, during the hugs we received, promised in texts and emails and social media messages. My anger, my exhaustion, my grief caused me to repel those words as useless. Where was God when my child started using again and I wasn’t given the opportunity to help him? No I wanted to fling those words back at those who offered them up, to exclaim loudly and forcefully that the God they were trusting had left me and my son when we most needed HIm. I didn’t want to be told to draw near to Him, this God who could have intervened and didn’t, what could I need or gain from seeking to bridge the divide that felt permanent? Still, something has been happening around me, within me during the darkness of my unbelief, something I have sought to deny and ignore. Your prayers are holding me up, as I resist being lifted. Your prayers are reminding me to breathe when I am removed from any desire to carry on living. I want to proclaim that your words are hollow, that God is not for me anymore, but even I cannot ignore your faith and trust.

As I entered church yesterday, the building that has been a true sanctuary during all of our upheaval all these years, I wanted to be invisible, I didn’t want others to know that I was studiously rejecting the very premise of our gathering. I wanted to shout that we had all been taken in, that this man called Jesus was a scam, that the Holy spirit was a figment of our imagination. Instead, I was greeted with hugs that held me up, with the kindest eyes that sought to free me from some small bit of my grief, with complete freedom to sit with my disbelief and even verbalize my inability to pray. I was given permission to question time and time again, told my lack of faith was welcome among these friends who understood my ache and promised to keep surrounding us with their faith. How can I argue with these generous grace filled people who seek not to change me but to provide a cushion as I fall, to offer words to the God I no longer believe hears me? My inability to pray, a broken connection I am nurturing in my anger, caused not one sliver of judgement among these people. They accepted the little I had to give, the minimal effort of just showing up, a doubting Thomas in their midst. They simply didn’t care that I was not joining in the singing and praising and worship. They offered their gifts to cover my inability to pay up, they covered my debt to God as if my blasphemous heart mattered not. I sat alone in the front row, our normal place inside the sanctuary, as Chef taught his Sunday school class and Plum puttered at my feet with his play doh and donut holes, fueled by my rejection of this God they began singing about. Then a tap on my shoulder, a hug of welcome. A dear friend who refuses to leave me alone sat with her family behind me, not in their usual row. Then worst of all, another sweet dear friend and her husband chose the seats on either side of me, ignoring the wall I was erecting between God and His followers. They held me as I cried, they sang the words of praise and desperation I refused to utter. What kind of God allows such heartache to shatter me and then pushes His people to offer His grace?

I cannot pray these days. I don’t want to, I prefer to yell at the One who was supposed to save my son for a glorious testimony one day. I want to reject and repel all those words of prayer that just keep coming at me. Alas I cannot because this God who knows I am silent and turning my back on Him is sending His promises through the love of His people. One friend told me it was okay with her that I couldn’t pray, she and others were doing it for me. She said she knew one day I would do the same for others, but not today. How can I deny the grace of God when I am accepted just as I am amongst these people? I can feel their intervention, their intercession inspite of myself. While I may not trust God right now, I find I am able to trust His followers. I think that is the point of us gathering to share our true hearts. God is surely rejoicing in His children at St. Andrew UMC, those who feel compelled to send messages and cards from all around the country. Faith in action, acting as his hands and feet, offering up His embrace through the arms of those who know words are not enough and will never be again, this is how I will learn to pray again one day.

In the midst of my darkness I can feel the warmth of all the tiny candles of hope that are offered. Someday I will tell you all how grateful I am, when I can feel thanksgiving once more. For now I hope it is enough to tell you I am still breathing because of you. I know your words are not empty, I trust what you say to me. Surely this God is rejoicing in you. Prayers offered are life giving, not mere wishes. I am blessed by you all, you light bringers, you burden lifters. Someday I may again be able to tell Him of your faithfulness and celebrate the rising of the sun again. I think though that He knows, that He is sending His children to us and will reward them all for hearing His voice and reaching into our darkness. If I ever begin talking to Him again, I think He will rejoice with me in you all. For today just know that I believe in your belief and have chosen to rise again to greet the new day. It is enough and it is huge.

 

Cleaning Out Soul Space

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The Chef, Travel2 Comments

When I had nothing, my very survival depended on my relationship with Jesus. In prison, surrounded by strangers who neither cared about my brokenness or my sanity, separated from my babies in the most cruel of all punishments, I could only breathe and walk and put food into my body because I trusted God with my life and the lives of those I loved. It became simple, minimalistic, when all my possessions fit into a tiny foot locker and my material wealth consisted of Little Debbie snacks and Ramen noodles. Powerless in every aspect of my life, clothing, visits, schedules, I could only control whether to believe or not. I relied with the full force of my body and soul on Paul’s words to the Philippians,”I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” Phil 4:13. Not just those words, though, I read the bible completely over and over, I underlined and made notes, I consumed it. God’s Word saved me, when I could not save me. I promised myself I would not let go of that dependence when freedom came again, when the gates opened. Twenty-five years later, I realize I have broken my promise.

These days and weeks and now years of estrangement from my daughter have become a new prison, gates invisible, guards non-existent but a prison no less. I am locked away from her again, the excruciating pain of old resurrected as I watch the clock and long for a visit. The intervening years of memories accrued are meaningless as she evaluates my worth and determines my sentence, will I ever be granted release? Yet, more than adding a home and furnishing and clothing and trips to schools and a prom and even around the world, I have added material goods and a self-reliance that separate me from my promise, from my utter dependence on He who gives my breath, gives me life, gives me hope and the grace of forgiveness that is so absent with my daughter. How could I have added so much and left what was crucial behind?

I sat on the steps in the jail pod after realizing I would have no visits with my children until transferred to the larger prison, a promise from my lawyer, the reality of my situation fully settling on my soul. I wanted to die, I begged to die, I would have died had the means been available. Instead I had to pray that my Creator take me. A desperate prayer to end unspeakable horror, a pain that I knew I could not bear, that would drive me to insanity. Jesus met me there on those steps and lifted me up, brought the “Footsteps” poem to me with a promise to carry me through what was ahead. A year later when my sentence modification was denied, another promise my lawyer had given but couldn’t keep, I gave up again. I laid on the prison bunk and refused to move for meals or activities, risking further punishments. I no longer cared. An angel in the guise of a correctional officer visited and spoke words I no longer remember but pulled me out of my depression and gave me the strength to keep going. I do remember she spoke gently of Jesus and light and a world outside of my current existence. She told me to get up and I did.

When my pain overwhelmed me, Jesus  brought relief. When I couldn’t breathe, wouldn’t breathe, Jesus brought me air. When I had nothing, Jesus was enough. Now, I have more. A husband, a home, pets, cars, fully stocked pantry and I no longer call on Jesus with desperation. Maybe I never did really but I made room for Him. Now I allow a corner, a smidge, a bit but rely too heavily on myself, on my own ability to affect change and the stir the universe to my liking. Having lost it all and found Jesus, must I really find myself there again to discover what is truly at the heart of my existence? Noticing my own prison gates again, I see that only God can bring me through this estrangement, only God can rebuild the bridges I want to erect today. Scripture floods my mind this morning as I find comfort in words of hope and past longing, as I remember that I have survived events I will never share and I will survive this as well.

I grow impatient, I teeter on bitterness, anger erupts. I am too fully me and not enough Jesus. Today I am opening the gates of my soul once again to the One who saved me, time and again, saved me for more than a life of hurt and struggle and time behind bars. Just as we celebrated my release with joy and thanksgiving long ago, one day we will again. Until then, I am cleaning out my soul space, removing extra furnishings of self-dependence and importance. Truly, today I remember He is the air I breathe. Freedom has come.

 

My Jesus and the 4th of July

On By LisaIn Faith, Travel1 Comment

***Warning!!! Contents contain my soul wrestling with the intersection of my faith and current political climate. Need to take a pass?  I get it.

I stayed quiet today during Joys and Concerns, that time during our church service when the microphone is passed around and members share what is weighing on their hearts. I felt the push to raise my hand but still I resisted. My concern was too political, had nothing to do with an ailing relative or a healed friend. As the minutes ticked by, the urge grew and still I avoided, knowing that this was not the venue, that my words didn’t belong in church. Yet the powerful message my pastor delivered barely registered, such was my aching soul. Because actually, I think it is time for our voices to be heard. I think the venue has to be our churches, the place where we worship and strive to follow a rebellious man who lived so long ago.

The Jesus I know was filled with grace and love, absolutely, but He also challenged the very systemic wrongs that surrounded Him, that created the environment where people needed His intervention. All those outcasts that He noticed, those people on the fringes of the society He lived in, those are the stories we listen to each week in our worship services. He SAW the woman who was to be stoned because of an unjust, one-sided, narrow-minded belief about the role of half the human race. He set her free, He brought her back. He NOTICED the hungry, the poor, the ones being thrown away by those who had more. He CHALLENGED the businessmen in the temple who were cheating those who had traveled from afar to worship, He CALLED OUT those men who were distorting the purpose of that place and the very message the Rabbis inside were delivering. This, this is the rebellious Jesus my soul responds to. I am the outcast, the one on the fringe, those are my people. In fact our country was created by those very folks who wanted to have freedom in their “temple” away from the tyranny.

We are just a day away from the celebration of our country’s birth, the flag waving and fireworks and picnics that unite us as we proclaim proudly that we are Americans. Every year I dressed my children in red, white and blue t-shirts, purchased the little boxes of sparklers and made potato salad but never have I given as much thought to what it means to be American as I have this year. Maybe it is only in losing something that we really begin to cherish it. Having traveled outside of the U.S., I know the freedoms we have here are precious, that we are not perfect and are still babies learning to walk as a newer country. I truly thought we were on the right track, correcting our ugly history of slavery, slowly, ever so slowly, but still moving forward. Yet only a day away from the big celebration and I am embarrassed to wave a flag now.

Regardless of political affiliation, more importantly is our faith stance. We are broken, in need of grace, all of us. We have become judgmental and hate filled, unable to listen, resorting to name-calling and prone to violence as a means to resolve conflict. If ever there was a time for the church to rise up, isn’t it now? Do we not have a responsibility to rebel in the likeness of Jesus to say what is happening is wrong? If the behavior that we see from the highest leaders would not be tolerated in our Sunday School classrooms, can we stay quiet? The silence is deafening, while the noise of sexist cruelty plays outs daily.

I write almost daily of the deep  love and crazy adventures I share with my grandson. This relationship which has been front and center in our church is not considered legitimate enough to allow for travel as an immigrant, according to the new workings of the ban. I cannot even find words to express the outrage and devastation I feel as a grandmother, imagining that arbitrary decision about the legitimacy of the value Plum and I bring to each other. Jesus calls us to open our doors to strangers, to trust in Him to protect us and guide us. We have surely lost our way.

I am a writer, I am a mother, a wife, a grandmother. I am a woman who fears for other women and those of color and those who dream of coming to our universities.  I fear for those who are trying to speak truths, for those who truly love our country and who love Jesus and those who worship differently.  I spent many years being afraid as a child, then more as a young adult. I thought those days were behind me. Yet I see that if we do not stand up for what is right and those who need our voices, we are complicit in the wrong, just as the Germans when the Nazi Regime began. This is our time, a time we will be forever judged by in the history books and most importantly at the gates of heaven.  Are we listening to the urgings of our souls that say stand up and speak or are we quietly letting someone else claim our flag for their hateful cause?

Today I remained quiet and I feel sick about that choice. I didn’t follow my rebellious Jesus and my soul told me I made the wrong decision. I know He wants me to buck the system when the system is hurting people, to feed the hungry people and to obey Him first. When we obey our own desires or our elected leaders before our God, trouble starts. We cannot trust people before our God, it just doesn’t work. So each tweet, each vote, each decision we make, we have to understand that it is a faith decision as well. I know the quote, “Let your actions preach louder than your words.” Today my inaction, my inability to say what was in my soul, preached volumes to those who are suffering. I need to do better, be better. Grace will cover me in my hesitancy for only so long, I am breaking for those who cannot be heard, who have no opportunity to raise their hands and beg for prayers.

Fireworks exploded into the night as my pets huddled around, shivering and worrying about the noise, fearful and uncomprehending that it would soon end. I could only offer comfort and wonder at what we are really celebrating. Freedom to worship? Freedom to assemble? Freedom to walk our children to school or drive a car or have health care regardless of income? How about Unity? Are we celebrating our togetherness regardless of skin color or green card status or candidate selected on voting day? Just as I didn’t raise my hand to lift up my concerns during church, my soul is telling me I have to take a pass this year as the nation’s big day comes around. Instead, I will be focusing on the work that must be done within the church to extend our grace and show our love in the spirit of the living God to those who are standing outside, awaiting an invitation to the party.

Dash

Blessings Faith and Responsibility

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The Chef2 Comments

Carrying the remains of the popcorn, two drinks, the blanket we rightly thought was necessary given air conditioning that is always a bit too high when wearing shorts, and holding my Plum’s hand as we crossed the street away from the movie theater and the matinee we watched during a rainy morning, I distractedly dug into my purse for the car keys. Years ago my daughter attached a lanyard so that wherever I reached within the dark confines of the big bags I prefer I would be sure to snag a bit of the keys. But this time, digging, searching, reaching, I was coming up empty. That sick feeling of knowing I had locked the keys in the car was just beginning as we reached it, I hadn’t even looked inside the windows where I usually (yes, I have done this often) find the keys on the seat mocking me. Instead, I found my keys waiting on the ground, right next to the car. In the parking lot of the movie theater. Where many people pass. My car with my laptop sitting on the front seat. Is there a more inviting scene for a thief? Yet two hours after I dropped them, my car and laptop and keys waited safely for our return. Plum stated quite matter of factly as he climbed into his car seat, “Well Gran, you worship God so He protects You.”

The excuses of stowing the blanket, arranging the drinks, securing the bucket of popcorn gave me time to consider my answer. The easy one is yes, yes aren’t we blessed. Maybe even a reminder that angels watch out for fools like me. Still I know that had I come back and the car had been gone through my own negligence, my God would not have failed to protect me. Is Plum too young to begin understanding that the God we are teaching him to trust and love doesn’t prevent bad things from happening? He believes in Santa Claus and we are awaiting the first visit from the Tooth Fairy even as we read about the magical exploits of another little boy and his friends. His pure and innocent and immediate trust, his FAITH, felt too sacred to destroy in that moment and yet gave me pause. How do we teach free will and personal responsibility that intersects with knowing a God from whom all good things come? My quick answer was yes we are blessed and gran wasn’t careful and also grandpa is going to kill me. All quite true but not enough. Something was calling me to dig deeper.

His friend arrived on my porch without him, announcing she was his slave and needed to retrieve something for him, take some toy back to the play site down the street. I wanted to race upstairs and grab one of my t-shirts from the Women’s March and throw it over her head, pull it onto her body before sending her on her way but instead just sent her back with the admonishment that she is no slave for any man. I may have frightened her with my ardor, she clearly preferred her master to the one who was freeing her. Later as they played together at our house, the slave play began again as my sweet kind wonderful little grandson ordered her to come here, go there, get this and she complied. Child’s play maybe but as damaging in my mind as if he were hitting her, as if she were calling him stupid or breaking his toys. I again said no slave play but I couldn’t figure out how to put it in terms that 6 and 7 year olds would care about, would understand.

What I am sure of is that we are entering the years where concepts matter, where teaching the “whys” is now our job. All of the easy stuff is done, he can walk and talk and cut his own food. More and more he is interacting with others who will help shape his future, the days of establishing his foundation are running out. Getting it right the first time because often the second time only comes up years later or so subtly with a tween or teenager that we miss the real opportunity. Right now things are still clear, the questions he asks are to me, the play still happens in front of me, he still listens for my answers and expects his friends to as well. This is the time for impact, even as I thought we were entering a freer time, I realize now our job went from physical demands to the truly tougher mental game.

During bath, when he is trapped and most receptive, I talked to him about boys and power and the almost first female president and the slaves in the bible. I reminded him of all the women in his life who love and nurture him and work twice as hard to have any real power. We talked about blessings and protection and our job to be blessings to others and how bad things happen because we aren’t careful, like when we get so distracted racing in to the movie on time that we drop our keys. Is God still God on a bad day? Is God still God to the slaves or only the free?

My charming little blue-eyed boy at first tried to hedge and say they took turns being slaves but then admitted he had never been anything but the master. He knows this little girl will do anything he asks and he is learning about his charisma. His father has that strong streak as well and hasn’t always used it for the Kingdom. I think I just thought he would, I don’t remember telling him outright how he could hurt women if he didn’t.  Our God of second chances who does send angels to guard car keys left on the pavement also gives us an opportunity to get it right sometimes. Plum and I are learning about faith and personal responsibility together. Only time will tell how right we get it, but God will still be God and with each sunrise we get another chance to get it right.

As he drifted off to sleep, he asked me why girls only have boy’s last names. Why can’t boys take girl’s names too. Yes, my sweet, I said, that is an excellent question. Let’s talk about that tomorrow. With that his breathing became regular and I knew I had laid another brick in his foundation. God is still God and sends the angels to protect and guide us as we take responsibility for our choices. I will be calling on those angels when  I have to admit to Chef that I almost allowed the car to be stolen.

 

Empty Tomb No More

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Mom, Stella1 Comment

Recently I wrote about Being Stuck at the Empty Tomb, New Perspective hopelessly out of reach. Rarely have I gotten what I asked for so quickly. Maybe it was my utter devastation, my complete lack of direction. Maybe I was just empty enough to listen finally, to hear the whisper of the Holy Spirit tell me to open my Bible to the book of Romans. I did and what I found was perspective, the exact thing I was seeking. I don’t have easy answers but I have a new outlook, sometimes that is all it takes to start the day anew, to find the energy for a shower , to make lunch, to go smell the flowers.

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” How many times have I heard that haunting call of Jesus at the cross, always considering the agony of Jesus dying to humanity, the burden of our meanness and judgments and horrible behavior requiring that he suffer the worst that we may experience the best? I haven’t ever stopped to imagine what God must have felt, to be separated from His Son in that moment. Yes, He knew the outcome, He knew how long it would last, but He also knew that in the deepest darkest moment when His child needed Him, He could only remain close but not fix it all, make it better, stop the destruction. I am horrified to realize that my sinfulness caused God to be separated, even for an instant, from His Son.  I also realize that God fully understands the agony of an estranged parent. He gets that pain of one left alone while sin runs rampant and destroys the family. He knows the only way to restoration and redemption is to be rejoined with Him. All this time while I thought I was suffering alone, begging God to return these children to me, He was saying, “Lisa, I want them to come home to me as well.”

I was drawn to the book of Romans today and as scripture so often does, the words jumped off the screen to me, they were alive.  I read the first chapter and was shocked to see that this new estrangement epidemic was not so new after all. Paul wrote about it: “They keep inventing new ways of wrecking lives. They ditch their parents when they get in the way.” Romans 1:30 I have wondered how my Stella could reconcile such a hard heart with what is preached in church each Sunday, I know my Arrow has stepped far away from his Christian faith. Before either of them can be returned to me, they must return to God. After all, they were His first. His agony must be horrific, to see His children so far away from knowing Him, believing and trusting in Him. In my weakest moments, I thought God had left me in this misery, I missed that we were suffering together.

My new perspective changes nothing in my relationship with my children, or lack of one. What has altered though is my closeness with God. No longer battling with Him, feeling lost in questions about why spring can come again but not my daughter, I understand now that the flowers bloom and the birds chirp as we together look for hope that they too will see those and hear those and remember that He is the creator of all. As my daughter shows the buds of new life to her daughter, surely she is explaining about the God who delivers anew our second chances and forgives us. As my son prepares to welcome into the world his daughter, can there ever be a more spiritual moment than that? Surely they are facing opportunities to find Him again and then they can find me. Perspective, I see you.

I know now that my prayers are not that God might hear me, that He might see my pain and my worry and that He might bring about the change NOW!!! How many times have I moaned that I cannot go on? How many times have I called out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” He has been with me all along, the separation only in my mind. No longer helpless or powerless, I am united with a mighty God who can bring these children home, home to Him. Restoration to the greater family of Christ, then to ours. Together then we will smell flowers and feed birds and laugh and go to church and praise a God who loves us enough to give us the hope of spring days during dark winter moments. Now I join with God to pray that they grab hold of the faith of their youth, that they turn back to Him.

My new perspective, not from a bottle or the store but waiting for me in scripture all along. Psalm 62 reminds me: 5Yes, my soul, find rest in God; my hope comes from him. 6Truly he is my rock and my salvation; he is my fortress, I will not be shaken.

Do you see the lilacs bursting on the bushes, the breeze bringing the sweetness of spring into every open window, filling our homes with soul lifting hope? Can you hear the songbirds, as they busily seek twigs and strings, preparing to build nests and lay eggs and carry on with life, fulfilling their purpose? We won’t be shaken today friends, if we stay steadfast in our unity in the Creator of all. My new perspective is quite an old one, sometimes I misplace it in the dark. Blessedly, God shines some light and doesn’t let me get too lost. I trust He will do the same for those I love.