“Follow Me,” Jesus said to the twelve.
“Follow Me,” Jesus said to me when I was just a child.
“Yes,” I replied-not knowing or counting the cost.
If it was a single commitment without opportunity for turning back then it would be easy.
But it’s not.
Read the rest here: Surrender
Bifurcate: 1. to cause to divide into two branches or parts; 2. my life.
Before Dominic ran ahead to heaven I led a fairly unified life.
Our family was unusually close, our goals closely aligned, we shared the same faith, had developed routines and even all liked creamy peanut butter.
That changed when Dom left us-suddenly I was forced to live with one foot HERE and one foot THERE.
I didn’t get to choose, it was decided for me.
Paul’s words took on new meaning and great relevance:
We know that if our earthly house—a mere tent that can easily be taken down—is destroyed, we will then live in an eternal home in the heavens, a building crafted by divine—not human—hands. 2 Currently, in this tent of a house, we continue to groan and ache with a deep desire to be sheltered in our permanent home 3 because then we will be truly clothed and comfortable, protected by a covering for our current nakedness. 4 The fact is that in this tent we anxiously moan, fearing the naked truth of our reality. What we crave above all is to be clothed so that what is temporary and mortal can be wrapped completely in life. 5 The One who has worked and tailored us for this is God Himself, who has gifted His Spirit to us as a pledge toward our permanent home.
2 Corinthians 5:1-5 VOICE
Groan–YES!
Deep longing can only be expressed with low, gutteral sounds-there are no words!
I am in this earthly tent but want desperately to be free of it and clothed with the eternal-where joy unspeakable will reign and sorrow and death will be no more.
So this Lenten journey is helpful to me-it acknowledges the struggle between flesh and spirit. It encourages my heart to walk by faith and not sight, to grab hold of that which counts forever and let go of that which is doomed for destruction.
The truth is, all of us who follow Jesus lead a bifurcated life.
It’s simply that some of us can ignore that truth. Until death touches our bodies or our families, we can pretend that the earthly tent’s not so bad, that it might be somewhere we’d enjoy staying quite awhile.
I am not at all thankful for Dom’s death. I will never be thankful my son left us in the prime of life, full of promise and without saying good-bye.
But I am thankful that I am unavoidably confronted with the truth that this life is fleeting, this world is only a moment and this body temporary housing for my eternal soul.
Paul goes on to write:
In light of this [our understanding that our life here is temporary], we live with a daring passion and know that our time spent in this body is also time we are not present with the Lord. 7 The path we walk is charted by faith, not by what we see with our eyes. 8 There is no doubt that we live with a daring passion, but in the end we prefer to be gone from this body so that we can be at home with the Lord. 9 Ultimately it does not matter whether we are here or gone; our purpose stays fixed, and that is to please Him.
2 Corinthians 5: 6-9 VOICE
My eyes see one thing, but my heart knows another.
It’s not the same as just doing nothing.
Sitting still doesn’t guarantee that the mind remains quiet or the spirit settled.
I know, because sometimes I’ve been forced to stay perched in a chair like a toddler in time out and it was not restful.
At.
All.
But the other day I did spend time in my favorite rocking chair, cozied up to a heating pad with my cat companion
and wrote
and wrote
and wrote.
It was wonderful! And it restored my soul.
I haven’t enjoyed something like that in several months. Things to do had crowded my schedule, places to go and people to see or talk to had used up nearly every waking moment.
I let rest-genuine, soul-restoring rest-be pushed aside in hopes of making progress on a never-ending list of necessary tasks.
What I failed to take into account was that the more weary I became, the less effective my efforts and the less enthusiastic my attitude-not to mention my rebellious body!
I don’t know why I push harder when I shouldn’t be pushing at all. Because when I don’t build rest into my schedule, I’m sorely tempted to give up and give in-every little thing becomes a struggle!
The most productive people know when to take a break. The highest yielding fields remain untilled from time to time.
Life is hard and if I’m going to make it on this long and laborious journey, I’ve got to learn to take my own best advice:
Today is 35 months-almost three years since I was awakened to the news no parent wants to hear.
And, yes, I still count the months.
Every 12th rolls around and reminds me that while Dominic’s leaving was an event on the calendar to others, it is an ongoing experience for me and my family.
I don’t say this for pity’s sake.
Pity is a poor substitute for what I really want: I want my son back; my family whole; my world unshattered and unshaken; my biggest problem to be how to get all my grown children together at the same place at the same time for holidays.
I can’t have what I really want.
So I hold on to what I have-the Truth that every promise of God in Christ is “yes” and “amen”. And the memories-I hold onto the memories.
I have the first Bible we ever gave Dominic.
It endured rough use-the corners chewed on, the pages bent and the covers full of creases where they’ve been folded back and forth.
We chose it because it is one of those children’s Bibles with pictures inserted every so often-old fashioned images taken from paintings no longer guarded by copyright or trusts.
His very favorite page was the illustration of David and Goliath-his most treasured story and his most requested reading.
We even had a “David and Goliath” themed birthday party way before Pinterest.
I made a life-sized version of Goliath and hung him on the wall so the boys could stand next to it for a photo.
I was recently reminded of these memories when a video made it’s rounds on Facebook (you can watch it here ).
It’s easy to focus on the fact that David’s stone slew the giant. But what my heart holds onto are David’s words, “All those gathered here will know that it is not by sword or spear that the Lord saves; for the battle is the Lord’s, and he will give all of you into our hands.” (I Samuel 17:47)
David had little confidence in his own strength. He wasn’t certain that his skill in slinging rocks was what guaranteed victory. No. He was absolutely convinced that Jehovah would not allow His Name to be sullied. He rested in the fact of God’s faithful covenantal love.
He bet his life on it.
If you read the Old Testament you will find example after example of God’s people begging Him for mercy-not because they deserve it-but because it reflects the truth of Who He is.
Abraham leads Isaac up the mountain and tells his servant, “We will return”.
Why?
Because he trusted that God’s promises were true, that God could not and would not lie.
Moses begs God to give the Israelites another chance because if they perished, it would desecrate His Name.
Daniel asks God to remember His covenant, not for the sake of the people, but for the sake of His reputation.
On and on and on.
So in this Valley of the Shadow of Death, I don’t beg for mercy and grace because I think I DESERVE it.
I beg for mercy and grace because the character of God guarantees it.
God will finish what He started-not for me but for His kingdom.
His faithful love endures forever not because I am worthy but because He has claimed me for His own.
He will not allow His Name to be defamed.
I bet my life on it.
The news goes out over Facebook, over phone lines, over prayer chains and everyone shows up.
Crowds in the kitchen, in the living room, spilling onto the lawn.
It’s what you do.
And it’s actually the easiest part. Lots of people, lots of talking, lots of activity keep the atmosphere focused on the deceased and the family. The conversation rarely dips to deeper waters or digs into harder ground: “Where was God?”; “Why him?”; “Why do ‘bad’ things happen to ‘good’ people?”
But eventually the busyness and noise gives way to stillness and silence.
That’s when the harder part starts.
The long hours of nightime darkness that invite questions that demand answers. The quiet hours of daylight that insist on playing a home movie of the years that went before. Forcing me to wrestle. Tossing me in the ring of trying to reconcile this tragedy with my worldview.
And many people turn away from the spectacle.
Even good, loving, Christ-following friends find it hard to stick around and watch.
Because it challenges their worldview too.
It makes them wonder if what they have always believed about God is true. It makes them fearful that if it could happen to my son and to me, it could happen to their child and to them. Ir raises questions, they’d rather not answer.
And they don’t have to answer them-YET-because their lives haven’t been turned upside down and inside out.
So they run.
They stop calling, they stop coming and they keep their distance in public spaces.
It hurts.
A lot.
It’s human nature to avoid pain. No one marches headlong into suffering. Empathy requres energy. Compassion demands opening your heart to the hurt hiding inside someone else’s.
I understand, truly I do.
If I could find a place where sorrow and longing couldn’t find me, I would stay there forever. But I can’t. I have to carry this load, I have to face the tough questions, I have to work hard to give my heart a chance.
It is so much easier when others come alongside. I feel so much stronger when others choose to call courage to my broken heart. I find great comfort in knowing that someone is willing to risk their own comfort to bear witness to my pain and struggle.
Please don’t lower your eyes and hide. Raise them and help heal.
I know it’s hard and you don’t have to, but please don’t turn away.
Part of my Lenten observance includes reading the book of John.
The words are not new to me, I’ve read them over and over-probably dozens of times in the past 30 years. So I decided to use a different translation this time around in order to shake out some new insights and cause me to pay closer attention to what God might have for me right here, right now.
The very first reading did just that:
Before time itself was measured, the Voice was speaking.
The Voice was and is God.
2 This celestial Word remained ever present with the Creator;
3 His speech shaped the entire cosmos.
Immersed in the practice of creating,
all things that exist were birthed in Him.
4 His breath filled all things
with a living, breathing light—
5 A light that thrives in the depths of darkness,
blazes through murky bottoms.
It cannot and will not be quenched.John 1: 1-5 VOICE
What struck me fresh was verse 5-“A light that THRIVES….BLAZES….It CANNOT and WILL NOT be quenched.”
So many times I think of light as barely fighting back darkness. I carry my flashlight to check on the horses and its piercing beam burns through to give me limited visibility. It FEELS like darkness wins and I push it back only a little.
But what this rendering of John 1:5 declares to my heart is this: The light of Christ isn’t fighting the darkness, it thrives in the darkness. It’s in the darkness that its power is revealed.
It’s the darkness that makes light undeniably present.
Darkness can and will be vanquished.
But the True Light will last forever.
I know very, very little about astronomy. But I do know this: Light generated eons ago is still traveling through space. Light doesn’t end. It goes on and on and on.
So even though this part of my life is dark, even though I may have trouble discerning the Light, the darkness hasn’t quenched it.
The Light is coming.
It’s no battle of equals.
The darkness doesn’t stand a chance.
I used to position myself at the end of the pew, just in case someone I’m not too comfortable with might come along and try to sit down.
It saved us both that awkward conversation where they ask if they can join me and I say “yes” with my mouth but “no” with my body language.
Read the rest here: Move Over, Make Room for the Broken
Remember the childhood riddle, “Which is heavier, a ton of bricks or a ton of feathers?”
It was great fun to catch someone giving the wrong answer.
Because, of course, a ton is a ton is a ton. Weight is an absolute measure.
But it takes fewer bricks to reach that quota although it takes just as much strength to lift the burden.
One thing I’m learning in my grief journey is that there are so many people carrying a load.
I find my compassion radar has been fine-tuned to hear even the faintest whisper of hurt in someone’s voice, to see the tiniest gleam of a tear, to notice the smallest stoop of shoulders or the beginning of a frown.
And while some of us have had our ton of pain and sorrow delivered via bricks-suddenly, forcefully and overwhelmingly dumped-others have acquired their ton over a lifetime of disappointment, struggle and testing.
They both weigh a ton.
And they both require great strength to carry.
It’s a challenge to resist the urge to rank my experience on a continuum of pain.
Although I bridle when people compare their loss of a pet or job to my loss of a child (as I wrote about here), I do try to extend grace when others expose their own wounds.
I want to comfort other people with the comfort I have received. Not only the comfort from Christ-which is the ultimate comfort-but also the comfort I’ve received from wise friends and caring sisters-in-loss.
I want to be a listening ear, a compassionate heart and an outstretched hand.
I want to be a witness, a fellow traveler on the journey, an encourager.
Grief
is grief
is grief.
A ton is a ton is a ton.
I’ve always been this way-careful as I walk through the woods. I don’t remember a time when I could crash unaware of what was underfoot.
So when springtime brings the violets, I find myself zig-zagging this way and that to avoid crushing them as I go about my daily chores.
Often obscured by last year’s leaves-I can make out the vibrant purple peeking from underneath-if I’m paying attention.
But there are plenty of folks who make it all the way through March and April without ever seeing them.
And that makes me sad.
They are so beautiful.
I consider them a gift.
It’s easy to race through life and never take note of God’s gifts. We get busy and distracted and overwhelmed by the need to make a living and we ignore the Lord of life.
If I am going to SEE what He’s doing, how He’s providing, where He is blessing, I have to open my eyes.
But once I do, I find that blessings pop up everywhere.
Just like springtime violets.
In a family full of young adults on the brink of life, of love, of making dreams come true, you never expect to hear these words, “It is what it is.”
But in a home where loss has taken its toll, I do.
Oh, how I long to restore the unmarred joy we used to know-when everything was possible, positive attitudes could overcome any challenge and the horizon beckoned with welcome instead of warning.
Our watchword used to be “Failure is not an option”.
I even had a cute little magnet on the fridge that proclaimed, “Another day, another disaster”.
That was BEFORE.
Before the dawning sun brought real disaster to our doorstep. Before the thing we had to face could not be overcome by more elbow grease, greater resolve or stronger faith.
Before death became very, very real to us.
We are not struck down in despair.
We are not fatalists.
But we do acknowledge the fact that this life is filled with things we cannot change. We understand by experience that some things must simply be endured. We embrace the truth that we depend on the mercy of God in every way.
So now we live this motto: It is what it is.
And we take one another’s hand and walk on, through whatever it is. We call courage to our hearts that no matter what happens, we will survive together.
We keep loving and living and leaning.
Because that’s what we do.
thelifeididntchoose 