Wow, I’ve missed this writer’s shed… this computer on my lap… the rhythm and quiet that come with the school year. In several month’s time, the routine will once again begin to feel rigid and stifling and the freeform play of summer won’t come soon enough. But for now, this sweet window of time, with Chase back in school as a first grader (and first year with a full day), couldn’t be more welcome. It is so good to be with you again!
There is so much to catch up on; so many blog posts floating around in my head – seeds of posts, really, that I haven’t had a chance to plant on the page, but it doesn’t seem right to launch into those quite yet. So I’ll just start with today; this moment. As the sun shines on the pear tree and the bright yellow slide beyond my door; a cool breeze brushes my skin when the fan turns my way. Fresh tears wet my cheeks as I listen to Kristene DiMarco sing these words:
Far be it from me to not believe Even when my eyes can’t see And this mountain that’s in front of me Will be thrown into the midst of the sea
And through it all, through it all My eyes are on You And it is well with me
It has now been over a year since we lost Cole. I miss him. I miss knowing that even though he probably won’t call, he could. I miss the texts he would send when I least expected to hear from him. I miss those rare occasions when we would catch up and I would hang up feeling so fat and happy that my smile remained for days. Even though I knew it wouldn’t be soon, I miss knowing I would see him again… here.
Me and my boy
I have been tempted a couple times recently to say to strangers I won’t likely see again, “Yep, we have older kids too – a 23 year old in the Navy and a 19 year old in college.” I still want him to be part of my story. Of course he is and always will be. But I want to include him in casual conversations like I used to, inviting others to know and appreciate him like I do, without having to burden them with the awful fact that he died. This brilliant, funny boy, my treasured friend… yes, he died, but he is so much a part of me and I love talking about him.
I am considering getting a small tattoo for his birthday in October. Maybe his initials alongside an anchor. Or maybe “It is well,” a phrase my sister suggested which has deep meaning and a personal reference that makes me smile. I know it won’t change anything, but there is something comforting about having an outward remembrance to echo an inward one. Mostly, though, I know he would be tickled pink to have finally convinced me to get a much-resisted tattoo.
Who knows if I’ll go through with that or not, but what I can say is that this mountain of hurt and longing and the disappointment of loss is real. But every time I get my eyes on Jesus, I know that He is worthy of every ounce of my trust. And that every mountain, including this one, is subject to His authority. So… By His power, I will cast it into the sea and watch it plunge into the depths without a trace. Or, by His grace, I will throw on a backpack and hike this thing until I can access life-changing heights and views that would have otherwise remained out of my reach. Either way, because of Jesus alone, it is well with my soul.
You are struggling. Darkness is pressing in. You’ve tried and tried, but there seems no way to relieve the doubts, the fears, the pressure. The thoughts, the voices, berate you over your failures; not just the choices you’ve made but the failure that you are. Maybe they shout, drowning out everyone – and everything – else. Or maybe they whisper, causing you to draw close and hear the message they bear. You are a captive audience now. What you hear – all you can hear – is that it is hopeless. You are a disappointment, the voices say, and you always will be. The future – your future – is unbearable. You are not up to the task of facing it. There is no way forward and no way out. You are trapped. “But wait,” the voices intone with a hopeful glimmer, “there is something you can do; something to escape the torment”. Desperate for peace, you pause to listen. Then comes the message they have been yearning to give, delivered above the clammer in your head with the clarity of a high-pitched note: Suicide.
Maybe it is shocking at first. Maybe you resist a bit. But as the thought takes hold, the pressure is relieved. It is the first moment of peace you’ve had in a long time. The reasoning continues, in comforting tones now, gently massaging your conscience free of the pain you would cause. “You probably wouldn’t be missed anyway.” “You’d be doing the world a favor, relieving it of a burden.” They reinforce the bleakness of your circumstances. “There’s no more grace. It’s all been used up.” “There may be hope for others, but not for you.” “This pit is just too deep for you to ever climb out of.” And they add wheedling tones of self-pity. “It is just too hard.” “No one understands.” “Who can be expected to live like this?” And, finally, your defenses overcome, your heart yields to the voices and agrees, “Yes. Suicide.”
There is always a chance for truth to enter; for you to rip this foul shroud of deception and stand in the bright light of day. But if you don’t, if instead you swaddle yourself in its darkness and call it true, you will begin to protect it at all costs, as if it were some sacred treasure… this lack of worth; these violent thoughts against your very own life. You will passionately defend it against anyone or anything that would challenge it. The voices smile at each other. They have done their job well. You will take it from here. They will come along for the ride and, of course, “encourage” you in the “right direction” until your death – or, at least, your hopelessness – is secure.
But what the condemning voices will not tell you is the truth. That your loss from this earth would not only send tidal waves of pain and ripples of grief as far as the eye can see, but that all of heaven would weep and grieve for you. Because you are more important than you know. Whether or not you can see, feel or even imagine it right now, your life matters.
Your life matters because you were created with value that is absolute and unchangeable. It is not based on how you see yourself or how anyone else sees you, it cannot be altered by anything you have done or anything that has been done to you, and has nothing to do with how you feel. An assault on your life would be like taking a priceless, irreplaceable vase – the only one of its kind – and shattering it in pieces on the pavement. Sometimes something of such value has been mistaken for something cheap or even worthy of the trash pile and treated accordingly, but once the value is recognized, there is a complete change in the way it is seen, treated and valued. You may be in the trash heap right now, but it’s not where you belong. Let God show you who you really are and what you are actually worth and there is no question you will begin to treat your life with the kindness and care someone with your value deserves.
Your life matters because you were made with a purpose that is more important than you can see or imagine right now. There are no exceptions. You are no exception. Your absence means that purpose would go unfulfilled; a glaring silence from the orchestra in a symphony of God’s design. All you’ve heard so far is the fumbling wrong notes played at exactly the wrong time, drawing attention to yourself in painful, shameful ways. But you will find, with training from the Composer Himself, that you will start to hear the rhythm in your heart, that you will begin to join in, that those notes – the ones that can only come from your instrument – not only fit in the piece, but they are an important part. You will come to find out that you are wanted here. You are needed here. You belong here. You just don’t know it yet.
Remember how those voices told you it was hopeless? That you are hopeless? They lied. As long as you have breath in your lungs, you have hope. Because hope isn’t based on you. It has nothing to do with your ability to fix your mess. It can’t be diminished by how deep your darkness is, how futile your struggle seems or how vast your failures are. It is based upon something completely outside of you – God’sability to save you. You don’t have to be able to see howHe can possibly do it. You don’t have to be able to help Him fix it. All you have to do is call on His name and He will come. He will enter into your deep pit with you. He will take your hand. And He will lead you out. I have been there. I know. Grace is not just for others. It is for you. It will never, ever run out. God is for you and He will pursue you to the ends of the earth. You have a future and a hope. Always. That can’t be changed.
But lies breed in silence and in isolation, so it is essential for you to reach out to someone besides the voices inside; to find someone trustworthy and share your struggles; to hear truth. If you don’t have anyone like that, please call the suicide hotline (800-273-8255) or reach out to me. I know the devastating pull of darkness, but I no longer live in its power and torment but in the the warm embrace of hope and freedom. If the voices have brought you nothing but torment, maybe it is time to challenge them.
Writing is how I process; how tangled highways of thoughts and emotions become a single, clearly marked road on which I can journey forward with peace. But if it were only that, I wouldn’t need a blog; my journal would suffice. It is in the sharing that so much of my healing comes. I don’t fully understand it, but it is powerful. As I thought about and wrote my last post, tears flowed freely and my heart was achy and tender to the touch. And then, in the single moment I shared it with you, all was well with my soul and another part of my healing felt complete. So thank you for reading this blog and being such a significant part of my healing. Thank you also for your loving comments and prayers, which encourage me more than you can possibly know.
***
Easter came. We went to church as usual, although a different one than our norm, and to my parents’ house for an Easter egg hunt and a scrumptious lunch prepared by my mom. But in between those two events was a visit to the beach where Cole and I took a magical walk long ago. My prayers for sun seemed fruitless as the forecast remained overcast… a big fat cloud with no welcoming sun peeking out. I figured the plentiful clouds we experienced at church would only thicken as we got closer to the beach. That’s usually the way it works. But not this day.
When our feet touched the sand, the only clouds left in the sky were puffy white ones on the distant horizon behind us, leaving a perfectly exposed sun to warm our skin against the fresh, brisk breeze. My brother, Christian, was already there, waiting a ways off while he watched dogs happily romping by the shore. He left the joyful scene to meet us at our chosen patch of beach between two lifeguard towers. John, Chase and I kicked off our shoes and headed down to the shore to do what we felt called to that day: scatter Cole’s ashes.
In the exact spot we chose, as though placed by the hand of God, was a large and beautifully formed piece of driftwood. Never before have I seen anything like it on a beach in our area. It was like a reserved seat of honor; an invitation to lay down our burdens and watch this sacred work God is doing. Not a soul was in sight, save a handful of surfers carried by waves in the distance.
We hadn’t planned anything in particular. There was no formality; no ceremony. That’s not who Cole was. Instead, we talked a while and shared stories of this quirky boy – our son, nephew, brother; our friend – who changed our lives forever. Christian lovingly joked about the choice to place the ashes of a guy who had always loved confined spaces in the wide open ocean. Cole would have laughed at that and I couldn’t help but do the same. But Christian thought Cole would appreciate the sentiment, and pointed out that there was no better depiction of our unconventional relationship than the experience it represented. I think that is true. And it makes me smile.
Without really discussing it, we decided to take turns scattering small batches of ashes into the gentle waves lapping on the wet sand. John, my rock these past nine months and caretaker of all things practical, had brought what we needed to accomplish that. Chase brought a childlike lightness of heart and a desire to go first. Not wanting to get his feet wet, he dispatched his load before reaching the water – a blunder that made me think we should have talked this thing out first or at least explained the gravity of the day. But almost immediately, a wave came to swoop up the ashes and carry them out to sea, leaving no trace of Chase’s mistake.
We continued on, quietly, one by one, scattering ashes in the shallows until the vessel was empty and our mission was fulfilled. We all felt lighter, I could tell. Relieved. Chase wrote Cole’s name in the sand; brothers still. We told funny stories and we laughed. Cole always loved to make us laugh. He would be delighted to know that he still does.
I can’t say it was easy, but it wasn’t heartbreaking in the way I would have expected. Cole doesn’t inhabit that body anymore and I can’t pretend he does. It was cast off like an old snake skin that is no longer needed. Or maybe more like an old wine skin that can’t hold the new wine of his resurrected life. That, I think, was why the Lord led me to do this on Easter. To remember that He conquered death and removed its sting – for Cole, for me, for whoever will accept what He accomplished, not only the forgiveness purchased on the cross but the new life freely given through the empty tomb.
Like Chase, Cole wasn’t able to make it to the water with his burden. He left his mistake in a pile of ashes on dry ground, visible to all. But thank God that He doesn’t require us to make it to the great ocean of His love. He doesn’t demand that we figure it out and get there. Instead, His love sends wave after wave of unfathomable mercy and grace to meet us exactly where we are – no matter how far from the shore. His love, through Jesus’ brutal death on the cross, washes away our every blunder; our every shortcoming; all of our hurt and disappointment, leaving not a single trace. And Jesus’ resurrection is an invitation to us all to jump into the depths of new life, completely enveloped in unfailing love and unending joy.
This is the grace that rushed forward to meet Cole. There was no shaming, no finger pointing. No irreversible blunder left on the sand forever more. Only cleansing waves of grace that not only washed away his sin, but carried him into the wide open love of the Father, which is exactly where he always belonged. Where we all belong. Thank you, Jesus, for making the way.
My worst fear has come to pass. Cole is gone. He took his life yesterday. I keep waiting to wake up; hoping it is some awful dream that will be over soon. But it would seem that it is real and all the surrender has led to this point – of truly handing him over to the Lord. -Journal entry from 7/31/18
I have no idea why I started thinking about Abraham when I was driving the other day. But right there, behind my steering wheel on Red Hill Avenue, something registered that I’d never thought about before. Abraham’s ability to so quickly and wholly offer up his promised son in response to God’s command was not because trust had suddenly appeared in that crucial moment of choice, but because trust had been built through a thousand and one other moments of surrender… enabling him to act upon, rather than wrestle with, delay or altogether reject God’s command. I am certainly no Abraham, but I do understand the kind of trust that is built on a lifetime of surrenders – some seemingly insignificant; some clearly insurmountable – enabling a ready response to the Lord’s voice.
Last May, Cole casually texted that he might be removed from his job on the sub for a while “because of sanity reasons.” When I probed further, trying to hold back from an all-out assault of questions, he said the Navy was finally addressing the depression he had been struggling with. He answered a few more questions – yes, he was seeing a doctor and no, he couldn’t talk on the phone – before going totally silent. No more responses. No more answers.
He was all the way across the country in an all-consuming military world I just didn’t understand. I didn’t want to make his life harder by reaching out to his superiors – not that I would have known how to contact them anyway. And he hadn’t given me the numbers of his roommates. I felt completely helpless. Panic set in.
I went into full-on mama bear mode, as Cole later teased, bullying him to call me; telling him I was looking up plane tickets that very moment and was going to show up on his doorstep and not leave until I knew he was okay. I meant it and didn’t care for a second that fear was leading the charge. One of my friends responded to my SOS text with an invitation to pray together in the morning. After the tormented night I spent fearing for Cole’s life, it couldn’t come soon enough.
I don’t think it’s possible to explain what transpired that morning during the time of worship and prayer with my friend. All I can say is that heaven came down and emptied itself into that place. The voice of fear echoing through my mind was completely silenced and the atmosphere of my heart was transformed from panic to peace. The Lord’s direction came so sweetly and clearly. With my whole being, I knew I wasn’t supposed to race out to Virginia to rescue Cole. Instead, I was to surrender him – again – to the Lord I had learned to trust through this very role as his mom. Yes, the stakes were higher than ever, but God had never failed me.
So I followed up the harried texts from the night before with ones of release and encouragement, letting Cole know that I loved him more than ever; that I would be in Virginia in a heartbeat or do anything to help him if he needed and wanted, but that I wasn’t going to force my way into his world. I released him from my demand for a phone call – even the one I requested for Mother’s Day – and gave him the numbers of a few family friends he trusted, encouraging him him to reach out to someone. I followed up with the question, “You wouldn’t consider hurting yourself, would you? Because there is nothing we can’t help you untangle.” He didn’t respond, but it was okay this time because there was no fear present. Of course fear tried to come back in. It always does. But I had my mandate from heaven and knew from experience that only by remaining in a surrendered place would I truly be able to hear the Lord’s voice and act upon any instructions, be they to step in or to step back… both of which require heavenly wisdom and active trust.
Mother’s Day came and by some miracle, I was able to hear my phone ring over the din of Disneyland rides, voices and tantrums. It was my boy, calling me out of love, not duty. He sounded so far from the person I knew, almost robotic, saying “They broke me, mom. I’m broken.” But by the end of our conversation, nearly 2 hours later, Cole – my Cole – had emerged. He was so soft, telling me that he missed being able to talk to me when he’d learned something new, even when I didn’t understand or care. I agreed that I usually didn’t understand but that I always cared and I missed it too. “Please call me whenever that happens,” I said. “Otay,” he responded in the childlike voice he often used with me. And he found his humor again, like his normal self. When I told him that his call was the best gift I’d ever gotten, he joked about how low the bar had been set that a single phone call would rank so high.
We didn’t talk on the phone again until the 4th of July when I called him and – what?! – he actually answered. He had been meaning to call, he said, to let me know that he had been removed from the sub and put on limited duty with easy jobs and normal work hours that actually gave him time to breathe. He had started on antidepressants and was finding his life again, engaging in hobbies and planning for the future. He said wasn’t doing great, but was so much better. And holy cow, did he ever sound better. I told him how proud I was of him. We hung up two hours later and I breathed a sigh of deep relief. We’d made it through. He was going to be okay.
The next news of him I received was carried by the Naval officers who showed up at my door just a few weeks later. I have some guesses about what happened in between the call and the news, but don’t – and may never – know for sure. His roommate said he had been talking about his future that very day. What I do know is that I was confused. The Lord had told me to let go. I was sure of it. But it wasn’t supposed to end this way. Surrender had always played out for me with a happy ending.
On a bike ride with my family one day, I said to the Lord, “But you said to trust you and I did.” He spoke so clearly into my heart, “Have I ever – even once – squandered your trust?” The answer was a resounding, “No. Not even once.” “So do you think that I would squander it now, when you have entrusted me with your most precious gift?” “No. You wouldn’t. I know you. You wouldn’t do that.” Peace washed over my heart. Not because I understood in that moment why God didn’t have me intervene or didn’t intervene Himself (although He spoke something to me about that since then), but because He has shown me over years and years of friendship how immense His love is, how unfailing His character is and how perfect His wisdom is. The many times I wondered what I would do when I woke up from this nightmare – maybe double-up on mama bear vigilance and race out to Virginia? – it was this bedrock of God’s goodness in my life and the fact that He has proven Himself trustworthy in every possible instance that caused me to think that I would continue on this path of prayer and trust.
But after hours spent putting together the slideshow for Cole’s memorial service, I collapsed in brokenhearted tears and said aloud, “I just can’t reconcile these pictures of this sweet, smiling boy with this horrific outcome.” God gently directed me to a journal entry from a few days after the prayer time with my friend. I have no memory of writing it, but it said, “There have been a whole lot of tears as I’m once again having to lay him on the altar. At the same time, I saw it so clearly as the right direction from the Spirit that I could trust that even if Cole were to take his life, God would reconcile even that.” God would reconcile it. Not me. I can’t. There is no way ever. But somehow He can. And He was even gracious enough to plant that in my heart ahead of time.
In Hebrews it says that, “Abraham reasoned that God could even raise the dead, and so in a manner of speaking he did receive Isaac back from death.” In a manner of speaking, I too have received Cole back from death. He is living in a resurrected body, covered by the blood and perfect love of Jesus, removed forever from death’s reach. Which is why, I think, it feels so very right to release his ashes this Sunday, on Easter. It is a whole other level of surrender and I have been in tears all week, but it is a declaration of trust in the unfailing hope I have in what Jesus accomplished through His death and resurrection, not just for Cole’s life in heaven, but for mine here… and a celebration of the day that I too will inhabit my resurrected body and celebrate the Lord’s victory over death with Cole, my precious son and friend.
My last post wasn’t the only time I was lured by the siren call of physical perfectionism. On another occasion, I was hit unexpectedly in the lobby of the optometrist’s office while looking for new frames for my rarely-worn glasses. Mirrors were scattered on the walls, catching light from the windows and illuminating my reflection. I saw myself clearly, for the first time it seemed. Middle-aged. Wrinkled. Unacceptable. Shame washed over me, knowing that everyone else had already seen what was only now in focus for me. Before leaving that lobby twenty minutes later, I had already booked an appointment for botox injections.
Unlike my cancelled breast implant surgery, entitlement (and shame) helped me follow through with the less permanent “improvement” of botox. After the bruising around my eyes healed and the toxins got to work paralyzing my facial muscles, I felt less naked; less uncovered. It was liberating in a sense. But it also felt fraudulent and I knew that the acceptance I could now grant myself was temporary and conditional.
I was in my home one day during this time – I can remember exactly where – when I heard the quiet voice of the Lord speak into my heart. “Who told you that?” I knew He was talking about what I had heard in the optometrist’s office, and recognized the reference to Adam and Eve in the garden when He asked a similar question: “Who told you you were naked?” Just like me, their “eyes had been opened” and suddenly they saw their nakedness, and they too were filled with shame.
But what came before their eyes were “opened”? Accusation. Words from a sneaky serpent casting shadows on the goodness of God and His provision for them. Clearly, He was withholding something – something that would benefit them; that they now thought they needed; that would make them like Him. It was convincing. But it was deceptive.
Like a loving father, God had given them everything they needed for a peaceful and fruitful life in the garden and for unadulterated relationship with God, each other and nature. His single “don’t” was for their protection and even that He didn’t withhold, given them free will to choose. Lastly and maybe most importantly, Genesis 1 tells us that “God created mankind in his own image,in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them.” They had no need to eat of any fruit to become like Him. They were already like Him.
But once they had come into agreement with an accusation that said otherwise, receiving it as truth, self-reliance naturally followed. If indeed God was withholding something good and necessary, then certainly they were entitled to take it for themselves. And so came that treacherous bite of fruit when sin entered into creation. Their eyes, which had only been able to see good, were now opened to see evil… as promised. They were overcome with shame and fear.
Their response was to cover up their nakedness – and thus their shame – and to hide for fear of being found out. The unclothed intimacy between Adam and Eve, as well as their undivided communion and trust with their Father was broken. Accusation now became part of their own vocabulary as they deflected blame from themselves; directing it instead toward each other and their perfect Father.
Here’s the thing. Genesis 2 says, “And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed.” They had been naked all along. That was never the problem. My wrinkles were never the problem. Your failures or weakness or shortcomings were never the problem. The problem is that we have agreed with an accusation that says we are not acceptable without becoming… beautiful, thin, good, successful, admired, capable, strong, independent, intelligent… or whatever it is that lures us into a sense of security outside of our identity as loved children of a good Father.
If we don’t believe that we are enough as we are, it means that God has failed us in some way – a far more damaging accusation – which entitles us, like Adam and Eve, to take for ourselves what He hasn’t given. This self-reliance removes us from the perfect provision of the garden that exists only through childlike trust in our Father. Like my botox experience, it might be temporarily liberating but it is, in reality, nothing but striving. It won’t cause us to be what we aren’t. It won’t eradicate the shame. All it will do is cover it up for a while with fig leaves that will die and keep dying and need to be replaced over and over again, all the while nurturing the belief that caused the it in the first place. And yet, we will be afraid of being seen without the leaves because that is where our shame lurks. We will never know if the love and acceptance we receive is because of who we truly are or the facade we’ve created.
What if our happiness doesn’t lie in “becoming,” but in returning to the garden? Where we can rest in who we already are and receive the goodness and provision of our loving Father. Where we are naked and unashamed. Unafraid. Unhidden. With unbroken communion between each other and our Dad. It’s what we were made for. We will never find peace, happiness or wholeness anywhere else. It is the only place where striving can cease; where we can come out of hiding and drop every fig leaf. Because Jesus Christ has covered our every sin, weakness, failure and shortcoming… every bit of shame and every vestige of fear. He has made us righteous and given us free access to the garden through faith. What could I possibly take for myself that could be more beautiful than that?
There was a time I was going to get breast implants. I wasn’t just toying with the idea. It was nearly a done deal. The surgeon had been chosen, the deposit had been made and the surgery was scheduled for a few weeks later. But then the tears came. And they wouldn’t stop. A voice that had been barely audible, easily dismissed for so many years, came riding on the rising water, getting louder with with each thrust of the current, saying “This isn’t who I am!”
It wasn’t unlike the increasingly desperate shouts of the speck’s inhabitants in Horton Hears a Who – “We are here! We are here! We are here!” – finally breaching the surface, enabling them to be heard and saved. I’d heard the voice of my true heart and knew I couldn’t go through with the surgery, no matter how foolish and melodramatic I felt. But there was the problem of the nonrefundable deposit. And the let-down of having to continue parading around in a body the world doesn’t applaud. There was also the fear that I would be disappointing someone else – an even harder reality to face.
In the swirling midst of this process, I talked to my dad on the phone. It was about something else entirely, but I brought up the surgery, thinking he already knew. Apparently he didn’t. His response held no judgment; only love, compassion and a touch of sadness. There was no lecture on the health risks involved or on the unnecessary expenditure of money. Instead, he said, “But you’re beautiful… as you are.” You guys, it broke me. Released me from the spell. Gave me courage. In that moment, the need to become this thing I think I should be instead of resting in who I am evaporated. I was loved and accepted and, if I’m honest, that was the whole point of the surgery.
Is my dad biased? Absolutely. What a powerful thing that is. He doesn’t see me as a sum of body parts and facial features or value me by my achievements or success. His vision for me is filtered by his love for me. They are inseparable. Because of that, I was released on that day to be the real me, imperfections and all. And that, I am coming to see, is what is truly beautiful. Not the shell we call beauty but the life and love that pours out through all the cracks in the shell… in direct response to the glorious safety of being loved.
I know not everyone has heard kind words like my dad spoke to me, but it is just a tiny glimpse of the way our heavenly Dad loves all of us. Talking to Him and hearing His heart for us will release us from the grip of performing and dispatch us into the courage and freedom of being ourselves. And there is no doubt in my mind that as we enter in, others will find courage and freedom to do the same because that’s how love rolls.
To wrap up my story, I was overwhelmingly relieved when I cancelled the surgery. It was a joyous occasion for me. The person I thought would be so disappointed was heartbroken over my perceptions and our bond deepened as a result. I did lose some money, but what a small price to pay. I have never once regretted choosing to listen to the voice of love.
Please know that I hold no judgment toward anyone who has gotten implants or any other kind of improvements. There is no shame in love. And no matter what we’ve done or not done, God canALWAYS loose us into the freedom of our true identity.
A day or two after Cole died, I told my mom through tears, “He was my greatest treasure.” Having a husband and two other children I love so deeply, it seemed wrong to say. But it felt true. “I know,” she responded with great compassion.
It’s not that I loved him more, but the sweet presence of that little boy in my life effortlessly unlocked a heart that considered itself incapable of any good thing, most of all love. I desperately wanted the best for him, but didn’t have it to give, so I became anchored to the process of transformation and found freedom and joy on so many fronts – and a deeper bond with this boy than I thought possible. Because of Cole, I learned how to love. And began to know how to be loved. He changed my everything.
But I’ve learned something these past 7 months since losing him. He wasn’t my greatest treasure. He was part of the beautiful, broken road that led me to my truest and greatest treasure, Jesus. What an amazing gift and significant purpose. It makes me love and appreciate him so much more. But it also makes me want to pour out all that I am and have in the One whose value exceeds all others and secures an abundance for me… even when all else is lost.
Because Jesus is the keeper of the lost. The One who sets all things right. The only safe place to invest anything – and everything – of value. So for now, in this life, I will walk with the sweetest joy and truest love that I found in Jesus through His gift of this remarkable boy. And I will look forward to the day when Cole and I get to share the road again, completely unbroken this time.
“Again, the Kingdom of Heaven is like a treasure hidden in the field, which a man found, and hid. In his joy, he goes and sells all that he has, and buys that field.” Matthew 13:44
One day several years ago, I was standing in the misty, green hills of Georgia, drinking in the fresh air and beautiful surroundings. From my mouth poured earnest gratitude for nature and how unbelievably nourishing and refreshing it is to my soul. I will never forget the response the Lord spoke into my heart: “That is exactly what my people are supposed to be in this world: A drink of fresh, pure water, just like nature is to you.”
It thrilled me to think that we could be that kind of refreshment to others. I mean, wow! But I also saw in that moment that what we give has to be pure. Our own understanding and opinions will inevitably pollute what we give and turn people away from the true nourishment that comes from the untainted love and wisdom of God.
But we were made for this. Our innermost being has a constant flow of living water that will never run out. It will always quench and revive us when we walk to the river’s edge and feel its spray on our face, hear its roar, watch its movement, cup our hands to drink it in. It will cleanse and purify all that is sullied. This living water transforms us into a people who not only have what the world needs, but are what the world needs. People whose very presence provides rest and refreshment to the weary and thirsty. How amazing is that?? So let us drink deeply from Him, allowing His presence to revive our weary souls, and continue to become what we were made to be: A drink of fresh, pure water to a thirsty world.
“He who believes in Me, as the Scripture said, ‘From his innermost being will flow rivers of living water.'” John 7:37
But the wisdom from above is first of all pure. It is also peace loving, gentle at all times, and willing to yield to others. It is full of mercy and good deeds. It shows no favoritism and is always sincere. James 3:17
I am writing this post from the writer’s shed of our new home! Exactly three weeks after we first saw this house online, we were given the keys and brought over our first truckload of boxes. The following day, exactly three weeks after we first saw it in person, we brought over the rest of our stuff and started our new life here. Needless to say, it’s been a whirlwind… but what a welcome one! After all this time of waiting and praying, it still doesn’t feel real.
A couple of years ago, when we had already been in high gear house-searching mode for a long while, the Lord told me “invest in where you are now.” I wrote a post about how scary it was for me to invest in a place I knew to be temporary, but I did my best to follow the instructions. The very first thing I did was to plant my potted dwarf lemon tree in the barren dirt plot in our side yard; a pioneer of my eventual, much-loved garden. Then I set about doing the much riskier work of investing in the people around us, trusting that God would heal my heart if we were to be uprooted from the area and forced to start over. It was certainly a challenge but the terror lessoned as time went on because I realized He was teaching me how to do community, a lesson I needed to learn and apply wherever we would land.
As it turns out, this house puts us less than a mile from the school Chase is attending (one that was outside our previous boundaries), and in the very heart of the community we’ve spent these last years investing in. We’ve only been here a week and our home has already been filled with new friends and old. It just seems like a place that was made for gathering. You’d better believe I’ve poured out some tears over God’s goodness to us. Not just for a house, which holds no good thing without Him, but for His presence in this process and all He has done through it to stretch us and grow us and provide for us in ways that reach far beyond material provision. With all my heart, I say thank you, Lord.
As for that lemon tree, I had imagined that by the time we moved, it would be a thriving tree with an abundance of luscious lemons that would demonstrate the fruitfulness of obedience. While I did manage to keep it alive (a fact of which I’m very proud), it looks a lot more like a Charlie Brown version of a fruit tree and any lemons it bore never ripened. Until last month, that is. When all of a sudden, the green fruit that had been dangling on that pitiful tree so long turned the beautiful yellow that signifies ripeness. What a sight to see before moving on. Chase was pretty excited about it too.
Here is the thing I didn’t foresee. Our new yard is host to 13 fruit trees, three of which are mature lemon trees – each a different variety – loaded with ripe fruit. It’s almost like God is saying, “You do your part. Listen to what I’m asking of you and do it to the best of your ability. It may look small and insignificant and you may be a crappy gardener who can’t make things grow, but be as faithful as you can and trust me for the rest. Because I am the one who makes things grow, in my perfect time, to produce the sweetest, best and most plentiful fruit. Each juicy bite will remind you of my goodness (not your ability) and there will be enough to fill many fruit bowls beyond your own.” Or something like that. 🙂 It’s like not unlike the water the servants brought to Jesus at his request. They couldn’t turn it to wine, even if they had years to do it. But Jesus could. And He did. That plain old water, alongside their humble act of obedience, was transformed into the finest wine that satisfied each and every wedding guest and demonstrated the power and glory of God. The servants got to be part of that miraculous act!
This leaves me wondering what God is asking of you. If you don’t know, seek Him out. If you’ve been frustrated by the waiting and the inability to see that any blessing or significance could come from your current efforts, please know that it is not up to you to turn water to wine or to grow the fruit. Your part – and mine – is to trust and obey and He will do the rest. Yes, with bountiful sweetness, He will do the rest.
When going through our garage for our imminent move, I came across the carseat Chase used before his current booster seat. If you are a parent (and maybe even if you’re not), you know there are seemingly endless options to consider when buying anything for a baby. Car seats are no exception. There are so many brands and styles, it can be daunting to choose. Some boast extra comfort and easy cleanability (if that’s not a word, it should be), while others offer perks like cup holders or eye catching fabric.
As I researched this purchase, I read not only the descriptions provided by the manufacturers (who are trying to sell something), but also sifted through dozens of reviews by people who had actually used each car seat. Many referred to the perks mentioned above, all of which appealed to me, but the reviews on one particular seat spoke of something more significant: The safety of their baby because of this car seat. Two moms in particular spoke of harrowing car crashes they experienced with their baby in this seat. One rolled her car multiple times and broke her back, but her baby was unscathed. I don’t remember the specifics of the other, but it was equally dramatic – and the baby was also unharmed.
I did no further research. I was sold. The Recaro it was. It had no cup holders, was a bear to clean and offered no eye catching fabrics; just a simple, solid black seat to keep my baby safe. Fortunately I never had any accidents to test its safety, but I put my trust in it and drove confidently because of the real-life stories of these women who had.
This is really why I chose Jesus too. There weren’t many bells and whistles about Him to catch my eye or entice me, but I’d crashed enough to know I needed more than a nice looking, comfy seat for this journey or somewhere to put my sippy cup. I needed safety. I needed something to put my trust in so that I would be covered in any future crashes, no matter how devastating. A huge part of choosing Jesus was the stories of others who had made it through the worst because of Him. People who walked away from impossible wreckages. People who retained joy when it should have been destroyed along with everything around them.
Can I tell you how very important this choice turned out to be? With the loss of my very precious son, Cole, my life tumbled and rolled, completely out of my control, with metal screeching and twisting around me, followed by a deafening silence. This was no insignificant fender bender. It should have destroyed me. But it didn’t. I was held so tightly as everything crashed around me. I was kept safe. Shocked and deeply saddened, but uninjured. Because of Jesus. This is the story I’ll tell. I hope that people will hear it – and those of so many others who have experienced His faithfulness – and choose Him, resting confidently in the tried and true safety He provides.
My sister sent me this amazing song called Storyteller by Morgan Harper Nichols. If you have a chance, give it a listen. If not, here are the lyrics. It is my heart in a song…
On a Sunday evening
I’m looking back
over all the years and where I’ve been
Looking at old photographs I’m remembering you were right there and you have been ever since
With every page that turns I see your faithfulness
Oh the mountain where I climbed The valley where I fell You were there all along That’s the story I’ll tell
You brought the pieces together Made me this storyteller Now I know it is well, it is well That’s the story I’ll tell
There were some nights that felt like They would last forever But you kept me breathing You were with me right then
And all that you have done for me I could never hold it in So here’s to me telling this story Over and over again
Oh the mountain where I climbed The valley where I fell You were there all along That’s the story I’ll tell
You brought the pieces together Made me this storyteller Now I know it is well, it is well That’s the story I’ll tell
You hold the broken You hear my every cry, every cry My eyes are open I know that it is well, it is well
One day several years ago, I was standing in the misty, green hills of Georgia, drinking in the fresh air and beautiful surroundings. From my mouth poured earnest gratitude for nature and how unbelievably nourishing and refreshing it is to my soul. I will never forget the response the Lord spoke into my heart: “That is exactly what my people are supposed to be in this world: A drink of fresh, pure water, just like nature is to you.”
where waves grow sweet 