Walking is the part of my day I would call communion. Not the bread and wine kind, but “the sharing or exchanging of intimate thoughts and feelings.” As I set off in a quiet rhythm, my lungs draw deep breaths of the fresh air all around and my senses quicken to perceive the beauty of creation that envelops me – the textures beneath my feet, the earthy fragrances that greet me, the penetrating warmth of the sun on my skin. My heart rises in worship before I’ve even left my driveway, unable to resist the holy space that opens up before me, drawing me into the bright, welcoming presence of God.
My thoughts start to tumble out in this safe space, exposing themselves to the light of day. The tension between what is and what should be raises its voice, wanting truth more than answers to its endless questions. And my heart: this is where it pours itself out freely. Wanting to be known and to be loved; wanting to know and to love. When my soul has spent itself, I walk side by side with my Creator in the quiet, my steps falling into rhythm with His, my ears attentive to anything He might want to say. It is what I live for. His words, His heart – shared with me.
It was into this quiet, a day after writing about my magical walk with Cole, that He spoke. He reminded me of how deeply I was moved when my much-loved son wanted to join in my activity for the sole reason of being with me. So often, I chose him. But that day, he chose me. I paused to remember again, letting the sweetness rise. With my heart all soft and open, the Lord went on to say that He understands that tenderness all too well. It is exactly what He has felt the times I’ve sought Him out just to be with Him. The experiences He has shared with me are as precious to Him as the ones I’ve shared with Cole are to me; guarded in His heart like priceless, irreplaceable treasures.
What He opened up from there made me come undone. He spoke into my heart as a parent because it’s the kind of love I can grasp; the most unfiltered love I’ve experienced. It is raw and real. It is passionate and relentless. It is costly. But most of all, it’s relational. There were many hardships I experienced as a mom during Cole’s life and there was great pain in his death, but I would chose it all again for the sake of knowing and loving that boy. With that tangible reality in hand, the Lord said, “THAT is how I love you. Not in a neat, tidy Sunday school way, but with a burning passion that thinks nothing of your imperfections and failures and doesn’t count the cost of sacrifice. I just want relationship with you and would experience every hardship over again – even death – to know and love you.” You guys, it broke me. Tears poured out of my insides that had melted to liquid. And I continue to be undone. Not only is He my Father, but I am His daughter.
I have blogged about this passage before, but can’t help but include it again here because it is exactly what I experienced that day on the trail. This is a conversation from Tattoos on the Heart between the author who is a loving, down-to-earth priest in a rough part of town and a recently-released-from-prison gang member he had known since his childhood.
At three o’clock in the morning, the phone rings. It’s Cesar. He says what every homie says when they call in the middle of the night, “Did I wake you?”
I always think, “Why no, I was just waiting and hoping that you’d call.”
Cesar is sober, and it’s urgent that he talk to me.
I gotta ask you a question. You know how I’ve always seen you as my father – ever since I was a little kid? Well, I hafta ask you a question.
Now Cesar pauses, and the gravity of it all makes his voice waver and crumble, “Have I… been… your son?”
“Oh, hell yeah,” I say.
“Whew,” Cesar exhales, “I thought so.”
Now his voice becomes enmeshed in a cadence of gentle sobbing. “Then… I will be… your son. And you… will be my father. And nothing will separate us, right?”
“That’s right.”
In this early morning call, Cesar did not discover that he had a father. He discovered that he is a son worth having. The voice broke through the clouds of his terror and the crippling mess of his own history, and he felt himself beloved. God, wonderfully pleased in him, is where God wanted Cesar to reside.
My prayer today is for each of us to have an ever-deepening revelation of that very trusth: Not only that we have a loving Father, “but that we are kids worth having. That the voice would break through the clouds of our terror and the crippling mess of our own history, and we would find ourselves beloved.”
p.s. I do realize any love I had for Cole is just a tiny little drop compared to the love God has for me.
After Cole died, my cousin gave me a necklace that says “brave.” I wear it often to remind myself that whether I feel like it or not, I am. Some days I do feel brave, battling my way past the demons of despair; planting my flag in my inherited land of hope. And then there are days like today when the tears won’t stop flowing; when my heart aches to be able to see my son again – not someday in heaven, but here and now. But that is no less brave. As someone who avoided pain at all costs, burying it in addictions and false comforts, these tears represent courage. I am feeling my pain; facing it. They also represent trust because I couldn’t face the pain if I didn’t know that God is holding me tightly as I cry; if I didn’t believe that He won’t abandon me here… but that with each offering of trust, He will comfort me and heal my broken heart. And when these tears dry up, I know He’s going to take my hand and help me back up and we are going to walk together into the good and beautiful future He’s prepared for me. Maybe being brave simply means that we invite Him into the hard places and let Him lead us out.
When we step into this life of faith in Jesus, it’s like trading our beach chairs and umbrellas on a stationary mass of sand to engage in the moving, living water of the sea with its waves, currents, hazards and unknowns. We usually spend quite a while in ankle deep water, testing the temperature without committing our whole bodies; reassured by our proximity to dry ground. But faith will never allow us to stay there. The Lord didn’t draw us close so we could be bystanders with wet feet. He drew us so that He could take us deeper and deeper, where out of necessity, we become students who are (eventually) willing to receive His expertise on how to use the waves to propel us forward, rather than take us down.
My greatest grown-up fears have been of pain, failure and losing a child; all of which have been pressed hard through Cole’s death. But honestly, I’ve always been afraid. A fearful heart tends to build walls around itself so it will feel safe. The problem is that walls don’t just keep out the bad things; they also separate us from the love and connection we crave and the help we need. 
The worst of the worst happened. My greatest fears were realized. My walls didn’t keep me from harm and they’ve been as helpful in my healing as mute idols of stone. But my mom was so right. 
where waves grow sweet 