where waves grow sweet

For a week and a half, our normally quiet existence was nowhere to be found (and, believe me, I looked!). We had volunteered to care for two boys, ages two and four, whose mom had just had surgery and was trying to secure housing. Caring for these sweet, wildly energetic kids who missed their mom like mad took everything I had to give. Actually, I ran out of everything I had to give before lunch most days and found, as I looked to God for grace with desperately pleading eyes, He strengthened me far beyond my own ability.

Chase, our four year old, was part of the reason we finally applied to be a host family, stating repeatedly this past year that he wanted to “babysit and protect kids who didn’t have moms or dads, or who were lost or needed help.” He prepared for the boys’ visit by filling their room with books and toys from his own collection. His generosity didn’t fail, as he continued to share everything he owned and enthusiastically entered into this alternate universe on Santa Clara Ave. Despite the tears that regularly occurred when the two four year olds got too competitive or when Chase just seemed fried by all the activity, he continued to say that he loved having playmates and wasn’t going to let us give them back. After all was said and done, he decided that next time we should choose a kid we can keep.

John also stepped up, coming home from a long day of work to a noisy house, a tired wife and plenty of work left to be done. He played outside with the boys as I cooked dinner, trying to keep bikes, scooters and a large electric Jeep from running down our one year old neighbor who wanted in on the action. He helped with cleanup and baths and jammies and teeth brushing, and gave me a strong dose of encouragement at the end of each day. The most heroic thing to me is that he is totally willing to do this again.

I learned two things during those 10 significant days. The first is that it’s infinitely easier to cry over the hurting children “out there” – or applaud the people helping them – than it is to step into their need with our own hands and hearts. The day-to-day experiences are less romantic and more taxing than I imagined. And yet they are so much better because they are raw and real and rewarding in a way imagination could never be.

The second is that love looks a lot like investing in people. Jesus tells us that where our treasure is, our hearts will be also. Pouring my treasures of time, energy and money into these boys attached my heart to them. I couldn’t help but bond, despite how difficult some of their behaviors proved to be. The greatest reward came as they began to trust me, first by learning my name (it took longer than you’d think!) and then by climbing into my lap for comfort and affection. I can honestly say I came to love them and earnestly care what happens to them.

It makes me think about God’s investment in us, which goes so much farther than we could ever realize. It’s not a rose-colored, romantic imagination, like someone loving us (or maybe just pitying us) from the sidelines, but a tedious, sometimes heartbreaking, daily (or hourly) expenditure of all the treasure in his storehouse. He even gave His most beloved treasure, His Son (which, as a mom, is unfathomable to me). He is bonded to us, no matter how bad our behaviors prove to be, because His heart is here – in us and with us. He will continue to enter into our mess with tangible proof of His love. The best thing we can give back is our trust… to first learn His name, then to curl up on His lap in the safety of His arms and press up against the warmth of His heart.

*We volunteered through a nonprofit called Safe Families for Children which supports families in crisis and works to keep kids out of foster care.

Someone made me mad last week. Hopping mad. Poor John walked through the door just as I was discovering the offense and received the hurricane force of my reaction. It was so strong, even I was taken aback. Despite my attempts to forgive a whole lot of past wrongs, there was clearly lingering resentment which allowed for a quick leap to judgment and justification for saying a whole lot of bad things about this person that I will spare your wholesome selves from hearing.

The next day, when I hopped into the car, I turned on a CD series on marriage I had been listening to in fits and starts for several weeks. In one of those moments of divine timing, the first words out of the speaker’s mouth were about forgiving people who have done you wrong. It was mostly stuff I know and practice, and I probably wouldn’t have listened so intently had I not been in such a vulnerable place, but then..…. he told me to pray for and bless this woman who has caused me so much grief. [I am very familiar with Luke 6:28 where Jesus says to bless those who curse you and pray for those who mistreat you, but I felt excluded based on the perceived persecuted-because-of-your-faith specificity. Except it doesn’t say that. So apparently it applies to me in a daily you-hurt-me kind of way after all.]

In that moment, as I was driving down the 55, it made perfect sense. The stance on forgiveness I usually take isn’t bad – letting go of each offense and trusting God’s ability to work it all together for good. It’s an important start, but it is fairly passive. To invest my words and time and heart for the good of someone who has mistreated me; well, that is an active assault on this ugly thing that binds me.

According to the speaker’s example, after a while of blessing his persecutor, the bitterness broke and he had genuine compassion and love for that person, which sounded very appealing to me. So I jumped into this blessing thing, a little awkwardly but with enthusiasm. Every time one of those resentful thoughts popped into my head, I started blessing my offender’s life, health, relationships, finances – you name it.  It was utterly empowering and felt so good to my angry heart. And the thing that was taken from me that inspired such anger in the first place? It was replaced from a totally different source in a surprising way; almost as if God were affirming that he would take care of me as I trust in him.

That in itself was life changing, but I was hit with another epiphany the following day as I made my bed. No one mistreats, curses or judges me more than I do. I no longer experience the depths of self hatred I used to (for which I am very grateful), but measuring myself with an unholy perfectionism continues to create a consistent awareness of and frustration over all the ways I fall short. I can easily get mad at various parts of myself – my body, my mind, my looks, my personality, my abilities – when they don’t function or look the way I think they should. It would not be a stretch to say there is bitterness in some areas, and a pretty perpetual fear of failing since the self-criticism can be so harsh.

It immediately became clear that while it is a good start to forgive myself for my failings and let God love me, I am to move into that active, empowering stance of blessing myself – all the parts of me in all their imperfections. Because God has made me worthy of kindness and his love has covered every shortcoming I will ever have. If he has deemed me acceptable because of the sacrifice of his Son, who am I to withhold love? So every time a critical thought or accusation pops into my head, I am countering it with a blessing. Not to disregard sin or pretend I’m perfect, but to extend the grace that was purchased for me so that I can come boldly before the throne without condemnation and see myself as I truly am – a beloved child of God.

It has been under a week since I have begun to practice this new exercise, but good Lord, I am already seeing transformation in the way I see those who have hurt me – both this woman and myself. I pray that I will be able to press on in the aggressive act of blessing until every tie to the old way of measuring, judging and woundedness has been severed. I hope that you will join me.

This summer, since we were anticipating several out-of-town guests, I got fixated on the idea of gracing our backyard with some new patio furniture – the comfy kind that makes you want to talk and linger while the sun goes down. I’m embarrassed to acknowledge how much time I spent searching for just the right set that appealed aesthetically, functionally and financially (FYI, the cost of some sets might require selling your soul or firstborn child). I had almost driven my husband mad and given up hope when I found my heart’s delight on Craigslist. We rented a truck from Home Depot, trekked down to Dana Point and returned as joyfully as if with a newborn babe.

The trick was figuring out where to put my lovely 8 foot sofa with chunky chairs, blocky tables and big umbrella. With every surface cluttered, I just didn’t have vision for it. So I dragged every chair, table, toy and BBQ off the concrete and stood back to survey what remained. The space was still broken up by several immovable obstacles: a built-in fire pit, the wood columns of the patio cover, the heightened deck area, and the baffling zigzag contour of the concrete. If I were the homeowner and had some cash, several of these items would be changed or removed. But I’m not and I don’t.

So I took stock of the space and suddenly… golden rays of sun shone down from heaven on just the spot. That perfect spot that receives gentle morning light filtered through our neighbor, Ruth’s, maple trees yet is protected from late day’s harsh heat. Where the breeze from the distant coast jumps over the weathered fence and rustles the leaves of the eucalyptus tree overhead. Where the warmth from the fire is close enough to embrace the family on a chilly eve. And so the furniture moved into its perfect new home. About two minutes later, our kids spread themselves out on it, followed quickly by me and John.

While all of this was going on, we were dealing with a very difficult someone in our lives. It was nothing new, really, but the increasing levels of entitlement and manipulation proved to be particularly exasperating and threatened another relationship dear to my heart. Attempts over the years to improve the situation only worsened things, and it wasn’t one of those optional people you can just choose to part ways with.

The Lord, so kind to enlighten my simple self, said that, like the recent experience with the patio furniture, I just couldn’t see clearly. The relationship was so cluttered by hurt and frustration that I couldn’t find a solitary square foot on which to rest. So He told me to clear off the movable items. Instead of toys or barbeques, it was resentment, bitterness and anger (okay, rage), as well as the accompanying judgment of this person’s choices and, well, their whole self. And then there was that whole pile of self pity, sitting there stinking up the place, making it known what victims we were.

If I’m honest, those things didn’t look like temporary pieces of clutter to be dragged off at will, requiring nothing more than a quick visit to the chiropractor afterwards. They had begun to feel as though they were eternal truths, secured deeply in the earth by my understanding of their injustice. So along with extending forgiveness for the hurts and offenses, there was an accompanying need to surrender my ideas of how things should look – you know, the fairness and generosity I deserve (oh wait, is that entitlement?) – and my attempts to control them.

After beginning to clear these things off the surface, a quick survey of the area showed a brutal truth. There are things that can’t be moved, by my own hand anyway – namely the free will of another and what they choose to do with it. How I wish I had some ownership of their life and could remodel it to my liking. But I don’t and I can’t. Like that zigzag concrete in my yard, it’s going to stay for the duration of the relationship.

But that’s okay because what is becoming clear is that God’s got this. He is actually using it for my benefit – to grow me up and show me just how capable He is. This is where the angels sing and the golden rays pour forth sunlight onto the perfect spot. With all else cleared away, I can now see not where to put a sofa, but where to put my trust. It is not in another person or in circumstances that go as they should, but in the Lord Almighty who lives to demonstrate His love. The truth is that He loves this other person as much as He does me (gasp) and wants freedom for both of us. As we trust Him to lead us, He is going to do the impossible. If they are not willing, then He will still make a way for me.

And let me tell you, He has. In the midst of the all the things that are still swirling and despite the fact that outward circumstances are technically “worse,” I am finding this joyful liberty to let go of what I can’t change and to love well – here and now. The relationship close to my heart that felt so threatened is becoming richer by the day as the walls created through the friction melt. It is truly a place of rest. And I am certain that, like the patio furniture, endless hours will be spent here greeting the morning sun in quiet thought or talking, laughing and lingering with loved ones as the sun goes down.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

Courage to change the things I can,

And wisdom to know the difference.

                                                                               -the serenity prayer

My son, Cole, enlisted in the Navy right out of high school. Having been a single mom for much of his life, we had a particular closeness and it was hard – good hard – to leave him at the recruiting office where he would ship off to boot camp in Illinois, then to South Carolina for two years of training (which is nearly finished), and then off to wherever he will be stationed before plunging down into the sea for months at a time in a sub.

It wasn’t an easy transition, especially since Cole is not much of a communicator. It’s not that he doesn’t love people. He just kind of absorbs himself in his current environment and doesn’t often reach out past it. I don’t guilt him on the issue. His program is intensive and his Navy life is full. Plus he’s an introvert. But you’d better believe if that whistle textone reaches my ears, my heart flutters like a schoolgirl. And if I hear the robot ringtone I’ve used for him since middle school, you’d best get out of my way.

Frankly, I don’t even care what he has to say. He could text to tell me he had spaghetti for lunch and I would be touched. It’s the fact that he is choosing to connect with me. I usually don’t hear from him about day-to-day stuff, but always when he has purchased a new vehicle, weapon or tattoo. He can chat endlessly about the technical aspects of a really fast motorcycle. His quirk comes out in the photos he sends of new purchases, like his 1952 Rambler or the ambulance he now owns (yes, an ambulance). And, goodness gracious, that boy is getting tattoos at breakneck speed. Other times, the calls aren’t so light-hearted. Like when he totalled his motorcycle and was able to limp away from it. Or when his friend totalled his and wasn’t so fortunate. Those are the times I am especially glad I am available, always listening for those ringtones that belong only to him.

Though it is hard to wrap my head around, especially since He has a few billion kids, this is how God feels about each of us. Every. Single. One. We each have a special ringtone and His heart is thrilled to hear it. Because He loves us and even likes us, despite whatever flaws we are riddled with. It is the connection that matters; the fact that whatever we are experiencing, we want to share it with Him. Not only is He the best listener, but if we will give Him an opportunity to respond, He can impart to us what we need at that moment – be it friendship, wisdom, comfort, or hope. We were made for this relationship, but He will never guilt us if we don’t show up. He will just keep loving us, sending care packages and always keeping an open ear for the voice of His kids.

“We love because he first loved us.” 1 John 4:19

Chase, our three year old, has been taking swimming lessons for several months. One of the first things done by his swim instructor, Robert, was to take him underwater to let him get a feel for it; particularly that point at which he could feel the water “hold” him. As Chase was learning to swim a few feet on his own, he would sometimes forego his calm, confident “push-arounds” for a frantic, flailing sort of motion. Robert would talk him through the stroke, reminding him how he had learned to push the water, and provide physical support as reassurance before letting him try solo again. At the end of such lessons, I recall Robert saying that the panic was a result of Chase forgetting how to let the water hold him.

At his lesson today, his newer instructor was joking about how little energy Chase likes to expend when he swims, adding “he just likes to be held by the water.” It is true. Sure, he can paddle and kick fairly well now, but what he loves most is to float just beneath the surface with very little movement. When I once asked him what he enjoys about that, he simply said “it’s peaceful.” While I would love to see him gaining some distance in the pool, I can think of no better starting point.

We hopped in the car and I couldn’t stop thinking about the Christian life in these terms. As we are taking our own strokes in whatever circumstances we find ourselves, it is so easy to panic and flail, feeling certain that we are going to sink like a rock to the bottom of the pool, never to be heard from again. But the Holy Spirit, our instructor in this thing called life, is ever present, ensuring our safety and teaching us to swim. Rather than panicking alongside us or yanking us out of the pool, he quiets us and draws us back into that place where we can again feel – and more importantly, know – that we are held. And at some point, we will, like Chase, come to say that not only are we unafraid, but we are at peace.

But the Helper, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, he will teach you all things and bring to your remembrance all that I have said to you. John 14:26

Several months back, God spoke to me that His will is stronger than mine. It wasn’t a challenge, as it might have seemed at other points in my life. Instead, it was an invitation to rest in the strength of another. Like a child who wants to feel the safety of boundaries; to know she is not in charge and cannot wrap authority around her will through intimidation, manipulation or sheer persistence. Because something deep inside knows she was not meant to bear the responsibility of calling the shots; that indeed she is lacking in the wisdom required – the understanding that stretches beyond self.

I have often revisited this revelation when my soul is pushing hard for its agenda and believes it to be pure and right. When I feel as though I must get my way because my wants are strong. And, further, that I can get my way because my will is strong. It’s not that my desires are evil or my will is corrupt; but that they are incapable of bringing about the life I’m seeking without passing through the wisdom of the Spirit.

Like a child, who has pleaded for her desires with the most earnest emotions and arguments, chooses to yield to the answer of her parent – not because she necessarily agrees, but because she perceives the perfect love, strength and understanding from which it is derived. It is from this beautifully yielded place of trust that she can rest from the weight of decision. And there she will find all she has ever been seeking.

“As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.” Isaiah 55:9

For as long as I can remember, I was going to adopt. Before I even understood the significance of our adoption into God’s family, it was just a very beautiful thing to me. I had Cole at 21 and wanted to have more of “my own,” but it was always a given that sooner or later, I would adopt. A baby or kid or maybe a few kids – I didn’t really know.

After many, many (many!) years of being single and raising Cole, God gifted me with my husband, John, and his daughter, Madison. We blended as a family quite miraculously and got pregnant with our little boy, Chase, almost immediately. We were a happy family with three wonderful kids. The question was whether to try for another. We talked and we prayed. Then I prayed and cried and wrestled my heart down. And prayed some more. It was clear. There was peace. We agreed to no more babies by my body, and then sealed the deal with surgery.

It was the right decision. But my heart didn’t feel done. There was this lingering longing. A sense that someone was missing from our family. With the pregnancy door closed, a husband who shared a heart for adoption, and several friends who had adopted through the foster system, the answer seemed obvious. When Cole shipped off to the Navy in October and left us with a free room, we applied to be foster parents, requesting a baby girl with the hopes of being able to eventually adopt. It would be hard, we knew – messy and maybe heartbreaking – but we agreed that we were willing to love and give freely whether it were longterm or not.

Speaking of messy, there was the issue of my past. It is a long-ago past. There have been 20 solid, fruitful years since then. But before those years, I was a broken, dysfunctional human being. The choices that resulted were not easy for a case worker to brush off. So what began with mere paperwork turned into long hours of interviews and follow-up interviews and counseling to make sure issues were dealt with… and a lot of space in between as my life and potential suitability as a foster parent were scrutinized. It was an emotionally grueling six months. Ironically, the denial we received in March wasn’t because of the craziness I had shared, but an event I had completely forgotten to share, added to the fact that this is John’s third marriage (and my second). Actually it wasn’t an outright denial; more of a “not yet.” We were told to wait another year or two to make sure I’ve dealt with the ‘forgotten’ event and when they have more confidence that our marriage is going to stick. They are protecting wounded kids. I get it.

It stung a little, but the Lord had prepared me. The intensity of the process pressed me into such relationship with Him that I walked away from it transformed; wanting His plans for us more than my own – even if it meant not getting what I have longed for. Because, really, if it’s not according to His way which is so much higher than my own, it won’t satisfy the longing. I’ve often latched onto specific expectations when God had far better timing or, sometimes, a completely different way of fulfilling a heart’s desire. He has never failed to execute each gift perfectly, imparting a piece of Himself in the giving – and always in the waiting. And it satisfies. Because He satisfies.

I can’t say the desire has evaporated but I’m holding it loosely. The case worker said we’d have better luck with another agency or we could try back with the same one in a year but honestly, neither option excites my heart. And since we don’t feel compelled to go through a private adoption agency at this point, I am left with a beautiful family for which I am deeply grateful… and a heart eager to be satisfied. In the right time and the right way. By the giver of every good and perfect gift.

Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows. James 1:17

For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways and My thoughts than your thoughts. Isaiah 55:9

First, I would like to apologize to the people I grossed out with my last blog post and particularly to my friend who is now afraid of flies. Sorry about that 🙂

Without any further reference to insects, I’d like to recap what I said in that post, which is that we have authority over our thoughts and can inhabit our warrior selves by claiming the ground of our minds for peace. But I want to add something. There will be times when it won’t go down with that kind of glory. Not because the truth has lost authority over darkness, but because the enemy has blurred the truth so we don’t even know who we are or what we are supposed to be standing for.

I had some days last month that looked a whole lot like that. Doubt suggested through perpetual harassment that I resided outside of the gospel of grace, with all its forgiveness and hope and restoration; that it wasn’t for a person such as myself. Accusation presented all my failures as evidence of doubt’s insinuations. I knew it wasn’t true or thought I should know it wasn’t true, but it all sounded so damned convincing. So instead of charging like Braveheart with a primal shout, I cowered in a fetal position on the battlefield, waiting to be trampled by horses and pierced by swords.

“Drinian’s hand shook on the tiller and a line of cold sweat ran down his face. The same idea was occurring to everyone on board. “We shall never get out, never get out,” moaned the rowers. “He’s steering us wrong. We’re going round and round in circles. We shall never get out.” The stranger, who had been lying in a huddled heap on the deck, sat up and burst out into a horrible screaming laugh. Never get out!” he yelled. “That’s it. Of course. We shall never get out. What a fool I was to have thought they would let me go as easily as that. No, no, we shall never get out.”

But in my weakness, I remembered that sometimes courage looks like whispering “Jesus” from a fetal position. He hears His name, even when it is spoken only in the heart and even when it is clouded by doubt.

Lucy leant her head on the edge of the fighting-top and whispered, “Aslan, Aslan, if ever you loved us at all, send us help now.”

And He answers. Without fail, He answers. Sometimes it is vivid and immediate, but so often it starts as a small, fragile sliver of light or a barely discernible breath of hope.

The darkness did not grow any less, but she began to feel a little—a very, very little—better.

He whispers back with a voice of quiet authority, gentle and true. He enters our darkness with us. He becomes our courage. And He leads the way. Out of darkness and fear, through circumstances that reach far beyond our ability and the mazes of self-destruction we have created.

[An albatross] called out in a strong sweet voice what seemed to be words though no one understood them. After that it spread its wings, rose, and began to fly slowly ahead, bearing a little to starboard. Drinian steered after it not doubting that it offered good guidance. But no one except Lucy knew that as it circled the mast it had whispered to her, “Courage, dear heart”, and the voice, she felt sure, was Aslan’s, and with the voice a delicious smell breathed in her face.

In a few moments the darkness turned into a greyness ahead, and then, almost before they dared to begin hoping, they had shot out into the sunlight and were in the warm, blue world again. And all at once everybody realised that there was nothing to be afraid of and never had been.

from The Voyage of the Dawn Treader by CS Lewis

I too heard my Lord say “Courage, dear heart.” Though the peace didn’t come all at once, the warmth of His love broke through the condemnation and His light swallowed the darkness surrounding me. As it turns out, there is nothing to be afraid of and there never was…. and there never will be. His love has made sure of that.

Hillsong’s You Never Fail: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nj7gFmdB3no