A Blessing for the Grieving

I ask for a blessing...

For those who saw it coming,

and those who were so shocked.

For those whose hands hold emptiness

and who feel piles of sand around their feet.

For those who felt God's presence in their loved one's final moments,

and for those who were so certain of God's healing, they felt desperately alone as they said goodbye~to their person and their hope for a miracle.

For the doctors, nurses, medical workers who are accused of putting science over God all of the time,

and who are also the medical hands that receive the bodies of the accusers when those who hurled insults are now sick.

For the doctors that deliver news of life expectancy,

and for the hearers of that news. 

For the hearts that consider all the decisions leading to here,

and replay each one on repeat.

To this open, gaping, wound of here. 

With ocean waves of disease, racism, religion, knocking us all down again and again and again.

It's in the falling we recognize we have no control.

It's in the water we recognize breath isn't ours to give. 

It's in the broken shells we learn God isn't our personal genie.

It's in the sand we recognize our fragility.

It's in the next wave we understand this rhythm. 

It's in Jesus' death, His unanswered cries, we learn cruelty.

It's in our weeping, our pleading, that a soft voice of our Savior pierces through us and asks "Whom are you seeking?" 

That is when we realize miracles almost never look like we anticipated.

For this too, we grieve.

Matthew 5:4

American Jesus

 I got into the backseat of our car and buckled my lap-only seat belt. The heat of the car was thick and I was full of questions. I was somewhere between the ages of 6-8 and it was summer in WV. Vacation Bible School (VBS) was in full swing at our church. I clearly remember asking, “Mom, what does allegiance mean”? My Mom is a really great teacher and was always happy to engage in a vocab lesson. She explained allegiance. I remember understanding it to mean devotion and loyalty. Next question, “Mom, how can we pledge allegiance to three things?” Like so many other American children, VBS opened each night with hands raised in desperation to be chosen as a volunteer. Once three volunteers were chosen, each stood up front and led the crowd in the Pledge to the American Flag, the Pledge to the Christian Flag, and to the Pledge to the Bible. This is my first memory of questioning something that happened at Church. My Mom and I talked about it while I fired one question after another. “What if there is a time American does something against God? Why, in church, wouldn’t we say the Pledge to the Bible first? Do other Christians in other countries know the pledge of allegiance to the Christian flag? Why would we pledge to a flag and not to God Himself?” 

Sorry, Mom, I surely was/am exhausting to parent. I look at younger me and feel tender at the deep need for authenticity because I know now, that need only grows in intensity. I decided then I probably shouldn’t say the Pledge to the American flag, just in case I have to choose God over America someday, I didn’t want to have lied all these years. I also shouldn’t say the Pledge to the Christian flag either, because I wasn’t sure who else knew about this flag. I remember no conclusion from 6-8 year old Allison about the Pledge to the Bible. For years at my Christian school or future VBS, while someone held the American flag up front, I stood, placed my hand over my heart and said nothing. The few times my teachers fussed at me, I posed my question to them, “What if we have to choose between God and America?” The conversation always stopped and they allowed me to stand there quietly. 

The good tension lies in the fact that I also grew up in a Patriotic family. The stories my Papaw shared about his World War II experience captivated me. He didn’t share much, but he held America and our freedoms close. He didn’t force me to say the Pledge of Allegiance, but he did describe the beauty of the American flag in a war zone. The flag stood for his home and all the people he left back there. The flag was freedom’s symbol and he was willing to fight and die for that freedom. Papaw and the rest of my family taught me to respect the flag. I can’t count how many times I had to go out in a sudden rainstorm and bring the flag inside to protect it from the weather. (I still get annoyed when I see flags on front porches in the rain). The flag NEVER touched the ground and it was ALWAYS put up properly. The flag was not altered in any way because that was changing the symbol my Papaw and others looked at when they were weary in war. My Papaw’s faith in God was palpable too, more so than his patriotism. His love for God and neighbor was evident to everyone he met. I grew up knowing, as much as someone who's never been to war can understand, how valuable the symbol of the flag is. 

There has been so much talk about this American Flag. I’ve watched, somewhat shocked, at the people defacing the flag with symbols, rainbow lines, blue lines, more or less stars or stripes. The same people who get upset at people kneeling during the anthem seem to think it’s fine to place a blue line on the flag. Or the people who think it’s fine to kneel want to put anti racism symbols on the flag. Others place political names on it. All of it is absolutely within our right as Americans to do and change. Regardless of whether or not I agree with the cause represented, the distortion of the flag is bothersome. The beauty of capitalism is, I won’t choose to purchase the distortions of the American flag in any way. 

As a believer in Jesus, there is one particular distortion of the American Flag that makes me stare in disbelief. I really wish people would stop placing the cross (or any Christian symbol) on the American Flag. It elevates the American Flag to a place it doesn’t deserve. It degrades the symbol of Jesus’ crucifixion to a place that is sacrilegious. The placement of a Christian symbol on the American flag ultimately distorts them both. It conflates the love of God with love of America. American Christian Nationalism is symbolized by Jesus draped in a red, white, and blue background. 

With the mass exodus from church the last few years, it is my suspicion that people aren’t leaving Jesus, they are leaving the Americanized Jesus.  Growing up in the Christian version of America, it is easy to confuse the freedoms we have in America with the freedoms Jesus gives us as His children. We tend to view Jesus through the lens of our patriotism rather than view our patriotism through the eyes of Jesus. How do we discern the difference? Like all things with Jesus, it comes back to our hearts. As an American I want to protect what is mine, my property, my rights, my family, my church. As a Christian, the Bible teaches us to use our freedoms to love and serve one another. (Galatians 5 and 6 have been so helpful for me to understand the difference in political freedom and God given freedom). Jesus refused to be the political figure the New Testament characters wanted Him to be. I very much think He still would not want to be associated with man made governments, including the American one I love. 

So, happy 4th of July. It is a day worth celebrating as an American. Have the fireworks, the parties, the food, the reflection. Cheer that we are free, some of us have had voice in this democracy since 1776, some of us got a voice in 1870, some women gained their voice in 1920, some didn’t get a voice until 1965, and some are still hoping to use their voice soon. This is a baby democracy experiment that deserves a party. While celebrating though, don’t imagine that Jesus provides extra blessings within these borders. Take Jesus off the American flag and place Him in your mind, heart, and life where He belongs. 

I do love America, although I still don’t say the Pledge of Allegiance to the American flag. I’m grateful for those who fought and are fighting for our American rights. I also love Jesus, more and differently than I love America. Jesus died for all of us, not just Americans. He came in brown skin and died for the world, every country, every tongue, every heart. I’m grateful for the rights I’m given as a child of God. Those rights cannot ever be taken from me. I live in the tension of God asking me to voluntarily lay my freedoms down for others. I recognize that loving America doesn’t mean the same as loving Jesus and loving Jesus certainly doesn’t mean loving America. America and Jesus don’t have to be in contradiction to each other, but they are never equal. Jesus is not an American. He never has been, He isn’t now, and He never will be. “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.” (Hebrews 13:8) Long before there was an America, there was Jesus. I want America to be a beacon of light to the world, but I know that America will never be the source of that light.

My identity is found first in my Savior. It always will be. For that and so much more, I am grateful. 

Galations 3: 25-29 But now you have arrived at your destination: By faith in Christ you are in direct relationship with God. Your baptism in Christ was not just washing you up for a fresh start. It also involved dressing you in an adult faith wardrobe—Christ’s life, the fulfillment of God’s original promise. In Christ’s family there can be no division into Jew and non-Jew, slave and free, male and female. Among us you are all equal. That is, we are all in a common relationship with Jesus Christ. Also, since you are Christ’s family, then you are Abraham’s famous “descendant,” heirs according to the covenant promises.

 

Emotional Whiplash

*Genders and relationships altered to protect hippa, these stories are ones I’ve witnessed, but also general enough to be any Covid ICU in the country. 

“So here’s how it works, this has a conference speaker that you can turn up really loud over the negative pressure noise…”. I still remember how I felt that day receiving instructions about the zoom cart that would allow family members to communicate with covid patients. I had this sense of gratitude for an easier way to connect them, but also, a deep sense of sadness. I knew this would never be an acceptable way to say goodbye as someone died. 

 “Is covid really THAT bad?I mean, it’s just basically like the flu”. The ensuing discussion, I also remember. My attempts to explain to a group of people that covid and the flu are not the same. My futile sharing of facts and statistics because they didn’t really want the conversation or the information, they just wanted to justify to me why they weren’t wearing a mask.  

Now I’m in the hallway by his room. One of the first covid patients I had. His wife and very young children, begging us over the phone to save him. They wanted to see him. I offered the cart, but he did not want them to see him so sick. This is not how a dad in his 20s wanted to be remembered.  

“It’s our right to worship, the government can’t tell us what to do! All of this about a ‘flu’ is really to keep us out of the sanctuary, this is about our freedom!” I think about scripture that tells us about our own freedoms (See Galatians 5 ). My eyes return to the screen as the on air personality continues his angry vitriol. I feel my own heart racing as he questions why anyone would allow covid to make them fearful? I wonder what he would say to my patient’s young wife and kids?  

“She’s awake and oriented,” I said, as I looked at the entire ICU team, “why do you think she isn’t going to make it?” Sometimes, being a social worker means I have to ask straight forward medical questions. They pull up her X-rays and show me her lungs. One of my team members explains to me what her lungs should look like and how we have no cure for what is happening. Her blood is also too thick. I remind them all that she was perfectly healthy before she got covid. They all agree, but that doesn’t change her prognosis now. “She is asking for you to set up a zoom with her family before she loses the ability to nod yes/no to them”. I walk into her room and start that zoom. Her family shows pictures and engages in reviewing a life well lived. She was an incredible person that her family will miss terribly. 

“My governor says those things aren’t necessary,” a friend remarks to me as she walks by me, pointing at my mask. It had been a really hard week at work, one in which we heard over and over to wear a mask and stay six feet apart. However, I know this will fall on deaf ears, so I simply say, “I’m choosing to wear one anyway”. She proudly tells me that she isn’t and she walks away from me. I wonder why she chose to declare that to me? 

“Allison, do you think, maybe, you could take the computer in there and just let me play a song for her? It was her favorite and I just want her to know I’m thinking about her and remembering her.” Our patient is about to die and in a strange turn on a busy day, I have extra time. I take the cart in and tell her to take her time, play all the songs she wants. The bed rotates back and forth to try and allow gravity to assist with healing. Every two minutes the patient’s face rolls back towards us and her friend plays songs and talks about everyone they have ever known. I assure that friend that we don’t let people die alone. The next day, I stood there as our patient’s heartbeat dropped to zero. I told her I was sorry that this happened to her and replayed the previous days conversations when this patient could also talk with me, I will remember her mouthing “I love you” around the ventilator tube to her people on zoom. 

“We want to sing! No one will tell me not to worship Jesus whenever I want to,” a statement I’ve heard repeatedly over the last few months. “I’m not suggesting you stop worshipping Jesus” I reply, “I’m simply saying that singing is the most dangerous activity according to several epidemiologist, so perhaps now is not the time to be singing in a group”.  I open my Facebook feed to see a church sing-a-long advertised on several pages. My heart races again, engaging in reckless behavior in the name of Jesus seems contrary to His gospel message. I’ve long since given up, no one is listening, not even people I love.  

“She’s had a stroke,” those words send chills down my spine. “She’s a teenager” I hear my own voice crack. “Covid has made her blood clot like an adults. It’s like her body missed the memo that teens don’t react like this. We think we can get her through, but she is going to have a really long road to recovery.”  

“Mom,” Natalie’s words jar me from my evening stare at the wall. “I can’t wait till this is over, I can’t wait to eat at restaurants and get in the car with my friend’s families, and go to the mall...I can’t wait, when do you think it will be over?” I answer as honestly as I can, I hope by the end of the summer we can do those things. As I close my eyes that night, I worry about Natalie and Micah’s mental health. Will they be ok? Will they get too depressed or anxious in all this? God, where’s the balance between their physical and mental health? I don’t hear a reply, but I pray that we are walking that line well. 

I put on my N95 mask and goggles. I’m getting used to the bruise on my nose and am learning to adjust it differently each week. I wonder how the nurses do this for 12 hours? I watch them coding the patient through the window. They talk to each other through the mask and goggles and over the loud negative pressure machine. I hope against all odds that this heartbeat will return.  

“We assure you Mrs. Hall, we will follow all covid precautions. Everyone, but the players on the floor will have a mask on, temp checks at the door, only two spectators per child.”  Micah needs some semblance of fun. We allow him to play. The first game the other coach holds his mask in his hand the entire first half. I’ve become more confrontational so I yell and ask the ref to ask the coach to put his mask on. The ref does. The stares from others make me feel like I’m back in middle school. After the game, I walk over to the other coach and say “please, please, please wear your mask. I think we can do this safely if we all follow precautions.” He apologizes, but adds that he doesn’t think players can hear him through his mask. I’m suddenly standing back at the window of the ICU. I assure him that if the medical team can run a code with more equipment on then he can imagine, then he can definitely call a play with a very simple mask covering his yell. 

“Ma’am, can you please work it out so my dad can get the vaccine”? We don’t have any, and even if we did, I would have to ask the doctor about it since dad currently has covid. He continues, “We should have been more careful. I thought he would be ok. Why did we go over there? Please fix him!” I let him talk to his dad through zoom, begging dad not give up and to keep fighting. The guilt he is carrying will be lifelong. He had no idea that covid would kill his dad. He can’t have been the one to kill his dad. I try to reframe this for him, remind him that all of us are indeed mortal, and that his dad loves him very much. I’m not sure any of that relieves the guilt of being convinced that you gave covid to a loved one.  

“Why would we get a vaccine? Fauci is in bed with the Chinese, no way I’m getting it”! That was my cold stop. That’s the day I broke. I’d been angry, sad, disillusioned, restless, and a thousand other emotions, but reading that line, made everything inside me rage. Rage more than I’ve raged in my entire life. 

“Emotional whiplash,” Stephanie Zerwas, a nurse being interviewed for CNN called it. This giant disconnect between the reality of covid units across hospitals in conjunction with family and friends statements on social media. It is the most accurate description I have ever heard. Mayo Clinic describes whip lash as a “neck injury due to forceful, rapid, back and forth movement of the neck, like the cracking of a whip”. Emotionally, this feels like holding the hand and stroking the hair of a patient as they die of covid and a few hours later receiving an invitation for your daughter to go to an indoor party, because “covid is a hoax”.  Emotional whiplash is witnessing a family member crying for forgiveness because they didn’t listen to warnings about covid and that same day, opening my Facebook feed to see another family gathered around a Christmas tree because “no one will tell me how to celebrate”. Emotional whiplash is knowing so many of your close friends say repeatedly they only vote pro-life and demand to worship in person while knowing that indoor worship is dangerous to life. It is seeing Pastors pray for healing of their congregations and asking for protection while preaching without a mask.  It’s witnessing a death and the mockery of death rolled into a few hours on the same day with a dash of nightmares thrown in for exhaustion sake.  

So, how do we treat emotional whiplash? Well, ideally, I wouldn’t keep cracking my neck every day, but life goes on and for most people, they say they follow covid precautions. Reality though is that most make a lot more exceptions to precautions than actually following them. Exceptions for family or for indoor dining or for worship.  I can’t unsee the selfishness I witness daily. As a step towards healing I’m praying to forgive everyone who has hit me emotionally, especially those who have hit often.  I’ve set up some new rules, no Facebook on days I work. Our emotions are not meant to swing from sorrow and death to someone denying the cause of that death every single day. I can’t expect that of myself, that is not going to heal. The “unfollow” button has become a good friend, mostly because if I stop seeing what some friends are posting, I may be able to stay friends with them in real life. I’ve started speaking the truth constantly, no emotions, no shaming, if I see someone share an incorrect fact about covid, I ask for the source. Spoiler alert-they rarely have one. I limit my interactions to people who are covid conscious. Despite repeated claims that we can’t worship anymore, I’ve found other ways to worship Jesus and connect with Him that do not involve anything that goes against safety precautions. I journal, I pray, I read the Bible, I zoom with my Sunday school class, I jump on other church’s zooms, I read research studies, I take long baths, and I drink wine.  

I still have emotional whiplash, but I’m working to not allow that to become PTSD. I don’t know if that’s possible, but I’m trying. If you want to help, the entire medical community and me, stop posting inaccurate things about covid. Stop acting like you know what’s “really” happening because your cousin is a nurse and told you. Stop viewing a comment from a doctor and a construction worker with equal importance. I wouldn’t trust the doctor over the construction worker to fix my house, I’m not trusting the construction guy over the doctor when my family needs medical attention. Let’s be honest with ourselves, if your loved one suddenly couldn’t breathe, you aren’t stopping by Home Depot on the way to the ER.  Listen to experts, read medical sources, and pray.  If you insist on going about your life as if covid isn’t an issue, stop posting pictures about it. Every time you do, I worry that I’ll be holding the IPAD for your family next and I get angry that I’m more concerned about your safety than you are.  Be supportive, go back to loving the nurses, doctors, respiratory therapist, (and even social workers if you are feeling generous) who are caring for the sick. Most of all, stop declaring it as something that’s been overly dramatized. It doesn’t get more dramatic than death and some of us are walking in it’s shadow every day. So very grateful to cling to these words constantly, “Because of the tender mercy of our God, with which the Sunrise from on high will visit us, to shine upon those who sit in darkness and the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace” Luke 1:78-79 

May all of our feet find the path of peace, while waiting for a glorious sunrise...

If

If you marched this weekend, but don't know anyone who didn't,

If you didn't march, and don't know anyone who did,

If you voted for Hillary and don't know anyone who voted for Trump,

If you voted for Trump and don't know anyone who voted for Hillary,

If you are against abortion and have never talked with someone who had one,

If you are pro-choice and have never spoken with someone who isn't,

If you want to force all the illegal immigrants out of America, but you have never looked one of those people in the eye,

If you think America should open it's doors wide, but haven't spoken to a victim of terror,

If you have no idea what started the conflict in Syria,

If you have never considered how it must feel to be a refugee,

If you are a strong supporter of marriage equality and haven't talked with someone who disagrees with you,

If you believe there should only be heterosexual relationships, but have no friends who are homosexuals,

If you are Muslim, or Christian, or Jewish, or an Atheist, or any other belief or non belief, but have no meaningful conversations with a person of a differing view,

If you don't like judgmental Christians, but realize you don't actually know a believer,

If you think only Christians know the way and you have spoken to no one who challenges that,

If you only read articles from The Huffington Post,

If you only watch Fox News,

If your only source of news is friends on your Facebook feed,

Then I must simply tell you this:

You are the problem.

Not the government, not the church, not religions, not extremist, not liberals, not conservatives.

It's you.

And some days it's me.

When we take a side and cling to it so tightly that we don't engage in conversations with people on the other side, we become the extremist.

When we can't even think of one friend who would sit at the table with us and eat dinner, even though we disagree, we become the terrorist.

When we make grand statements, without so much as a thought as to how it feels to someone else, we become the clanging cymbal that no one hears.

If you will allow me to speak about Jesus; He shattered all preexisting stereotypes. He was so radical because He went to the table, He found the people in the margins, He included the world, and He spoke to people on the other side.

We are given the beautiful story of the woman caught in adultery being drug to Jesus, we know all of those who brought her left. Why? Because Jesus asked them to throw that rock, if they have never sinned. One by one they left. Don't forget the next part. When Jesus did correct her, no one else was around to hear it. Jesus loved her too much to leave her as she was. He called her out, to a better life, to a life filled with Him. He did so, after all her accusers left.

So no matter what side of any debate you are on, just know that if you are the one dragging people around in the dirt, you won't get to see any outcomes.

If you love those on the other side of any debate, it is a win for everyone. Do you know what Jesus saw when He sat down at Zaccheaus' table? He saw a person. A person who He valued because He valued lives. All lives.

Get to the table. Get to someone on the other side. Have coffee. Hear their stories. Allow both of you to be challenged.

Here is what I have been challenged with lately. And here is my question for all of us.

What belief do I currently have that I am wrong about?

No one can be right about everything.

Therefore, I currently believe something that is wrong.

What is it?

"If we agree on everything, one of us is unnecessary" (I don't know where this quote is from, but it's a favorite in our marriage).

If we all think much harder about the ways in which we could be wrong, instead of clinging to all the ways in which we believe we are right, it could be the game changer.

No matter which side of all the many debates you have found yourself a part of; rest assured that each of us are wrong somewhere.

How blessed are we? How can we possibly bless others?

What change starts inside of you today?


~If I speak with human eloquence and angelic ecstasy but don’t love, I’m nothing but the creaking of a rusty gate.

If I speak God’s Word with power, revealing all his mysteries and making everything plain as day, and if I have faith that says to a mountain, “Jump,” and it jumps, but I don’t love, I’m nothing.

If I give everything I own to the poor and even go to the stake to be burned as a martyr, but I don’t love, I’ve gotten nowhere. So, no matter what I say, what I believe, and what I do, I’m bankrupt without love.

Love never gives up.
Love cares more for others than for self.
Love doesn’t want what it doesn’t have.
Love doesn’t strut,
Doesn’t have a swelled head,
Doesn’t force itself on others,
Isn’t always “me first,”
Doesn’t fly off the handle,
Doesn’t keep score of the sins of others,
Doesn’t revel when others grovel,
Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,
Puts up with anything,
Trusts God always,
Always looks for the best,
Never looks back,
But keeps going to the end.
Love never dies. Inspired speech will be over some day; praying in tongues will end; understanding will reach its limit. We know only a portion of the truth, and what we say about God is always incomplete. But when the Complete arrives, our incompletes will be canceled.

When I was an infant at my mother’s breast, I gurgled and cooed like any infant. When I grew up, I left those infant ways for good.

We don’t yet see things clearly. We’re squinting in a fog, peering through a mist. But it won’t be long before the weather clears and the sun shines bright! We’ll see it all then, see it all as clearly as God sees us, knowing him directly just as he knows us!

But for right now, until that completeness, we have three things to do to lead us toward that consummation: Trust steadily in God, hope unswervingly, love extravagantly. And the best of the three is love. (I Corinthians 13)

Use your voice. Don't be an echo...

Just Love.

"God Bless America, and no place else" ~Head of State

I have two kids. I love them both so very much. Although they have drastically different talents and interests, I strive to invest in both of their lives in meaningful ways. I dare say that if I had a favorite, if I only loved one of them, it would be considered abuse.

I have known for a while now that American Christianity looks different from the rest of the world's. This election has magnified those differences to amazing scales. I've read blogs that suggest Jesus is for a platform or an agenda. I've heard Jesus reduced to a small political judge, holding a Supreme Court Gavel. And just today, oh today, I read something that suggested it is not enough that God will still sit on His throne after the election. Seriously? Is there anything more threatening than God no longer being God? Clinton is that scary? Trump is that bad? Can we please reframe?

I'm going to say something. It's HUGE. It's shattering. It's way crazier than classified email and bus conversations. It's very radical and might alter the world.

God. He actually loves the world. To say that He cares about American politics makes about as much sense as believing that I'm concerned about who is the ringleader at the local circus. I mean, I guess I care, but I'm a little more focused on other tasks at the moment.

We are all God's children. The Iraqi muslim? God's kid. The Syrian refugee? God's child. The Afghani woman? Still His. The homeless in Haiti? Also His. You? Yep. Me? Thank the Lord, yes.

God doesn't just love America. Therefore, I have to believe He is also invested in those Mexicans we are trying to keep out. I honestly read something today that said, "God is looking for heroes to rise up and-by His power-intervene to save America". I'm sorry Mario Murillo. God isn't looking for a hero. God always has been the hero. He always will be the Hero. David and Goliath? God's the hero. Daniel and the lions, still God. Elijah and the prophets of Baal? Pretty sure, God started that fire.

God isn't trying to save America. He wants to save the world. If America has to crumble for the world to know Him, then America doesn't stand a chance. Nor should it. The political stance of the Pharisees looking for a leader to overthrow the government didn't work out well for them. It will not end well for us either.

One of my favorite authors challenged me deeply with a truth I will never forget. When we are tempted to claim God's promises for our lives, it needs to pass a simple test. "Here it is, If it isn't also true for a poor single Christian mom in Haiti, it isn't true. If a sermon promises health and wealth to the faithful, it isn't true, because that makes God an absolute monster who only blesses rich westerners and despises Christians in Africa, India, China, South America, Russia, rural Appalachia, inner-city America, and everywhere else a sincere believer remains poor. If it isn't also true for a poor single Christian mom in Haiti, it isn't true". ~Jen Hatmaker

There is only one God. The American president isn't Him, won't be Him, and doesn't represent Him. Maybe God is deeply focused on the needs of this poor mom in Haiti and His concern is not about my need. Since, I'm typing this on a computer from the comfort of my living room, maybe God's concern is my lack of concern for the poor?

Want another crazy idea? God loves Hillary and He loves Donald. He loves them the same amount that He loves Obama and Putin. Since He doesn't play favorites, He loves you exactly that much as well. He loves me too. Wrap your mind around that.

I've looked and looked and looked again. It definitely says, "For God so loves the world". Maybe if we took our eyes off the circus and beyond our borders, we could work with a Hero. We might just realize we are all His favorites.

How Trump made me realize I'm a racist.

I never considered myself a racist. I believe I treat people equally. I have friends of all races and backgrounds. I've taught my children that people are people who deserve to be treated as, people.

Yet, I've had this restlessness recently. A feeling that something is missing. That I'm working a puzzle I didn't even realize was in front of me. I couldn't figure out what the picture was and I certainly wasn't sure how many pieces I had to work with.

Several years ago, I sat with a group of friends in a small Italian restaurant. A male in our group was making derogatory statements. Some would say I am a strong female that can easily defend myself. I sat beside a woman who I considered stronger and more articulate than me. She and I confronted this man about his comments. He continued to escalate. Eventually, he was yelling and others were staring. She and I weren't backing down either.

I got in my car feeling defeated, belittled, and confused. I was not the least bit shocked by this man's comments. He has proven to me over and over again that he does not hold women in high esteem. He didn't really rattle me. What I was genuinely shocked by was the other men in our group. Strong men. Christian men. Good men. Who sat with us and said nothing. Absolutely nothing. When I spoke with one of them later, I asked why. He seemed surprised at my question. He said that he knew my friend and I were strong and weren't going to allow him to bully us. He thought we "handled" the situation well. He said he knew how independent we are and didn't think we needed defending. As we talked, I was able to communicate to him that his lack of participation did not communicate my strength. It communicated a message to the man that the other men in our group thought he was right. We learned a little more about communication that day.

Flash forward to years later. I witnessed a conversation between two men. So derogatory. So inflammatory. So embarrassing. It wasn't about me, but it was about my gender. Again, these were two people who I naively thought would be a defender of women. As I confronted them, I was shocked. They too considered this "just talk". Their perceived inability to understand how hurtful their words were made no sense to me.

Now we have Trump. Trump and his "locker room" conversation. For the record, he didn't just say "mean" things. He said he assaulted women. He said he grabs them. He doesn't wait, he just starts kissing them. He said he can do anything. I find myself yet again, not shocked that he said this. I often remember the quote from Maya Angelou, "When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time". Trump has demonstrated over and over that he has little use for any person that does not offer direct benefit to him. What I am surprised by, are all the men sitting at the table. Saying nothing. I don't just expect Christian men to come to our defense, where are all the good guys? Just regular good men? Why is it so silent? I recognize that some evangelical leaders are citing "years ago" and "he asked for forgiveness". In other words, "We have a platform to push and agendas to manage so lets just call him saved and move on from this". There is a constant call to remember that the next President will elect the Supreme court justices and we cannot allow Hilary to do this. I agree, I don't want her picking them either. Can we just at least acknowledged that Trump has not shown any wisdom, discernment, or ability to make a smart choice. People say pro life. Do you not know that Trump used to be pro choice? Are we so convinced that he is really pro life now? Could he just be saying that to buy the Christian vote? Have we even considered this? His life does not reflect value to an entire gender. What if he made that girl he grabbed and took pregnant? Do we really think he would suddenly treat her decently? Would he still be pro life?

Silence.

I'm not asking for people to support Clinton. I get it, I'm not a fan. For the love of our Heavenly Father, stop defending this man. Your defense says he is right. Your defense says it's ok.

Then, my own personal epiphany. As a white female, I haven't really understood the black lives matter movement. I haven't felt the need to be involved, because, as I said, I didn't think I was a racist. Now, with Trump's help, with the help of silent good men, I think I'm getting it. Since I haven't said anything, since I didn't rush to defend our African American friends, because I was silent, I gave the perception that it was ok. I am deeply sorry.

Moving forward, I will speak up when it is wrong. If I see someone in the store simply being mean because of race, I will ask them to stop. If I see an injustice, I will stand with you and call it that. I will admit there is a problem and I will work towards solutions.

I've learned that simply having black friends and loving all people in my personal life is not enough.

If I have a seat at the table, I will defend you and speak up when needed.

Jesus met this woman at a well. This Samaritan woman. This woman who lived an immoral life. A woman who was living with a man who wasn't her husband. He spoke to her. He offered her living water. When the disciples saw him talking to her, "they were amazed that He had been speaking with the woman, yet no one said 'What do you seek?' or 'Why do you speak with her?'" From this woman, who ran and told the city, many people were saved.

Let me take some liberty here and imagine the scene today. A Muslim Syrian female refugee now lives here. She can't gain legal status because all of her personal information is in Syria. She's at the store, at night, trying not to draw attention to herself. She is shunned and ignored because of the "garb" on her head. She turns the corner and is face to face with Jesus. He buys her groceries, he offers her His salvation. He offers love and permission to live in His kingdom. No one dares question Him about speaking to her.

If we are going to leave those around us silent, let it be because we are about His kingdom work. Let it be because we are including those that have been excluded. Let it be because we are radically different.

Let it be because we forever have a Heavenly table in our mind and a loving Savior by our side.

I'm still missing pieces to the puzzle. I think the picture is forming. It's a picture of me. I'm running from this well towards town. Jesus isn't behind me though. He's with me, holding my hand, pulling me forward. And, in my picture, neither of us are silent.

To "that" teacher

Full disclaimer. My kids have had some AMAZING teachers. In fact, we have been blessed with people who have loved them and genuinley wanted to teach them. We have done our best to support teachers and help when we could. We love teachers and are so grateful they still want to teach little lives in this crazy educational system.

With this disclaimer over, I have to acknowledge how difficult this year has been.

To our first mean teacher,

Wow! Are you as glad as I am that this year is completed? Every interaction I have experienced with you, resulted in me being keenly aware that you do not like children. In fact, you appeared to be annoyed by their presence. I watched you roll your eyes at them as they walked in the room. I watched you hide around the corner and purposely not step into the classroom during the parent meeting regarding the state testing. I definitely noticed how my little girl talked about how loud you can yell.

Anyways, I know I'm more than happy this year is done. You did teach her a few things though. This year, we learned how to work with difficult people. We learned that some people are not happy. We learned their happiness is not dependent on our behavior. We learned that some people, can never be pleased by us because something inside of them is sad.

We learned that it is not okay to stop trying because someone else does not care. You remember when she didn't turn in homework? Well, she stopped turning it in because she realized you weren't really looking at it. She said you never even bothered to explain where to place it. Did she give it to you? Did she put in the box on your desk? Were you going to walk around and collect it? You did all those methods, which she found confusing. And, with the yelling, she was afraid to ask. Remember when we met about this? You rolled your eyes at me too. Fortunately, for us both, I have the ability to regulate my emotions and calmly asked you how she is supposed to turn it in to you. You acknowledged your lack of routine. It was the other, really good teacher in the room, who suggested you remedy that. I knew then, we were in for a long year. It was September.

We learned that even when other people don't care, we do our best anyway. We learned that when teachers change grades, we can demand to see papers. We learned that some teachers do not allow straight 'A's no matter how hard someone works. We learned to work hard anyway. Knowing my girl scored second highest in the entire class on the state pretest tells me she has a great grasp of content she needs to know. Seeing that you marked through and changed numerical grades on the papers we asked to review, made me believe, she was right all along. You didn't really grade papers.

We learned that when an adult shows you things you know you shouldn't read, like emails between our parents and teachers, we need to tell our parents. We learned passive aggressive at nine isn't pretty. We learned this girl has more of her mom in her than we knew. We learned it isn't appropriate to be direspectful to adults, even when we are right. We learned to stand up respectfully. We also learned that parent's are the best advocates we have. We learned that a lot can be solved through communication.

We learned it is more than okay to ask for clarification. We learned to request expectations so we know what we are striving for. We learned that teachers have to follow rules too. We learned to ask for help; from past teachers, from other students, from administration, from God, and from somewhere inside of us.

We learned that some situations, you just have to take one day at time. Some things we cannot solve, but we can learn from.

So, mean one, I can't say at the end of the year that you didn't teach her or us anything.

I wish you would be the last mean, unrealistic, person she will deal with in her life. I know that can't be. So, thank you, for teaching her to dig deep, work hard, do well anyway, and to remember her identity is not yours to define. Those are lessons we all need to know.

Too bad there isn't a column for that on her report card.

Have a great summer. Maybe look for another line of work? May I suggest you go write for Pearson? You won't have to see a kid again, yet you can hold them to totally unrealistic expectations. That seems like it would be a good fit for you.

Second Trimester

I watched my kids eat spaghetti tonight. Just regular spaghetti. They laughed and bantered with each other. It's been a rushed evening with Chris at a volunteer meeting for soccer and the rest of us at soccer practice. They needed to get to bed. I had this thought again. It circles through my mind a lot, but sometimes I'm reluctant to admit it. Here it is: these might be my favorite years. Several of my close friends have heard me describe this time in the lives of my kids as "The Second Trimester".

As I see it, life with kids under our roof, is divided into three trimesters. Just like pregnancy. All three look and feel entirely different per pregnancy and per kid. However, each pregnancy has the same goal. Growing this tiny human into someone who can survive outside in the world. They are born. The next 18 years under my roof look different per year and per child. The goal is much the same. Growing this tiny human to love God, love people, and survive in the outside world.

The first trimester of pregnancy, I was exhausted, hungry, nauseous, and completely in shock. How can this be real? Was the test right? How about the doctor? Is she sure I'm pregnant? What can I eat? Not eat? Someone gave me that What to Expect book. It totally freaked me out. The first trimester with kids? I was exhausted, hungry, in desperate need of a shower, and, well, in a baby fog that could be a close cousin to shock. It was all about diapers, put that down, pick that up, don't touch, please don't jump, let's get dressed, please sleep. Exhaustion beyond measure with a side of what in the world have I gotten myself into? My big goals were simply reduced to, can we just all stay alive? So noteworthy.

Later, in the third trimester of pregnancy, I became huge. I'm convinced it only exists to make us all comfortable with the idea of labor. Before that trimester, I was terrified of labor. Somewhere around 32 weeks, my swollen belly, ankles, face, self was all about labor. Let's do this. Let's get this alien to the outside and let my body be all by itself again. (little did I know it's never been just mine again). While I haven't experienced a teenager at my house yet, I've had enough friends assure me that teenagers exist only so we can be okay with the idea of them leaving the house. They are clumsy, awkward, and so full of themselves. They do some things well and have such big goals. Sometimes, they don't look anything like those babies in the first trimester and parents count down until that alien gets out.

Second trimester? Do you remember the second trimester of your pregnancy? Mine was blissful. I wasn't sick anymore. The tiredness had subsided. I finally looked pregnant instead of fat, but I could still see my feet. I could feel the baby move and dream about who this baby would be. Right now, in this season, that's how I feel about my kids. They will be seven and ten this summer. They sleep through the night, (well more nights than not). They can bathe themselves, get dressed on their own, and even get their own breakfast. Yet, they also still want me around, they ask me to play, or read, or watch a show with them. All their "why's?" have turned into "watch me". I really do like watching them. They are growing before my eyes. They still like to snuggle with me, have me lay beside them, and tell me all about who they dream to be someday. They have outgrown me holding them in my arms, but they still very much fit in my lap.

This second trimester, I feel more like a Mom. I'm more settled into this role. I'm learning that it really does "go by too fast". I remember constantly that this is it. This is their childhood. If I delay things, it may not happen for them. Today is my one chance to have them in my house, at this age. I'm learning to both release the pressure and recognize the beauty of that statement. We don't get most days perfect. I'm also learning that's more than okay.

This Mother's Day, I'm so grateful for this time, in their lives and mine. Who knows, maybe the third trimester will turn out to be my favorite? Most likely every memory will be my favorite. I'll remember holding them and rocking them. I'll remember Curious George and American Girl Dolls. I'll think about lost teeth and first pair of glasses. Hopefully, I'll be even more settled then. More convinced to let all the "mom guilt" go and know that God was guiding them and me, together, as a family. I may decide all the days of their childhood were the best ones. Then again, I hear grandchildren are really, really, fun.

Forgetting Jail

I gown up in all the isolation attire and walk into his room in the ICU. His monitors are beeping, lights flashing, and he is gasping for breath. His entire body is swollen with sickness. His arms are so big that his hand cuffs are unimaginably tight. I start talking to him and take his hand. I try simply holding both hands for a moment. He looks up at me and speaks one painful word at a time between labored breaths. "I. Am. So. Scared." We talk, for as long as his body will allow, and I leave to let him rest. I walk past his guard and start removing the isolation gown. "You know what he did mam"? I look at the guard. "No" I tell him. And I walked out of the room. "Do you want to know"? "No" I said again.

In another room at another time and another person. There is this tiny frame bundled under blankets. He looks cold and miserable. As he pulls the blanket up over his head, the guard yells at him loud enough to terrify all of us. "Get that off your head now!" I reach up and pull the blanket down. I square off with the guard asking if he is allowed a hat since he is so cold. "I guess so" says the guard. As I leave to find a hat, I see this geniune smile just barely over the blanket. "You know what he did right"? I look toward the guard. In a second, I size up this guard and decide he will not be of any assistance in acutal crisis. "Nope" I tell him.

I don't want to know. There was a time when I did. Or when I looked it up myself. There was a time when it mattered. But it doesn't anymore. They are dying. I can walk in and simply see them as human beings taking the journey that is destined for us all, criminal or not. I can more geniunly hold their hand, look into their eyes, listen to their hearts, or let them yell in anger if I do not know. Their past is really of no significance to me in this moment, because they need my love and care.

If I know, if I find out that they robbed a bank, or murdered someone, or assualted a female, or a DUI, or stock fraud, or child abuse, I can't do anything with that knowledge. I still do my best to serve them, even when I know. When the guards treat them as less then human, most prisoners develop a hatred for the guard. It becomes a lovely cycle. It makes me think of a verse in Lamentations 3:39- "Why should any living mortal, or any man, offer complaint in view of his sin"? The guards come with a set of rules the prisoners must follow. The prisoner really has no right to complain, since he chose to commit a crime. But, what about me? Lamentations doesn't just apply to prisoners. I have sinned too. A lot. In view of my own sin, I really don't have any right to complain either. I deserve a punishment too.

This has given me such a different perspective on verses like Jeremiah 31:31 “For I will forgive their wickedness and will remember their sins no more.” We talk a lot in the church about God forgiving us and forgetting our sins. The magnitude of His forgetfullness hits me every time I think of our prisoners. Perhaps, God chooses to forget, because it is how He forgives. It's how He makes us clean. When we ask for His forgiveness, Jesus' blood cleanses us, washing away it all, including the memory. Because, well, because God tell us that He chooses to forget. It's grace and mercy in the same moment. The grace of forgiveness and the mercy of letting it go. As far as the east is from the west. Our sin is gone.

I imagine a day in my future. Standing before a throne surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses. I can imagine feeling afraid, small, and unsure while taking in such extreme Holiness. I can see Satan running to God and saying, "You want to know what she did"?

And as I tremble, I can feel my Savior take both my hands in His and simply say, "No".

Homeless man Sam

It's been a crazy week. The sorta crazy that makes my head spin in a thousand directions. The crazy that finds Chris in class every night and all day today. One where my kids started school after Christmas break and need to remember their routine. And the extra splash of Mammaw's birthday last Wednesday, the day that left me in tears faster then I realized it could happen.

That's the crazy I'm talking about. In the midst of it all, I convinced my kids this morning that going to the grocery store would not be the end of the world. While driving, they were amazingly content reading books to each other. In their contentment, I found myself remembering. One vividly strong memory flooded me.

I was standing in the dining room of Papaw and Mamaw's house. Sam was at the door, again. It was lunch time. Mamaw scurried about making a sandwhich, getting some fruit, and a drink. She stopped at the pantry on the way to the door and slipped in a swiss cake roll. Sam always told her thank you. She always asked God to bless him.

"Mamaw, why does Sam come by for food?" I asked. I was old enough to know that was not usual, but young enough to have no answer on my own. "Because he is hungry", she replied.

She didn't tell me he was homeless. I never recall her telling me that he was an alcoholic. I don't really even remember her grumbling, except when he came at a different time. Although, my bet is that's because she didn't have it ready and she hated to make people wait. Even Sam.

Mamaw was always busy. And my Papaw worked harder and more hours then I will ever begin to know. Yet, she still had time to make Sam a lunch. Although, I do not know what else they did for Sam, I have memories of Papaw going out to check on him, if they didn't see him for a few days. Sam had to know these were people who loved him. Sam knew that knocking on their door, was safe.

I pulled in the grocery store this morning. Grateful for the money to buy food. Grateful for the crazy life that I call mine. Grateful for Grandparents and Parents who made loving others the normal way of life. No questions. No strings. No should have's or judgements. Just a simple brown bag that had food instead of alcohol. That contained a swiss cake roll. In hindsight, I never saw either of my Grandparents eat one of those. Yet they always had them.

Always.

Love God. Love others. Simply because God asked us to.

Obama and care

So I know that none of you asked, but I'm going to share my thoughts anyway. Why? Because my own thoughts are so very contradictory.

People need insurance. Not lazy people, not moochers, not poor people... Sick people. They need insurance. And healthy people~they need health insurance too.

Those of you who just tuned me out, give me one more chance. Say you get sick. Tomorrow, you hear the dreaded cancer word. Of course you choose treatment. You are healthy otherwise, with a good prognosis. Good choice. The treatment makes you really sick. The cancer does too. Your twelve weeks of family medical leave goes by quickly. Sadly enough, your employer needs someone to do your job, so you lose it. Don't worry though, you can cobra your insurance cost for usually about $1,100-1,500 a month. Yep, a month. So you apply for social security disability. At least this way you can get Medicare. Oh sorry, you didn't know that you aren't eligible for Medicare for TWO YEARS after you get disability? Hmmm. Now your savings is running out. How long can you really pay $ 1,100 plus a month for insurance? Your income on disability, although it is just 60% of what you used to make, is too great for you to qualify for charity care and in most states too great for Medicaid. So you decide to talk to your doctor about options. If he agrees to see you without coverage, you will hear there are no other options, without insurance. Eventually, you will meet me, your hospice social worker. Your prognosis was much better when you had insurance. People are screaming about "death panels" when I literally watch people die because they got too sick for insurance.

Ok, now there is my current situation. Neither Chris or I have coverage through our employers. So we have a private insurance through blue cross blue shield. We pay almost $500 a month for a really high deductible. But, we are managing. I've been keeping tabs on the marketplace, somewhat hopeful that we too would have lower deductibles and premiums. Not going to happen. As I've searched the marketplace, it appears (I say appears because we have all seen the glitches) that we are going to pay between two and three hundred MORE a month for insurance. What's even better, is the news is reporting that the website is grossly underestimating costs in many cases. And, if I'm reading it right, my kids will be forced onto Florida healthy kids program, basically a program for kids whose parents make too much to qualify for Medicaid. All fine, except that when I priced healthy kids for us last year it cost more than insuring my kids through blue cross with us. I really don't like the idea that I do not have a choice in who covers my babies; or a choice in the type of coverage I want.

Paradox. That first story I shared is not just a story. I've seen it played out numerous times. I have faces and names that run through my head as I type it. I know it could be my own family if we lost our ability to pay for coverge. I want people whose only fault is that they are sick, to afford treatment. I also want choices for them and for me.

Is Obamacare going to solve some of these problems? No. Especially as states refuse additional Medicaid funding. It will create an even wider gap as the marketplace will kick people out siting they are Medicaid eligible and the Medicaid office will say no because they should go through the marketplace as Medicaid wasn't expanded.

Not even close...maybe won't even help many at all. And may even hurt me personally, a lot.

But every time I hear someone say "people just need to work for insurance", I cringe. All of us are one diagnosis away from loss of coverage. The system is so very broken. I don't like this "fix" because it isn't one; there surely must be one though...

Micah's fourth birthday!

Dear Micah,

Wow! What a birthday! We had an angry bird party with so many of your friends and some family too. It's been a really fun.

Now we are driving home from the circus and Daddy and I are talking about this letter and everything that makes you Micah man. You have learned to read this year. We still aren't sure exactly how, but we know it had a lot to do with watching your sister complete homework. You also love an app called starfall. You can read almost any three or four letter word. Mommy will never forget the day I realized you could read. We were stopped at some railroad tracks. Very slowly you said "do not stop on tracks" I asked how you knew that; you told me that's what the sign said. At home I quizzed you some more and we were amazed.

You continue to be musical and love a variety of songs. You request Sesame Street pandora radio often as well as veggie tales songs. You watch our drummer at church so closely, as if you are going to step up and play with him any minute. Right now your favorite shows are Jake and the Neverland Pirates, Daniel the tigers neighborhood, Team umuzoomi, Dinosaur train, Tom and Jerry and Andy Griffith. Daddy is really happy that you like to watch Andy. You also love to play Temple run 2 on our phones. One of your favorite things to do is drive your fire truck around the house and, in a very deep voice, ask, "Is there a fire in your house mam?" Every night before bed you ask for "a fresh cup of water" and make us turn on your turtle, your night light, and your moon.

You have begged to play teeball for over a year now. Now that you are four you will get to play. You are really excited about that. You played soccer last season for the first time. You did well and always wanted to help out everyone. Occasionally, you would even share the ball with others. This drove your sister crazy.

Speaking of Natalie, you are such a little brother. You pick on her and want to play with her all the time. If she won't let you speak we hear "naTalie (you still emphasize the TA) stop interrupting me!" She's having to adjust to you getting bigger too. You want to play with her friends alot. During her sleepover this year, her friends were all pretending to be princesses. When they asked you to be the prince, you quickly said no. Then you declared, "I will be your knight to protect you". All of them liked that idea and you spent the evening as a knight.

We love to hear you pray. You pray for so many who are sick. Sometimes you are as sweet as you can be and other times you just pray anything abruptly. Of course there was the night in front of the entire summer ministries team you told God that you forgave Him for vacation Bible school ending. Oh my what a prayer.

You are truly so sweet and kind. You can still be a little shy, but within a few minutes you can be loud. You do seem to notice kids who need help and it makes me proud to watch you reach out to them. Steven and Heidi remain your best friends ever. It's always fun to watch you all play and imagine. You all started VPK in the same class this fall. After one week, you think it's been really fun.

Quite simply, we are grateful for you. You bring laughter to our family and light to any place you are. Our prayer for you is you continue to love God and love others. To continue to recognize those who God has placed in your path to love. And to grow to be exactly the Godly man you are created to be. We are blessed by your life.

Keep singing, drumming, foot stomping, reading, playing, loving, and believing sweet boy.

We love you forever, for always, no matter what.
Daddy and Mommy

Natalie is seven!

Dear Natalie,

How sweet, sweet, girl is this possible? Seven sounds so...grown. So second gradeish. You match this well; as this year, you look and act so much older.

You have lost six teeth since your birthday last year. In a Natalie fashion, you did this a little different then most. Your adult teeth started coming in before your bottom teeth were loose. The dentist had to pull your four bottom teeth. You were a champ and didn't even flinch until he pulled the last tooth. I was planning to let you stay home from school that day, but you insisted on going to show off what was missing. The tooth fairy brought you gold sprinkled money that night, it was so fun. You got to meet the tooth fairy at your school and you were most impressed that she knew Mommy's name. You decided then and there that she was real afterall.

You had a wonderful first grade teacher, Ms. Ehlinger. You LOVED her and loved everything about her class. We loved her a bunch too. She challenged you and loved you. You also started the gifted program. This was a much more difficult transition for all of us. You cried a lot those beginning days. There is much yet to be sorted out with this program. Overall, you adjusted well. You did officially "skip" gifted one day, which was impressive to us. You were on the bus to take you from your school to the gifted school when one of your friends told you that your class was doing a cool art project. You promptly got yourself off that bus and went back to your regular class. Thank goodness Ms. Ehlinger knows you well.

Which leads me to, you are so creative, artistic, and musical. You can draw better then Mommy can. You have started piano lessons with Aunt Pam and have greatly enjoyed them too. You love to sing and are getting better all of the time. You sang "Mary Did You Know?" in front of the whole church at Christmas. You beg to listen to "your radio station" which is Disney Pandora. You also started gymnastics this year. We were willing to do this because this isn't something you are naturally great at doing. You are blessed that a lot of things come easily to you. As a result we were noticing you were not very persistent. If something was a little difficult, you were giving up easier then we were comfortable with. Gymnastics was challenging. And you pleasantly surprised us. You practiced your cartwheels all day, whenever you could, wherever you could. ALL of the time. With more work then we have seen you do, you are good at that too. It makes us so very proud to see you develop more persistence.

You and Micah continue to love each other and get on each other's nerves. He is old enough now to have an opinion and this has been hard for you. At least once a day he declares, "Natalie, quit interrupting me!" You really are a good big sister to him and protect him, at least when you feel like he needs it.

You have many loves. Your favorite restaurant is Moes. You love to "mix drinks". You have changed this year from chocolate milk every morning to vanilla milk. You love the shows Arthur, The Magic School Bus, Angelina Ballerina, Spiderman and his amazing friends and any Disney Princess Movie. You have started reading chapter books and really like the Just Grace, Ivy and Bean, and Mercy Watson series. You love the beach and love to swim. You absolutely still love soccer and love being so very competitive.

You are planning your first sleep over for your birthday this year. You and your friends could not be more excited. Several girls from our church are coming over. You've been busy making crowns and all sorts of things for them. You want a Princess theme party and of course, daddy has big plans for your cake.

This year has been hard for Dad and Mom because we have walked through some difficult conversations with you. You heard about the school shooting in Connecticut that killed 21 first graders, little kids, your age. As we discussed this, we talked about the "good guys" and the teachers who tried to and did protect their class. Then a child brought a gun to your school. We talked again. You told us how you would respond to a gun and how you try to avoid being shot. You were so matter of fact with this conversation. It was hard for us. These are things we really didn't think about when we were little. We often struggle with empowering you with information you need, but not scaring you with details that you should not know.

In those hard conversations, we have talked with you more about God. About why He "lets" bad things happen. We've talked about "good guys", "bad guys", and the fact that God loves "all guys". You've wrestled with questions around grace and mercy. You asked me "if God would allow the devil into heaven if the devil apologized". We have talked. We have prayed. You declared to us the other day that you want a princess party because each of your friends and you are "God's Princesses". You tilted your head just so when you said it, with a big sparkle in your bright blue eyes. We had to agree with you. Indeed you are a Child of the King, which makes you a Princess.

Our prayer for you is to continue to know God more. To continue to wrestle over His grace, mercy, and love. To always seek your answers from Him and His word. We pray you continue to love others, to demand justice, and to refuse to be satisfied with simple answers that ignore questions. We pray for you to have good friends and to be a good friend. Most of all we pray for you to know God's love and salvation.

You sing this song around our house all of the time...
Dear Princess Natalie, may you forever apply the words to your life:

"Lord, the sky's still blue
For my hope is in you
You're my joy
You're the dream that's still alive
Like the wind at my back
And the sun on my face
You are life
You're grace
You are blue skies
You're my blue skies
When nights are long
Seems the dark has no end
Still we walk on in light of the truth
For waiting beyond
Where the morning begins
Is the dawn, and you're mercy anew
Oh, to believe we're alive in you're love
There is so much to see
If we keep looking up"

Keep dreaming, singing, dancing, flipping, drawing, writing, reading, loving, and believing. Look up baby girl. You are blessed.

We love you, forever, for always, no matter what.

Daddy & Mommy

Swing set.

I wonder what that three year old mind is pondering while going back and forth...over and over and over? "More" and "higher", but other then those words he is quiet.

Maybe he is thinking about that slimy fish he caught this morning. Or riding the train. Or playing putt putt. Or the campfire. Maybe he's dreaming of the promised s'mores that await him tonight, or adventures only he can imagine.

"There's that old feather hat" he declared yesterday while playing Jake and the Neverland pirates. We listened for tick tock crock and found pixie dust.

Back and forth, back and forth...I'm confident he does not realize how blessed he is to have his parents and both sets of grandparents on this trip. I don't think he realizes how rare of a treasure this is. Is it possible that he can enjoy this campground simply because it is not routine? Or can he know that he is living better tent camping then so many other children in the world? Has he considered God today?

Back and forth, back and forth..."are you ready to stop?" I ask. "No" he says simply.
Over and over...

Then as I am equally deep in thought wondering what his mind could be contemplating for such a long time, he breaks the silence, "Mom do you want to play something different from I spy? Do you want to play what are you thinking about?"

Seriously? This boy..."Sure" I say.

So we played.. He described his thought and I had to guess.... First it was the turtles, then putt putt, then yogi bear.

We played for a long time. This three year old Micah and me. On the swing over and over. Grateful that today he shared those thoughts. Grateful for the time with him. Prayerful for both openess and time with him in the future. Blessed simply because it's him and it's me. And today, for just a while longer he is three and I got to view the world as he sees it.

Back and forth, over and over.

When Heroes Fall

It's a strange part of being an adult. The earth shattering moment when it is realized that people aren't who they appeared to be. Or worse, they were exactly who they appeared to be, and somehow, in a terrible moment of weakness, shattered their lives.

The moment when you realize superman is vulnerable to kryptonite. When Santa isn't real afterall. When good people die, while drunk drivers walk away. When spouses walk away. When doctors take drugs. When teachers hurt kids. When ministry leaders fail.

It's that moment. When the pedastool they were standing on hits you square in the stomach and you can't, for the life of you, catch your breath. There they are, laying face down in the floor, amoung a pile of shannigans they may or may not have created.

Half of you rationalizes this scene. "Surely not". "No way". There has to be a reason. They aren't capable of such acts. But, you look again, and sure enough, they are still on the floor. This half of you wants to help them back on their feet. Fully acknowledging the pedastool is gone, but you feel they at least deserve to stand up again.

Then the other half backs up. You realize you haven't caught your breath from the hit. This half drips with anger and accusations. Hind sight memories and wanderings of "how long?" and "Am I a fool"? This half wants to kick the stool back at them and make that pile higher. The audacity of it all makes the room dark.

Then, enters the Savior. Just his presence alone shines light in the dark. He too is focused on two beings, but unlike us, his attention is not divided. He can love us both just exactly where we are. The fallen need him. They need his mercy. They need the moment when they are face to face with the only one who could ever help them anyway.

And you, you need to remember there is only one Hero. Everyone else will fall, every time. No one else can be Him. Or guide you. Or love you. Or protect you. Just Him.

Suddenly in the light it becomes so much more clear. Two very broken people, who desperately need a Savior.

And in that moment, the face to face moment with Jesus, you take survey of your surroundings. Your character in each story changes, but indeed you have been hurt and you have done the hurting.

You grab your real Hero's hand, thanking Him that He never has, nor will He ever fall...and you look so forward to the day, when you won't ever fall again either.

Wrapped in His Grace.

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A Normal Day

I was driving between patient’s houses thinking about all that needed to happen that evening. Chris needed to study so I was envisioning gymnastics, supper, baths, and bedtime. I caught myself thinking, “one more bath time.”

Almost immediately the audaciousness of that thought hit me. I thought of all the young parents I’ve sat with while they were dying. I remembered their longing to raise their children and be the person who takes care of them. I know they would have gladly been strong enough to give their child a bath or simply read them a story.

My eyes could see her in front of me, her kids almost the same age as mine. Tears running down her sweet face as she talked about fighting. I could hear me telling her that she will not regret celebrating “big”, even if she survives, she won’t regret writing her kids letters. I told her about the birthday letters I write my own kids. I write them for two reasons. One is to remember and celebrate the year. The other is so they have it, they can know my thoughts. Just because I don’t currently have a known illness, doesn’t mean I’m guaranteed a tomorrow. We talked about how all parents should strive to leave that legacy.

There I was, almost dreading on more bath time. Reframe. Reality is that it’s not one more, it’s one less. One less time I’ll get them clean, play with bath toys, snuggle them in a towel, and read stories. I owe it to all those parents who don’t get to have a normal day to be intentional about my own.

My own family and dear friends have gone through many tragedies this year. So much hurt and so much sad. I am blessed beyond measure and I pray daily for many. I recognize that I am always a heartbeat away from routine.

Soaking up the beauty of another normal day.

Mary Jane Irion: “Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me learn from you, love you, bless you, before you depart. Let me knot pass you by in quest for some rare and perfect tomorrow. Let me hold you while I may, for it may not always be so. One day I shall dig my nails into the earth, and bury my face in the pillow, or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky and want, more then all the world, your return. And then I will know what now I am guessing; that you are indeed a common rock and not a jewel, but that a common rock made of the very mass substance of the earth in all of it’s strength and plenty puts a gem to shame. The day is over, and now I will sleep.”

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