It's not safe here.

I'm holding my little guy down so daddy can take out the slivers. He screams throat-tearing protests, while I stroke his wet curls and whisper prayers. “It's almost done, sweetie.” I say as I kiss tears. Except that it wasn't. Daddy found nearly twenty slivers there in the softest part of his tiny foot. How could this have happened?

"Mommy why are you doing this to me?" he screams.

“Oh honey,” I held him tighter, no words to say, only tears, tears mixed with anger and questions. Tears falling for more than just his tiny aching foot.

I hate this place today, Lord! Some guy stealing kids right from their mama's side at the grocery store so he can do awful things to them? A random sniper on the interstate?

And now slivers? Is this supposed to be some lesson to me? Am I supposed to trust you in the suffering, to somehow be OK with the pain from the shrapnel of evil in my heart? It's not OK. If there's a lesson for me to learn, send me an email, or use a felt board or something. My child is suffering real pain, screaming real screams.

This hurts my real heart. 

I do not understand.

Later, I hold his hand tightly when we go to the library-- much tighter than usual. I look to the left and right, again, and again. I notice the other children, the run-down car, the unfriendly face on that man. I keep my son close to me.

It's not safe here.

I am like Sister Bear. Remember her? She was a happy little girl bear who trusts everyone, until one day her Brother warns her about stranger danger. Later, she returns to park-- the familiar, friendly park. But everything is different. People are suspicious. The man behind the newspaper is hiding something. The sky is darker. The birds' beaks are sharper.

It's not safe here.

I know, Father, it's not You that does these things, I know. But why don't you stop them?

I have no answers.

So I set my shoulders back, I clench my hands, and I prepare to fight. I will use my concealed carry permit. I will be more aware, more vigilant. I'll buckle them and warn them and make them wear helmets.

No way, not my babies. I won't stand for it.

I'll stand in front of the wave of evil and absorb it all so it never hits them.

Except that … I can't. I'm not enough.

It's not safe here, and we will not leave this world unscathed.

I will not.

My babies will not.

God did not.

God deals with this broken world in a strange way. Instead of destroying it, He enters it. Instead of abolishing the law, He fulfilled it. Instead of punishing the sinner, He welcomed the full weight of the punishment onto Himself on the cross. Instead of pouring out the cup of His wrath on the earth, He drank it Himself.

Instead of somehow erasing death, He suffered it.

And then He rose.

He entered into our dying, hate-filled world, and He did everything backwards. He loved. He suffered. He died. He lives.

He lives.

And by His glorious resurrection, He proves to us that He is not of this world.

And, by grace, neither are we.

It is not safe here. There are dangers on every hand. The world is suffering, dying, and we share in that suffering. And we scream throat-tearing screams and we ask heart-tearing questions. And we are not OK.

And yet, by grace, we are being made new in Christ.

We are set apart, heirs of life.

Today, we are merely far from home.

We don't belong here.

Praise God, we belong to Him.

photo credit educationdiva

marioarand

frog: eldon cook

A beef with God: The dance.

This is a dance I have done before, so at least I know how the steps go.
But I still hate it.
Perhaps you have done this dance before, too.

Step 1- Hear of a tragedy or some other sadness.

Step 2- Take it to heart. Stare into it deeply, and take on the burden of the sadness myself.

Step 3- Wonder where God is. Wonder if He really is good. Wonder how in the world can He allow such things if He really is good.

Step 4- Let a crust form on my heart towards God.  Perhaps give Him the silent treatment.  Look away from Him, and nurse my secret grudge.

(This is the kind of thing that can go on for days, weeks, or years. Sometimes this is the kind of thing that keeps people away from church for the rest of their lives. If you are one of those people- I get it.)

Step 5- Fall on my face in some way or another. Realize this is not a good long term strategy.

(aside: sometimes the above steps combine with medical problems or hormones or whatever and depression follows. Depression can cause you to feel stuck right here, forever, no matter what you do. If this is you, say it out loud to someone, please.)

Step 6- Write and pray and think. Realize that my bad day wasn't just about naughty kids or the stupid dog, but about the beef I have with God.

Step 7- Start talking to Him again.

God I've been pouting.
I have something to say. I know I shouldn't say it, but if I if I talk to you I can't not think it, so I might as well say it...

What the hell, God? 
(forgive me but ... what is going on here?)

Why? Where are you? You really love us? I believe- kind of- help my unbelief, Lord!
How can I possibly let my light shine when everything around me and inside me is so dark?

Step 8- Fess up

My heart is overflowing with anger, mistrust, and doubt. Forgive me, Jesus.

You have proven to me a million times that You are good and trustworthy. But God I am weak.. I need You to do it again...  show me where to look so that I can again believe that you are good!

Step 8- He helps.

I ought to know this already, but He mercifully repeats Himself.

He swaddles my flailing soul in the comforts of His Unchanging Word.

He gently turns my eyes back to the cross of Christ.

Here I find forgiveness for my sins. How quickly I forget His poured out life for me!

Here I realize there is so much I do not understand.  How can I scream angry questions at Him?

Here I find evidence of His goodness.  Overwhelming evidence. Evidence that bled out of His heart and flowed down on to the rebellious earth. onto me.

My questions do not disappear, but they are quieted for a moment while I rest in His love--

while I am weak and loved.

I look up to Him. I open my hands to receive help.
Faith.
Hope.

I look forward to the day when I will see Him fully and my questions will be silenced forever.

And God raised the Lord and will also raise us up by his power.

1 Cor 6:14

originally published 10/1/14

Not for sissies: On teaching violent love to children

"Mommy, it's so sad."

"Yes, it is sad honey. And it hurt really bad, too. But He did it because He loves us."

I think, a few kids ago, this kind of conversation with children might have been impossible for me. I probably would have been the one sitting quietly with a kid on my lap, letting daddy talk about the hard stuff, while I sat there wishing I could shield my babies from all of this.

(Read more:  Is Easter too violent for kids?)

What changed?
Well, Aggie got sick. And I tasted some real suffering. I held her, blue-lipped. And I considered the possibility of a sister, left without a sister. I considered myself, standing at a graveside, knowing in my bones that there is something horribly, violently wrong with this world.

Violence has no place around my babies.
Nor does death.
Nor does sin.
And yet, I sin against them, and they sin against each other, every day.

We live in a broken world.

Yet the broken God-man... He gives us hope.

So we talk about Him. We talk about His great love for us, which we see in His healing and His teaching, but most of all, we see in His death on the cross.


Jesus is not just like us. 
He loves us with a fierce love. 
A violent love.
He loves us to death.

But we preach Jesus crucified, a stumbling block to the Jews and folly to the Gentiles. 1 Cor 1:23

One morning, my three-year-old took the cross off the table.
Then, he laid on the kitchen floor with Jesus, like this:

I tried to put the cross away.

"I want Jesus!" he protested. 

May you, too, find rest 

in the shadow of His cross today.

For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, 

that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.  

For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world,

 but in order that the world might be saved through him. 

John 3:16-17

Holy Week Recommended Reading:

Death: Friend, Foe, Fair or Finality?

Hunger Games and the Happy Exchange
He's Still Working

(originally published 4/16/12)

Washing Down Antidepressants with Eggnog

(An essay by Chad Bird, shared with permission)

Kent and I slept through the same sermons every Sunday at the First Baptist Church in Shamrock, Texas. Our butts bruised their way down many a ski slope together. We hunted turkeys by day and raccoons by night. And we bragged about how many girls we'd kissed (though I'm pretty sure we both grossly inflated the numbers). His older brother dated my older sister, and, especially in middle school, we both greatly delighted in being as obnoxious as possible when we were around those two love birds. Kent was a little guy but a force to reckoned with on the football field or basketball court. He was smart, likable, an overall good kid and great friend.

I was unloading a truck at the feed store in town when my mom pulled up one day in late December to tell me that, on his birthday, Kent had put a gun to his head and pulled shut the door to life. Were I to outlive Methuselah, it would still seem like yesterday. It’s one of those moments welded into my memory. Shock and fear and anger and guilt and emotions I didn’t even know were in me—they all came cascading out. A few days later, I, but a teenager, helped bear his teenage casket out of the church, into a world that blinked at us with a potpourri of festive lights that seemed a blasphemy of joy in the vortex of our grief.

Almost a decade later, the parsonage phone rang way too early one Saturday morning. I knew the instant Dale began to speak that whatever he said next would be wounded words. A police officer had knocked on the door of the family's country home earlier that morning. Dale and Roxie's nineteen year old son had fallen asleep at the wheel, hit a guardrail, and been thrown from his pickup. Snow and ice blanketed the town on the day we laid Dewayne’s body to rest. It was December 26. And the day before, as I and my fellow mourners at St. Paul Lutheran church tried to celebrate our Lord’s Nativity, every happy hymn, every joyful carol, was dragged from our lips like a dirge, and the sanctuary liquefied into one vast sea of tears.

I think, for most people, Christmas is the best of times and the worst of times. When I was a boy, I was unacquainted with the cruel nonchalance with which evil disregards the festival calendar. I knew nothing of tear-laden birthday parties and pill-popping Christmases. I sat on Santa’s lap and told him what I wanted under the tree. My family was all together on that happy morning. We all had colorful wrapping paper strewn about our feet when it was all over, new toys to play with, a feast to consume. Christmas was the best of times. And for those sweet boyhood memories, I am everlastingly grateful.

But I know now the darker side of Christmas, the gloom beneath the glitter, a side many of you reading this know all too well. Every December I think of the family of Kent, and the family of Dewayne, and the what-might-have-been memories that must rise to the surface every time the tree goes up and carols flood the airwaves. And though the grief is of a different kind, I think of all the families of broken marriages, of which mine is a part. The Hallmark scene of eager children waking their mom and dad early on Christmas morning to open the gifts isn’t possible when dad is living hours away, and mom’s newest boyfriend doesn’t appreciate some kid jumping in bed with them, especially when he’s nursing a hangover.

Perhaps part of the mistake we’ve made is in forgetting that the first Christmas, the actually birthday of Jesus, started out as the worst of times. Mary and Joseph were in Bethlehem because of taxes, because the money-hungry, tyrannical Roman overlords had forced them to undertake this journey when no pregnant woman should be on the road. No warm, sanitized room awaited them after their trip, but a cold, dark barn. When this young mother went into labor, where was she supposed to lay down to give birth, on rough hay littered with cow crap? Where’d they get light? Warm water? Cloths to clean up the blood? It’s a wonder both mother and child didn’t die that night. The original crèche must have looked like a rural crime scene. This is not the way any baby, least of all Jesus, should have been born.

And yet it was. Far from home, in the dark, in the cold, in the mess, in the blood, in the shit of this world, God was born.

That’s a Christmas story I like, for it’s one I can identify with. More than that, it’s a story that gives meaning and hope to our own dark, cold, bloody, shitty stories of Christmases that seem anything but joyful. For it was on this night that God began to teach us that we don’t need to have a Hallmark Christmas to find peace and contentment and joy. All we need is him.

For Christmas is not presents. It’s not even about family and friends. It’s about God taking on our flesh and blood, being born as one of us, to share our griefs, to bear our sorrows, and to unite us to himself, that we might find in our griefs and sorrows, him. There’s a reason he’s called a “man of sorrows, well acquainted with grief.” The first sound leaving our newborn Lord’s lips would have been a cry. How fitting is that? God knows what it means to weep, to hurt, to suffer loneliness, anger, loss, and, yes, even the pangs of death. You do not have a Savior unable to sympathize with your weaknesses, but one who has experienced them all, so that no matter what your own hurt, he redeems it, and carries you through it.

All I want for Christmas is a God like that.

Behind the mask: an angry, needy girl who is NOT fine.

“I taught people around me that I had no needs 

and then I was secretly angry with them for believing me.” 

Grace for the Good Girl, p. 13

This seems to be a problem for “good girls.”

We work hard, we meet needs, we do the job in front of us, and we do it well.

We do it with eager hands and a smile, or we try to, and when we don’t feel like smiling we smile anyway. We get done whatever needs to be done. We are the responsible ones, the strong ones, the ones people come to with their problems. We like this reputation. We love living up to this expectation. We love encouraging, helping, and coming through in a pinch.

We love making peace, putting people at ease, and lifting burdens.

We hate the opposite.

We don’t want to be involved in conflict.

We definitely don’t want to be the ones causing it.

We don’t want people to be uncomfortable or angry or upset about anything. We make peace at all costs.

We especially don’t want people to feel angry or upset at us, so we morph like amoebas to avoid others’ unhappiness.

We don’t like seeing people with burdens that we can’t lift. We pile them on our shoulders.

We don’t like to add to anyone’s burdens. We pretend we have none of our own.

Ever.

We’re fine.

And we’d really like to be fine. We are trying very hard to be fine. We don’t mean to be dishonest… we just really, really don’t want to be anything other than fine. And we hope if we pretend to be fine for just a little longer, we really will be fine.

When we are alone in the dark, we might whisper a prayer to God for help, but if He tries to provide help by sending us an actual person for us to lean on, forget it.

Too uncomfortable.

Too hard.

We don’t want to be a burden.

So we hide. We wear masks. We ache.

We get angry when people don’t realize it, when they believe the masks we wear.

But we don’t know how to take the masks off.

As the author describes,

“Our desire to be the good girl, the good Christian, 

the good wife, and the good mom becomes the number one priority, 

and Jesus isn’t even in the room.” P. 32

Jesus isn't even in the room.

 What does that even mean?

Photo by Shalinee Kohli Murishwar:

 Follow Shalinee on instagram

If He were “in the room,” wouldn’t He just be standing shoulder to shoulder with that “good girl” in my head, that perfect version of myself that I never am? Wouldn’t He be standing there with His arms crossed, glaring at me like she does, telling me to do better, to try harder?

Wouldn’t He take her side?

No, He wouldn't. And this makes all the difference.

Jesus has compassion on us.

He opens his hands to tired, tangled “good” girls, and invites us to just come. Rest. Receive.

He sees through our masks right into all the ugliness, and still He says, come.

He takes our failures, our Fs, and our sins and buried them deep in His wounds.

He gives us His own robe of righteousness to wear, and He gives us His A +.

Our stubborn insistence to do it all on our own, in our way, on our strength, begins to be washed away in the flood of His love.

We learn to receive love from Him and from others, and we receive so much more than we give.

It comes down in a shower of grace, and we are refreshed.

Jesus Christ came to save sinners, to pour out his mercy on all people.

He came for you, and He continues to come for you, that you may have life and have it abundantly.

Father,

Forgive us for chasing expectations and guarding our reputations, 

for people pleasing and making ourselves slaves to guilt, 

and for doing even "good" things out of fear, not love.

Our works are filthy rags.

Refresh us with your mercy, and teach us to rest in Your goodness.

Help us to see the ways you care for us, 

in Your Word, 

and through the people you send into our lives.

We dare pray these things because of Jesus alone.

Amen.

 -----------------

-----------

Do you have trouble admitting when you're not "fine?"

Share your thoughts in the comments!

Do you know a friend who is exhausted by being fine all the time? 

Send some encouragement today.

I've Got Issues!

I was on the radio this week!  It was my first radio interview about the book, so I was a little nervous.  I liked that I did not have to put on make-up for this interview.  I do wish I could edit my audio efforts like I can edit my writing.  All in all, it was a good experience.

If you'd like to listen, please click here: 

Emily Cook on Issues, Etc.

If I did it again, I would have answered one question differently:
Todd Wilken asked, "What do you have to say to those of us who know someone who might be suffering like this?"
I had expected him to ask me what I'd say to someone who was going through a trial themselves, so I got thinking on that answer and talking about it before I realized my mistake! If I could do it again, I'd say this.

Issues, Etc.
Serving theological meat and potatoes to all who have ears to hear

While you're over there at Issues, Etc., download a few more podcasts, or subscribe like I do. Todd and his guests make great company on the treadmill.  They often feed my mind and spirit as my hands do housework.

Here are a few of my all-time favorites:

Parables: The Lost Coin and the Prodigal Son with Ken Bailey
The hymn "I Bind unto Myself Today" With Pastor William Weedon
The hymn "Abide with Me" with Dr. Just
Discerning the Will of God Jeremy Rhode

For me, listening helps me remember my most important job as a Christian:

Receive.

Receive the gifts of God in His Word, Sacraments and through His body the church.
Receive, trust, and be loved.

Do you ever receive your spiritual food through your ears?

training

I had this conversation with my son one day after church. It is a conversation as predictable as the daily “be kind to your siblings” lecture, and so each child knows the rhythm of it by heart.

“Is that Jesus mommy? Jesus died?” (serious face)

“Yes, Honey, He died on the cross. Do you know why? “

“For our sins?” (sad face)

“That's right, but did He stay dead?”

“No Jesus rose!” (happy face!)

“Yes, He rose three days later. He's in heaven and someday when we die we will get to go to heaven to be with Him!”

The child smiles, and moves on to another subject.

And so to the children, death means little. They hear about it often, but death is defined for them not by the cemetery, or by grief, or by their own personal losses. The word death, for them, is always connected to Jesus' death and resurrection.

Before their hearts are broken by death, they hear of Him who was broken to destroy it.  Before they taste great suffering, they taste and see that the Lord is good.  Before they are bowed down by death’s reality, their feet are anchored into the reality of God’s love for us in Christ.

The life of the church teaches the children, and teaches me.  The rhythm of faith, the change of seasons: this is the dance of the Christian. The darkness of sin, death, and Lent, is dark indeed.  We do not deny or ignore that.  But for the Christian, darkness does not overcome. Even in the depths of sorrow, we have been trained to look forward.  We know what comes next: forgiveness, life, and the brightness of Easter.

As years pass the changes are steeper, and more dramatic.  Yet, with hearts trained by the Word of God, we fix our eyes on Him, the source of our hope and our help:

Our Risen Lord Jesus.

 Lo, on those who dwelt
in darkness,
dark as night and deep as death,
broke the light of thy salvation,
breathed thine own
live-giving breath:
Alleluia, alleluia!
Praise to thee who light dost send!
Alleluia, alleluia!
Alleluia without end!

Verse 2

Thy Strong Word LSB #578

still waiting for spring...

Last year at this time, farmers planted corn, and one farmer planted his son.

One year later, we see no signs of his new life, 

but we have not forgotten the Promise.

Jesus said, 

“I am the resurrection and the life. 

He who believes in me will live,even though he dies."

 John 11:25

Please remember Alan's family and friends as you pray this week.
May God uphold them in their grief and waiting.  




Of mothers and sons (reposted from 4.12.11)


The officer came to our door early sunday morning.
Oh no, not my son, fearing that vacation had ended in tragedy
The name given. Relief.  Not my son.   
But someone's son.  Guilt, compassion, sadness

Yesterday, kids in bed, parents enjoying the last quiet of the night,
but things went from awful to worse in that hospital room
and Pastor was called back.

Alone in quiet,
I rocked my youngest son, 
thinking about the mother who once rocked hers, 
who watched him bloom, 
whose ears heard the name of her son from the officer.

I laid the baby down, and sat in the chair staring through tears,
thinking of dark hospital rooms.  Afraid, sad.
Another son walked down the hall.  He complained of dragons.  Afraid, sad.

Afraid and sad we went to bed, 
his little head not quite filling daddy's place on the pillow
his little voice asking why daddy went in the night to "be with the sad family."

He curled up close, beating heart, breathing life.
not knowing why tonight mommy hugged him so tight, 
held his hand, welcomed him close.

Oh Lord, how much longer must we stay here, 
in this world of fragile mothers and sons?

More posts in memory of Alan, on grief, suffering, hope, and community:



On faith and sight Our God does not require the ridiculous of us: He does not ask that we suffer and pretend that we are not suffering


How are you doing?  (What I am really asking...) Do you know how often I think of you, pray for you? How do you stand after such a great grief, because I am on the outside and my knees are weak and I question and cry for you... so just how are you doing it?


Together in grief
How can we not feel this way, we who are learning to love each other as Jesus has loved us?
And I wonder, would we have signed up for this had we known it was going to be so painful?


On being loved in the waiting room
 In the waiting room myself, I did not know to ask for this help, but I received it and was blessed.  This is how I would have asked had I known how to do so.


(Some of these words make think of Kristie, too. I hope that she continues to feel the army of support behind her as she fights cancer. If you missed her story, please read it here.)

Easter Vigil

It is good that one should wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord.

Lamentations 3:26

Rehearsal : Good Friday

 Tonight we rehearse going into the darkness. 

Read this excellent Homily for Good Friday.

Kids, violence, and the cross- what do you think?

In my Sunday School bag last week, I had coloring pages and play-dough, happy kid music, and a crucifix.

What an odd combination.

I have to be honest. This makes me uncomfortable.  Part of me would prefer teaching children about a huggable, snuggly, God. Buddy Christ, who likes to drink chocolate milk and sing and dance, just like you, kiddos!  (From the clip: Christ didn't come to Earth to give us "the willies!" He was a booster! He came to help us out!)

Help. Comfort. Good cheer. Those are the things I like to talk about.
But that was not my assigned lesson this time.

We're talking about death, here.
Violent death, even. It's ugly.
And... won't this scare the children?



When I showed the crucifix to the children, they got very serious.
We talked about Jesus's owies.
They showed me their owies, too.
They spoke with soft voices, for a minute or two. It was strange for all of us.

Friends, what do you think?

Does the cross make you uncomfortable?
How do you deal with this?
Do you think it scares children?
Should children be protected from all violent images, including this one?

Please, share your thoughts with me, and stay tuned for more on this topic!

the weight of it

Sometimes  I look at these kids and think:

My heart is going to burst with the joy of them

and/or

my back is going to break with the weight!

the one where I spill..

the biggest reason it is hard to share her story.

Yes, she's been seizure-free for more than two years.
In some ways that year seems like a trial that happened a very long time ago.

Theoretically, I could be that wise mother who had an awful experience, who is now strong and healthy and ready to share her hard-earned wisdom with you.

But then, she gets tired, and there are circles around her eyes, and I remember.
We could go back there.
Any second.

One little seizure could bring us right back to that place.

One little cell left behind could be forming an aggressive tumor.

She could return to weakness.

And if she does, I will return to weakness with her.

If you've read my book, then you know I mean that. And you'll know why that terrifies me.

There is no super strength. No tried and true strategy. No secret Scripture that has immunized me against suffering.

So I guess I better tell you right now--

because if she goes back there, you'll be watching--

I might disappear for awhile.

I'll probably be tempted with despair, anger, addiction, depression.

And I'll have nothing good to say to you about any of that.

Unless, of course, He helps.

I guess all I can do it bank on that.

Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful to me, 

   for in you my soul takes refuge; 

in the shadow of your wings I will take refuge, 

   till the storms of destruction pass by 

(Psalm 57:1)
----------


Weak and Loved: A Mother-Daughter Love Story by Emily Cook Now available on Amazon.com $9.99 kindle $4.99epub $4.99

Advent Ache

I sit on the kitchen floor with my back against the fridge, rocking my two-year-old little boy. I should take off his gross clothes, I think, but I keep rocking.

Near my feet the contents of his stomach lay splattered.

I am too shaky to worry about it yet.  Right now, I am just relieved to see no signs of pills ingested. I hold the hands that opened the bottle that could have brought him death. 

We rock, and I am amazed that he is soothed by me, the very one that was causing him to cry a moment ago. I stroke his hair, and my finger aches from where he bit me.  I would bite too, if someone were shoving their finger down my throat and I couldn't understand why.

I curse this world that threatens and tortures even the little ones.  I shake the fist of my heart at death and his continual harassment.
Sometimes I hate this place.

I thank God quietly.  I am shaky even in relief.  I cower, too, before my God Who giveth--the God Who has every right to take away.

But He giveth, even now, in this slimy breathing child curled up on my lap.

I am not entitled to even one more moment with any one of these sweet babies, and yet, He giveth.

Grace upon grace is this child in my lap.

It will not always be this way, God gently reminds me. He lifts my eyes and teaches me to hope for that day. The darkness is passing away.

I am soothed by the same God that allowed me to cry a moment ago.  He came, and He still comes, into this filthy place, and He is making all things new.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Grace and healing

Bump and his princesses April 2006

Grandpa is healing.
He is doing better each day.
He needs lots of sleep.
His grandchildren seem to move more quickly than they did last week.
He still does not remember that day.
He gets bad headaches if he thinks too much.
He has been told not to drive.
His wife is still watching him for seizures.

Seizures.
I remember watching for seizures.

In fact, I have not stopped watching for seizures.
She has been seizure-free for over two years now, and I have not stopped watching.
I probably never will.

I don't like it when she sleep walks.
I hate when she bumps her head.
I get nervous when she looks tired.

I call her out of her daydreams.  She probably hates it, but I can't help it.
I just need to make sure she can still hear me.

She can.

I can't wait to share the rest of her story with you.  Our story of grief and grace and epilepsy.

Coming soon.

our turn

Monday.

The girls and I were making cotton ball snowmen in the basement.  Pastor-daddy got a phone call, then called to us in a firm and strange voice, “Everybody, upstairs, now.” 

My first thought- the boys (out with Auntie looking at Christmas lights) 
Oh God please no.

Not the boys.  
Larry.  Bump. 
Grandpa.
Dad.

A car accident.  
The truck was totaled.  
They had to get him out with the jaws of life. 
He's on his way to the hospital.

Wide eyes. 
Tears, Heart pounding. 
I'm grabbing for something, everything, anything. “We need to pray,” I said, and I held the girls tight to me. Josh prayed with broken voice, and my tears fell with his.

Fruit of the view

If I could obstruct the view, I would.
But now I am starting to think that would be unwise.

Sometimes daddy-pastor's phone rings in the evening.  He gestures for quiet, always.  Sometimes his gestures are combined with a pleading look towards me that says "this is REALLY serious, I need them to hush. Now."

Words like "surgery" or "I'm so sorry" or "funeral" may drift into the dining room.  Even the younger children notice a seriousness in the air, and in their (cute, pathetic) little ways they try to reign in their wild joy of living for just a moment.

Contradiction in suffering

"Contradiction.  It makes our cross even heavier.  Or is it that the apparent contradiction makes us weaker under the heavy load?  We know God's ability, and we know his promise.  In the here and how we raise our eyes in horror from the bed where our child is pierced with IV lines and wounded from surgery after surgery.  We read our Bible, and we watch our children.  We cry out (or want to cry out), "Lord I believe, but... how can you keep doing this?"


"We are back to the believer's question: Why?  But I must tell you, it is not a question asked quietly or thoughtfully or reverently.  It is a question wrung out of a bleeding soul who is being pressed ever tighter in God's vice.  In the day of trouble, we do not "call upon God" stoically and with good grace; we scream and beg and plead and despair."

from "The Problem of Suffering"
by Gregory Schulz
Northwestern Publishing House

For those that suffer under heavy contradiction, 
under trial and sin and weakness, 

Let us pray to the Lord.

Lord, have mercy.