Forget Not His Benefits

ALMOST MORNING

2012-01-24T11:53:00.003-06:00

My daddy never talked much.

So whenever he did, especially in moments of pain, or confusion, I listened.

And I remembered.

The first time Daddy saw Ethan after his injury, he told me that his favorite verse was Psalm 30:5.

"For His anger is but for a moment,

His favor is for life;

Weeping may endure for a night,

But joy comes in the morning."

Several years later, from the time Daddy shared that verse with me, I wasn't able to be with him for his eighty-fourth birthday.

I don't remember the reason now, but I was heart-broken.

Actually, I was heart-broken about many things.

Life was different, and it was difficult to adjust to new boundaries and the new considerations for every decision that I had to make.

I felt like I was disappointing the people that I loved and that perhaps they didn't quite understand how hard life had become.

But most of all, I missed the part of Ethan that was gone.

I still do.

The morning of Daddy's birthday, I took my tears and coffee and devotional book out on the front porch and sat down in a rocker.

I let the tears fall as I opened the book to find the reading for May 13.

The verse for that morning's devotion was Daddy's verse.

"Weeping may last for the night,

but joy comes in the morning."

God had seen my broken heart.

He had seen my doubts.

He wanted me to know that He was close.

Close to me.

And close to my daddy.

I cherish the promise that the night, no matter it's darkness and length, will end and that an unimaginable joy will take it's place.

My daddy is literally breaths away from his morning.

And I, as well as all who love him, am rejoicing and giving thanks for the God who is faithful to all He has promised.

"It may be all dark now, but it will soon be light;

it may be all trial now, but it will soon be all happiness.

What does it matter if weeping lasts for a night,

when joy comes in the morning?"

Spurgeon

WE ARE SUSTAINED

2012-01-21T18:06:00.000-06:00

As I sit here in the hospital, beside my daddy, I am so thankful for the truth of these words from Charles Spurgeon's message "Around the Wicket Gate."

"Often realize the joy of heaven. This is grand faith; and yet it is no more than we ought to have. Within a very short time the man who believes in the Lord Jesus shall be with Him where He is. This head will wear a crown; these eyes shall see the King in His beauty; these ears shall hear His own dear voice; this soul shall be in glory; and this poor body shall be raised from the dead and joined in incorruption to the perfected soul! Glory, glory, glory! And so near, so sure. Let us at once rehearse the music and anticipate the bliss!

But cries one, "We are not there yet." No, but faith fills us with delight in the blessed prospect, and meanwhile it sustains us on the road."

Yes.

We are sustained.

By knowing that Daddy will be with Him where He is.

By knowing that Daddy will wear a crown as a child of God.

By knowing that Daddy will see The King in all His beauty.

By knowing that Daddy will hear the voice of God calling his name.

By knowing that Daddy's soul will soon be glorified

and that his body will be as perfected as his soul.

We sing Glory, Glory, Glory, as we delight in the anticipation of Daddy being with his Savior, Jesus Christ.

Yes.

We are sustained.

A SAVIOR

2011-12-31T09:53:00.003-06:00

It was Christmas morning.

The house was quiet.

Evidence three guys stayed up much too late playing with their new toys.

The day was going to busy.

We were going to be traveling a couple of hours to spend the day with those that know us the best and love us the most.

I was thankful for the quiet.

Quiet that would give me a little time to imagine the sky that was filled with His Glory on that first Christmas day.

In the quiet, I could imagine how the angels must have sounded as they sang praises to the Newborn King.

In the quiet of Christmas morning I wanted to picture the tiny little hands and feet of God Himself.

In the quiet I wanted to remember The Baby asleep in His bed.

But all I could remember in the quiet of this Christmas morning was when my baby laid in a bed.

A hospital bed.

I remembered the Christmas morning when we walked into an ICU room that was filled with strangers and machines and wires and despair.

I remembered standing by Ethan's bed and closing my wet eyes and wondering how a person could feel such intense horrifying pain and feel completely numb all at the same time.

I remembered and, for a moment, I couldn't breathe.

I scolded myself.

"Cheri, Christmas isn't about you. Christmas isn't about Ethan, or about him being hurt. Christmas is about Jesus."

I tried to turn my mind back to The Baby, but I couldn't.

Every time I would try to take my mind and my heart back to the stable and the manger and The Baby, it would go right back to the hospital and to my baby in the hospital bed.

The tears came. And so did the condemnation.

I didn't want this morning, or this Christmas, to be about me.

And then I heard the words . . .

"For there is born to you, this day in the city of David, a Savior, who is Christ the Lord."

A Savior.

A Savior. For me.

He was born for me.

And he was born for Ethan.

A Savior that was born for living rooms, and hospital rooms.

A Savior that was born for moments when the laughter can't be stopped, and for moments when the crying can't be consoled.

A Savior that was born for the days when the wind is calm and the sun is shining, and for days when the storms come and take everything out in their paths.

A Savior that was born when we proudly hold up our little trophies, and for the moments when our heads are bowed down with shame.

Yes. A Savior has been born.

I was wrong Christmas morning, as I sat curled up on the sofa, scolding myself.

Christmas is about me.

Jesus made it about me.

He made it about Ethan.

He made it about you.

When He left heaven and came to live with us, to be tempted like us and to be rejected by His own creation, He made Christmas about us.

When Jesus left heaven and the singing of angels and the beauty of a sinless place, to come to this broken and hurtful earth, He made Christmas about us.

The chorus is true . . .

"That's why we praise Him,

That's why we sing,

That's why we offer Him our everything.

That's why we bow down and worship the King,

'Cause He gave His everything,

'Cause He gave His everything."

And because He made Christmas about us.

"We love Him because he first loved us."

1 John 4:19

NO ROOM

2011-12-24T10:45:00.002-06:00

"And she brought forth her firstborn Son, and wrapped Him in swaddling cloths, and laid Him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn." Luke 2:7

No room.

Jesus was identifying with us before he ever left his mother's womb.

No room.

He came to experience everything we've ever felt.

No room.

He came to experience rejection and acceptance.

He came to experience hospitality with welcoming embraces and walls and hard boundaries and closed arms and hearts.

No room.

Those two words remind me that Jesus knows what it's like to be turned away.

They remind me that He knows what it feels like for the invitation not to come, for the phone not to ring, or the e-mail not to be answered.

A friend, that's a mother of grown children, told me the other day that she longs to mother but no one seems to want to be mothered any more.

He knows her pain. The pain of no room.

Yes. Before He saw his mamma's face or felt his earthly daddy's strong arms, He knew what it was like to be us.

"For we do not have a High Priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses, but was in all points tempted as we are, yet without sin." Hebrews 4:14

Jesus came with the intention of experiencing all we experience. Even as the angels were singing of His birth and the Wise Men were making their journey, He chose to feel what we feel.

"He is despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief and we hid, as it were, our faces from Him; He was despised, and we did not esteem Him." Isaiah 53:3

We told Him there was no room.

"Any other king would’ve come with great fanfare, a royal entourage and muscle-flexing pride. But you came into our world in utter weakness and with profound humility. “No room in the inn” wasn’t an insult to you. It was your choice, your plan, the way of the gospel." Scotty Smith

Jesus has felt every feeling I have ever had. Yet, I can only imagine what He felt when He dwelt among us.

I can only imagine what He feels today.

My heart hurts because I know He still hears the same words He heard that first Christmas Eve, just moments before His birth . . . no room.

What hurts the most is that He hears them from me.

The innkeepers that turned Jesus away, didn't know who He was.

I do.

I know Jesus is my Sacrifice, my Substitute, and my Savior, yet way too often there is no room in my heart for Him.

The place that has been reserved for Him, becomes occupied by family and friends and even service to Him.

His creation, His comforts, His blessings, take up the space that was made for Him alone.

The gifts have replaced the Giver.

"In the deep heart of the man was a shrine where none but God was worthy to come. Within him was God; without, a thousand gifts which God had showered upon him. But sin has introduced complications and has made those very gifts of God a potential sourse of ruin to the soul. Our woes began when God was forced out of His central shrine and things were allowed to enter. Within the human heart things have taken over. Men have now by nature no peace within their hearts, for God is crowned there no longer, but there in the moral dusk, stubborn and aggressive usurpers fight among themselves for first place on the throne." A.W. Tozer from The Pursuit of God

No room.

I don't know why I allow it to happen.

I repent and say, "Yes. Jesus come. Yes. Yes. Yes. There is room for you. Take every room, all the room, you want."

And He smiles and He comes and He sits on the throne of my heart knowing full well that the old innkeeper in me, will once again allow the gifts He's given me to squeeze Him out again.

He knows I don't want to be the innkeeper. He knows I hate the innkeeper in me that gives His room to someone else.

But I know He loves me. Innkeeper and all.

God loves me in spite of myself.

He loves me because I am myself.

And that never ceases to amaze me.

And I pray that it never will.

Come Lord Jesus . . Come.

'CAUSE IT'S A LONG DONKEY RIDE

2011-12-21T10:35:00.009-06:00

Dear Secret Friend,

I read your card.

You said that the prayers you have prayed for me are inside the beautiful ornament. You said that you made the same ornament for your own tree. With the same prayers for me inside it.

You said that every year, when you put the ornament on your tree, you will remember to pray for me. But then you also said that you're sure that you won't need a reminder, because praying for me has become a habit.

Me.

A habit.

What a wonderful thing to be.

I asked God, "Why?"

"Why would You give me such a good friend?"

"Because I know it's been a long donkey ride."

I heard a guest speaker a couple of weeks ago, at a Christmas luncheon, compare Mary's donkey ride to Bethlehem with the journey we are called to take in our lives.

In Luke, Chapter 1, the 34th verse, after the angel had shared the plans for the Messiah's birth, Mary asks "how?"

Mary was willing to accept all that God had told her about the Savior's birth, but she didn't know "how?"

Most of the time, I'm willing to walk the path God has laid down for me, my donkey ride, but my question is "how?"

It usually seems impossible.

And most of the time it is.

That is why God tells me exactly what the angel Gabriel told Mary so long ago.

"The Holy Spirit will come upon you . . ." (v.35)

It is by His Spirit that I stay on the path he has laid down for me.

It is by His strength that I do what He has asked me to do.

And God knows it's hard.

And He knows my frame, and that I'm dust. (Psalm 103:14)

God knows the path can be lonely and bumpy. And that just about the time I think I see my Bethlehem, I realize it is just a mirage.

And the journey continues.

God knows that the journey causes weariness. That the length, and the bumpiness, and the loneliness cause me to want to get off my donkey and quit. That the uncertainty of where I am going causes me to despair and to lose heart.

I believe, Dear Friend, that is why God sent you to me.

He wants me to stay on my donkey.

He wants me to stay on the journey.

He wants me to know that I am not alone.

He wants me to experience joy regardless of the length of the journey, the bumpiness of the path, or the darkness of the nights.

God knows that it is love that will keep me on my donkey.

Looking back over the last few very hard months, I now know that it was your prayers that helped to keep me on my donkey.

And looking forward, to the rest of the journey, I know that God will bless those same prayers by giving me the strength to stay on it.

Your prayers, that God has promised to answer, will undoubtedly cause me to do much singing and rejoicing while I'm traveling on this journey.

A journey that will end with us both seeing the Baby in the Manger, face to face.

With a heart full of gratitude to you and to the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,

Cheri

My Wounded Healer

2011-12-19T09:35:00.001-06:00

The first time I heard the phrase "wounded healer" was while reading the book Abba Child by Brennan Manning.

Manning tells a story that is taken from the play "The Angel That Troubled the Waters" by Thornton Wilder. It is based on the Bible story found in John 5:1-4.

The story goes like this . . .

A wounded physician goes to the pool to be healed. But every time he begins to step into the healing waters of the pool, an angel blocks him from entering the waters. The wounded physician cries for his healing, but the angel repeatedly tells him that today is not the day for his healing.

Day after day, he sees others stepping into the waters with their wounds and leaving the waters without them. They are healed while he is still wounded.

Confused and brokenhearted, he cries out to the angel that stirs the healing waters but the angel replies, "Without your wounds where would your power be?"

The angel explains that it is the very wounds he so longs to be free of that causes others to listen to him. It is his wounds that allow him to do what no angel could ever do. His wounds are what allows him to comfort and to encourage those who are broken and who are living in despair.

As the physician is trying to absorb the words of the angel, a man who has just received his healing from the waters comes to him, and asks him to go to his home and speak to his son and daughter. Their lives have fallen apart, and they will not listen to anyone. But, the healed man knows his broken children will listen to the broken physician.

"In Love's service, only wounded soldiers can serve."

After reading this story from Abba Child, I read it to my Aunt Sarah.

She smiled.

She was a Wounded Healer.

She was my Wounded Healer.

Because Aunt Sarah was never a wife or a mother, I often wondered as I sat at her kitchen table and my tears dripped into my cup of coffee, if she really understood all of the fears and disappointments I shared with her.

But even while I wondered if she understood, morning after morning, I kept returning to that table to sit and to share with her.

Aunt Sarah was safe.

With Aunt Sarah, I never felt judged.

I felt free to be honest. To be myself.

Regardless of what I shared with her, she smiled and always pointed me to Jesus.

I knew what she was going to say before she ever said it, but I always wanted to hear her say it again.

"Cheri, His grace is sufficient."

Because of her wounds, and because of her joy, I knew it was true.

Aunt Sarah left me with an inheritance more precious than silver or gold.

Aunt Sarah chose to be a Wounded Healer to me, to my children, to my sister, to my cousins, and to her friends at AA.

Because of Aunt Sarah, I know that I can go through life and lay down my fig-leaves.

I do not have to hide my failures or my wounds.

Aunt Sarah allowed her failures and her wounds to be evidence of God's mercy, and of His power, and of His love, to all who knew her.

I pray my failures and wounds will be evidence of the same.

As God's grace was sufficient for Aunt Sarah, who is now completely healed and glorified into the image of Christ, so His grace will also be sufficient for me, and for you.

I love you Aunt Sarah.

A CHRISTMAS STORY ONLY GOD COULD WRITE

2011-12-16T13:03:00.004-06:00

I'd like to tell you an amazing story.

I can call it amazing, because it has nothing to do with me.

And yes, it is a Christmas story.

A wonderful Christmas story.

Last week, on the eight anniversary of Ethan being injured, my sister went into a grocery store to pick up a couple of things for her son-in-law's birthday party. It's a store where she doesn't usually shop, but that day it just happened to be convenient.

She laid a few items on the counter and reached into her purse for her cash. As she handed the cash to the clerk and looked her into her face, she thought she recognized her.

Her hair was different, and she seemed awfully thin, but my sister knew it was her.

Debbie, my sister, asked her if she had worked for the grocery chain very long.

The clerk said "yes."

Debbie asked her if she had ever worked at the store closest to Debbie's house, and if she had, was there any chance that she had been working there eight years ago?

The clerk, though puzzled, thought for a moment and then smiled and said, "Why yes. I did work at that store eight years ago."

My sister then asked her if she remembered a woman, who while checking out groceries the week before Christmas eight years before, had asked her if she believed in miracles.

The clerk said, "Yes. That was you. It was your nephew. Your sister's boy. I prayed for him but I never knew what happened."

My sister, the one seeking a miracle for her nephew, and the clerk who believed in them, were brought back together eight years to the day on which Ethan was hurt, at a grocery store across town from where they had first met.

They were brought back together by a God who sees everything.

By a God who saw a young man who had made a terrible choice, who was sitting alone in his apartment barely breathing, for hours.

A God who saw a mom and dad out shopping for Christmas presents that their child would never be able to enjoy.

A God who saw doctors and nurses, who would soon be standing over our Ethan, believing he was gone . . . that it was too late, but willing to use their skills and experience to allow God to work through them.

A God who saw a big brother at home, waiting for hours, days, and months, to know if he would spend the rest of his life with or without his best friend.

A God who saw an aunt, with tears streaming down her face in a grocery store check-out line, desperately seeking a miracle for her nephew, and for me, and for Jim, and for Seth.

And a God who saw one of His precious children, working as a clerk in a grocery store, that believed in Him and what He could do.

The God who sees, is the God who left heaven, took on flesh, and became man to dwell with us. (John 1:14)

Last week my sister was able to share how God showed His glory by waking up the nephew for whom the clerk had prayed.

She shared how God had given Ethan back his memory, his intelligence, and his wonderful sense of humor.

Debbie told the clerk what a joy and delight Ethan is to our entire family.

As my sister was sharing this amazing Christmas story with me, we were both crying on the phone.

We were crying because the memory of the pain we felt during those very dark days is still very real.

We were crying because our hearts were overflowing with gratitude to the God who sees, and who does more than we can ever imagine or hope for. (Ephesians 3:10)

But we also cried tears because we so desperately want complete healing for Ethan's body.

Loss hurts, even in the presence of a heart full of gratitude.

The God who took on flesh, and came to dwell with us, has shown His glory in the ways he has healed Ethan.

But, my friends, He has also shown His glory the greatest in the ways in which He has not.

His glory has shown the brightest in our darkness.

In the darkness of our loss and sadness, His glory has brought unbelievable and undeserved joy, comfort, and strength.

His glory has brought life.

"Turning the calendar page to December doesn't turn life into this dance of the sugarplum fairies." Ann Voscamp

Oh, how I know Ann's statement is true.

But I also know what memories from past Christmases or a beautifully decorated tree or parties or even friends and family can't do, God can do.

And that my friends, is what I ask for you, and for my sister, and for the clerk at the grocery store this Christmas.

I pray that His glory will shine brightly in your darkness.

I pray that the good tidings of great joy that the angels promised to the Shepherds, as they found themselves in the darkness that Christmas night so long ago, will fill your heart and bring you peace.

"Then the angel said to them, Do not be afraid, for behold I bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people. For there is born to you this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. And this will be a sign to you: You will find a babe wrapped in swaddling cloths, lying in a manger." And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying:

"Glory to God in the highest.

And on earth peace,

goodwill toward men."

Luke 2:10-14

VERY GOOD NEWS

2011-12-15T15:57:00.005-06:00

"Grace is God's willingness to look at us from the perspective that sees His Holy Son in our place.

God can certainly see the faults and frailties reflected in the mirrors of our lives. Still, He chooses to look at those who trust in His Mercy through the lens that features the holiness of His Own Child in our place. As a consequence He loves and treasures us as much as if we had never sinned."

Bryan Chapell from Holiness by Grace

A NEW LIFE

2011-12-09T23:14:00.000-06:00

One night, eight years ago this week, I was the teen-age boy in the story.

Oh, I didn't get drunk and wreck my father's car.

I wrecked my life... and the lives of the people I loved.

I had run away from God; turned my back on Him.

I had decided that my life was my own, and that I could live it anyway I wanted.

My theme song was "It's My Life" by Bon Jovi.

On my way to Gainesville, that night the doctors said our son probably wouldn't make it through the night, I never heard my Father say, "I told you so."

I never heard Him say, "I bet you wish you had listened to me now."

I never heard Him say, "You made your bed, now lie in it."

I only heard Him say, "I'm here. I've always been here."

His Mercy didn't give me what I deserved.

His Grace gave me Himself.

He didn't say, "Let's go get you a new car."

My Father said, "Cheri, let's go get you a new life."

"The thief does not come except to steal,

and to kill, and to destroy.

I have come that they may have life,

and that they may have it more abundantly."

John 10:10

HIGHLIGHTING

2011-09-06T19:22:00.000-05:00

Ethan and I were sitting in the car, waiting for Jim to load the chair into the trunk.

It had been a wonderful afternoon of swimming at the pool.

"Mom, thanks for not letting me fall out of the lift today," Ethan said.

"What? In four years I have never let you fall out of the lift. I almost let you fall out of the lift one time, and now you are going to remember that one time instead of all the other times I didn't?"

We both laughed.

I knew he was kidding me about one day this summer, when I had almost let him fall from the pool lift as he was going into the water.

It still makes me kind of sick to my stomach to think about it.

It was a Sunday afternoon. There were lots of extra activities going on at the pool that day. Someone was sponsoring a party and the lifeguards had invited us to join them. Lots of grilled hot dogs and hamburgers and loud, loud music. I thought it was Lady Gaga, but Ethan corrected me and said it was Katie Perry.

We have a routine when we use the lift at the pool. We park Ethan's chair beside the lift, and Jim helps him to stand. Jim then gently slides Ethan over to the chair on the lift. While Jim waits in the pool for Ethan to be lowered into the water, I hold Ethan's shoulder with one hand to balance him, and I work the controls with the other. Like I said, we've done the same routine for years.

Usually the lifeguard parks the lift on the side of the pool but that day it was parked at the end, right in the corner of the pool.

Right when we were lowering Ethan into the water, My sister called and I thought I could talk to her, holding my phone between my shoulder and my ear, and do what I usually did with my two hands.

It didn't work.

Ethan lost his balance and started to fall. If the lift had been parked where it was normally parked, he would have just fallen into the water. But with the lift parked in the corner, there was no where for him to fall except into the concrete corner of the pool.

I quickly let go of my phone, and it fell into the pool. I grabbed Ethan, and to tell the truth I don't know what happened next. All I remember was that Jim was able to keep Ethan from hitting the concrete, and that I thought I was going to pass out.

I had been careless.

All I could see in my mind was Ethan's busted head and teeth.

I gave thanks for what I considered to be a divine reminder, of how much Ethan is dependent upon us for his safety.

At the end of the day, Ethan was safe, Jim was understanding, and I was extremely thankful.

I knew, when Ethan thanked me for not letting him fall, that he was teasing me.

He doesn't have one unforgiving or ungrateful bone in his body.

I can't describe Ethan's gratitude towards Jim and me for all we do for him.

It is humbling to be the recipient of such gratitude and forgiveness.

But his words made me think.

They made me think about how much easier it is, for me to be ungrateful rather than grateful.

Why do I remember one hurtful comment someone has made, instead of the hundreds of words of encouragement people have spoken to me?

Why do I remember the one person who didn't wish me a Happy Birthday on Facebook, instead of the fifty that did?

Why is it easier for me to remember the person who never called or sent a card when Ethan first got hurt, rather than to remember the hundreds that did?

Why is it so easy to see the socks left in the floor, or the trash can in the kitchen that wasn't emptied, but choose not to see the dishes that were put away or the coffee that was made the night before, so it would be waiting for me the next morning?

Why is it easier to remember when someone forgot than when they remembered?

Or when they didn't call instead of when they did?

Why is it easy to remember the losses and the disappointments? I definitely don't have to write them down and make a list of them so they won't be forgotten. Yet I find myself writing down His gifts during the week, so I don't forget to say thanks to The Giver.

I've thought many times about the day I almost let Ethan fall out of the lift, yet I never think about all the days I didn't. I don't think about all the days I was careful, or all the days I went to the pool when I didn't want to go because Ethan did.

When I go to bed at night, if I'm not careful, I think about all the things that might go wrong instead of all the things that God has made right.

When I read a book I usually have a highlighter in my hand. I highlight those passages that speak to me. The ones I want to remember.

I realize how easy it is to go through life with a highlighter in hand and to highlight the hurt, the disappointments, and the perceived failures of others and of myself.

It's easy to highlight the plans that fell apart, the answers that didn't come, and the tears instead of the laughter.

I really want to highlight the good I see in people. I want to highlight their thoughtfulness, their kind words, and the little ways they show they love me.

I want to highlight the beauty I see around me, and the moments when I know that I know that He made it all for me.

I want to highlight, when by God's grace, I get it right. Times when I turn the other cheek, or when I remember to pray for a friend. Times when I think about someone else's needs instead of my own, and times when I choose to forgive a hurt.

God's put the highlighter in my hand.

He gives me the choice.

I know what Ethan has chosen to highlight.

I want to choose the same.

MY GRATITUDE LIST

#519-#641

Ethan's grateful and forgiving heart

his safety

divine reminders

so many gifts to highlight

a forgiving husband

good health for my niece

Dad's successful eye surgery

a gracious audiologist at the VA office that fixed his hearing aid

no broken bones after a little fall

my dad telling me that he's gonna be just fine.

tropical storms that didn't turn into a hurricane

a trip to the beach to see the rough and beautiful surf

the sounds the waves make crashing into the shore

watching the sea oats bend in the strong wind, and remembering that Jesus said He would not break a bruised reed.

the promise that God shows His power through broken, clay pots

sunshine after the rain

the puffy white clouds that are the only thing left of a storm

being confident of His faithfulness when speaking to a large group of women

safe travels for a football weekend

a husband that finds me a place with coffee when we wake up with no power

when I wanted to run and try to hide from God but I didn't

trusting God has a way when I just can't see it

that He is faithful and just to forgive us all our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness

REFUGE

2011-08-31T07:05:00.000-05:00

"For You have been my refuge, a strongtower against the foe." Psalm 61:3

"My salvation and my honor depend on God; He is my mighty rock, my refuge." Psalm 62:7

"In You, O LORD, I have taken refuge; let me never be put to shame." Psalm 71:1

"Free me from the trap that is set for me, for You are my refuge." Psalm 31:4

"The LORD helps them and delivers them; He delivers them from the wicked and saves them, because they take refuge in Him." Psalm 37:40

"Turn Your ear to me, come quickly to my rescue; be my rock of refuge, a strong fortress to save me." Psalm 31:2

"But the LORD has become my fortress. and my God the rock in whom I take refuge." Psalm 94:22

"You are my refuge and my shield; I have put my hope in Your Word." Psalm 119:114

"I will say of the LORD, "He is my refuge and my fortress, my God in whom I trust."" Psalm 91:2

"Trust in Him at all times, O people; pour out your heart to Him, for God is our refuge." Psalm 62:8

Sometimes, no, all the time,

faith is believing what He says.

THE SEED

2011-08-29T19:04:00.003-05:00

The seeds of the sea oats fall in the late summer. The sea oats bend in the wind, whisking away a place in the sand for their seeds to be buried. Seeds that are left exposed do not survive. The wind, which appears to have the ability to break and destroy the sea oats, is the very thing that brings new growth.

As I looked at my kitchen, the one thing I knew for sure was that I had never, nor would I probably ever, be called into the world of catering.

What a mess!

I couldn't see the counters. The dishwasher, as well as the sink, was full.

Where to start?

Music, of course.

Praise.

Isn't that where everything begins?

"Enter His gates with thanksgiving

and His courts with praise;

give thanks to Him

and praise His name."

Psalm 100:4

I had much to praise God about and much to thank Him for.

When Seth recently invited the three of us to a party he was giving, I volunteered to help with the food.

Actually, I begged for him to let me help with the food.

He said no. He thought everything was covered, and he wanted me to just come and enjoy myself.

But, at the last minute, he was worried that there might not be enough food, and he asked me if I could help fix a few things.

Music to my ears!

The party was wonderful.

The food was as plentiful as the laughter.

Watching Seth proudly introduce his brother to his friends and colleagues filled my heart with more than it could possibly hold.

So with each dirty pan scrubbed, and each dish washed and dried, I gave thanks.

I could see my counters again.

The dishwasher was humming. The crock pot that had prepared the much complimented barbeque beef was soaking.

I took a break from the kitchen, and walked to the back of the house to check on Jim and Ethan.

Ethan was in his room with the door shut.

I walked in, and he was stretched out on his bed.

He said, "Mom, I don't want you to think I don't love Jesus and that I'm not a Christian but . . ."

I finished his sentence for him.

"But . . . you don't like my music."

I reached down to kiss him and said with a smile, "That's okay. God understands. And besides that, I don't like all of your music either."

He smiled back.

As I closed his door and walked back to the kitchen to turn my music not off, but the volume down, I remembered "The Seed."

"The Seed" that had been planted when Ethan was six years old. He had come to me and said, "I asked Jesus into my heart, and He came."

Not knowing what else at the time to say, I said, "Would you like to go and talk to the pastor?"

He said "Why? I asked Him into my heart and He came."

"The Seed."

I thought of "The Seed" when Ethan first awoke from his coma. And one of the first things I asked him was if he remembered asking Jesus into his heart when he had been a little boy, and did he still believe that Jesus came?

He mouthed the words, "I'm sure of it."

He has told me once or twice since then that he wasn't sure anymore.

He has been hurt, both physically and emotionally. Dreams have been wiped away. Confusion and despair have crept into his mind and his heart.

We can always pat ourselves on the back for our faith but, if we are really honest, haven't we all at one time or another wondered, doubted, or questioned what we know about God.

Oh, how He shines the brightest in our darkness.

How He loves to speak in our doubts and confusion.

It's the storms, that obey His commands, that He walks upon to rescue us.

Our brokenness is His invitation to come in.

There have been times over the last seven years when my music, or talk of going to church, or anything spiritual, would set Ethan off.

He would become angry, defiant.

He would say things about God that would break my heart.

I would try to reason with him, scold him, shame him. Anything to get him to stop.

I even talked to our pastor about it.

His response was not what I was expecting, although it should have been.

"Thank God Ethan is being honest. God can always work with honesty."

I finally realized that Ethan was pouring out. He was doing the same pouring-out that has brought so much healing into my own life.

I quit trying to stop him from his rants. I trusted God could more than handle what Ethan was saying.

His words, although they were painful to hear, were part of his healing.

I decided to show Ethan the same grace that God has shown me.

When he would pour out, and my tears and fears wanted to come, I would say, "Ethan, you can say whatever it is you want to say about God and to God. There is nothing you can say or do, that will separate you from His love."

"Ethan God loves you. He gave his only son Jesus for you. He will not leave you because you are hurt, angry, or confused. He will never leave you. He is waiting for you to come back to Him."

"Ethan, God knows that we are all weak. He knows that we are made of dust. When he sees you and hears you, He understands and He's not angry with you. He feels compassion toward you."

True words.

Grace words.

God's words.

I've learned to trust that "The Seed" is alive, and it is being protected and nurtured by the One who put it there.

As much as I want to, I can't make it grow and bring forth fruit. That has been hard for this momma to remember.

Henri Nouwen said, "A seed only flourishes by staying in the ground in which it was sown. When you keep digging the seed up to check whether it is growing, it will never bear fruit."

I remember those words when I so desperately want Ethan to have my joy, my peace, my hope.

God wants Ethan to have his own.

And he will.

Walking back into the kitchen, thinking about the words Ethan had said ("I don't want you to think I don't love Jesus or that I'm not a Christian . . . "), I gave thanks that "The Seed" is safely in God's hands. And He is faithful.

I gave thanks that God had given me a little peek deep down into Ethan's heart, to see that "The Seed" is alive and well.

"Then Job answered the Lord and said: "I know that You can do everything, and that no purpose of Yours can be withheld from You." Job 42:1-2

Giving Thanks for . . .

497. A six year old's heart.

498. The God that plants "The Seed."

499. The promise that "The Seed" is in His hands.

500. The Grace that invites me into His gates and courts.

501. Parties, friends, good food, and laughter.

502. A God who invites us to pour out the old, and a God that pours in the new.

503. Love expressed.

504. Barbecue beef, mini corned beef sandwiches, chicken salad.

505. Watching the sun set with the people I love.

506. Being invited.

507. Ethan hearing God's truth every Sunday because he can't stay home alone.

508. A peek inside a heart.

509. Fall Bible studies.

510. A Friday night with a room full of Marys.

511. A day at the pool.

512. Being rejected-because it drives me straight to the arms of Jesus and that's where I want to be.

513. That all means all and that wiped out means wiped out. (Colossians 2:13-14)

514. Healing for a friend and her willingness to use her pain to help other women.

515. A little longer with my sweet old dog.

516. Reading a new book for the second time.

517. His touch that transforms.

518. A friend that finally let me do something for her.

"LISTENING-EARS"

2011-08-19T11:44:00.000-05:00

Many of the posts I've written have to do with God meeting me in my pain.

I think that may have to do with something C.S. Lewis said . . .

"God whispers in our pleasures, speaks to us in our conscience, but shouts in our pains. It is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world."

I agree with Mr. Lewis about God shouting in our pain.

When comforting words from family and friends fall on deaf ears, when the word "hope" sounds like a foreign language, when cliches and platitudes make you want to reach out and hit someone . . . His words are the only words that have the power to make a way through the darkness into your heart.

Sometimes, when He has spoken to me, it truly is as if He has used a megaphone.

I wonder though, if God also shouts in our pleasures and we just don't hear him.

It is much harder to hear Him over your laughter than in the crying coming from a broken heart.

It is much harder to hear Him at the beach over the sounds of children playing while birds beg for a piece of left-over sandwich, with your healthy and strong children playing in the water, than when you are sitting in a quiet ICU waiting room waiting for the next visiting time.

It is harder to hear him when the storehouse is full and overflowing, than when you are poor financially, emotionally, or spiritually, and all feels lost.

It is harder to hear Him over the voices of friends when you have been invited, than when you are sitting at home forgotten and alone.

It is much harder to hear Him when your arms are free to reach out to the world and everything in it, than when you are holding onto Him for dear life.

When the four-year-olds I taught came to the carpet for circle time, we would go through a ritual called putting on "our listening-ears."

I would pretend that I was reaching in my back pocket, pulling out my "listening- ears" and with the silliest actions imaginable, I would "attach" them to my real ears.

The children would giggle as they mimicked my actions while putting on their "listening-ears" too.

When we all had on our "listening-ears," circle time could begin.

I always had children that had a hard time keeping their "listening-ears" on. I'd have to stop circle time and ask them to put them back on.

I can relate.

On the days I do remember to put on my "listening-ears," they always seem to find a way to fall off.

I lose them in the moments when everything seems to be going okay.

I lose them when the invitations come, my calendar is full, and I am surrounded by people I love.

I lose them when Ethan is content and his life is full.

I lose my "listening ears" when the gifts become more enjoyable to me than The Giver.

I lose them when I fool myself into thinking I'm stronger than I am, and when I think that I can determine what is best for me.

Maybe God shouts in my pleasures as loudly as He shouts in my pain, but I just can't hear Him.

Oh, to wear "listening-ears" all the time.

To hear Him in all the pleasures of life as well as in all the pain.

That has become my heart's desire, and one of the reasons why is because of a moment after church Sunday morning.

We had parked in a handicapped parking place in the front row of the church parking lot. Seth got to church a little later, and had to park towards the back of the parking lot.

Ethan was going to ride home with Seth. And as Seth started to push Ethan towards his car, he stopped.

He bribed Ethan to push himself.

Because Ethan's left hand is much weaker than his right, it is difficult for him to push himself in a straight line. He gets tired and wants to quit.

I don't blame him.

It was hot, and it took Ethan much concentration and perseverance, but he made it to Seth's car.

The entire time, Seth was quietly and firmly encouraging him to keep going.

It would be impossible for me to choose which one I was most proud of.

I must have had on my "listening ears," because I heard God shout to me in that moment of pleasure.

I'll keep the words to myself but they were loud, and they were good, and they made the moment that much sweeter.

I wondered, how many times has He shouted in my pleasures and I didn't hear Him?

How much of Him have I missed, because I've been so busy and impressed with the lesser instead of the Greater?

I'm asking God to remind me to put on my "listening-ears" every morning.

My ears are made of dust like the rest of me. (Psalm 103:14)

So I'm also asking Him to please help me keep them on.

I definitely don't want to miss one thing.

Let circle time begin!

"I bless Thee for tempering every distress with joy;

too much of the former might weigh me down;

too much of the latter might puff me up.

Thou art wise to give me a taste of both."

from The Valley of Vision

A collection of Puritan Prayers and Devotions

HE'S GOT IT

2011-08-17T07:19:00.001-05:00

I stopped to take a quick look at the latest pictures in my phone, before I plugged it in for its nightly charge.

I love that pictures allow us to go back and relive moments.

I looked at pictures that let me once again see the sweet faces of my great niece and nephew. To hear again the laughter of Ethan and his cousin Dan.

To once again taste my brother-in-law's delicious crab cakes and my niece's unbelievably good salad. To once again sense the majesty of God's creation in a storm hovering over Mobile Bay.

A picture of a song, on a screen at my mother and daddy's church, once again reminded me that I am a part of a family that isn't defined by blood or marriage, but by faith in Jesus Christ.

I scrolled to a picture of something Ethan had asked me to photograph so he could send it to his brother.

The picture hurt.

"This?" I questioned.

"This?"

"Lord, is this all that Ethan has to take a picture of?"

"This?"

I fell across my bed and grabbed my prayer shawl.

I poured out my tears with my face buried in the shawl.

I thought about all the pictures I wanted for Ethan to be able to send to his brother and to his friends.

Pictures that would be posted on his Facebook page.

Pictures of trips that Ethan would have taken.

Pictures of him horsing around with friends. Pictures of him holding a big fish caught out of the Gulf of Mexico with a big smile on his sunburned face. Pictures of the love of his life, and maybe, pictures of a new baby that looked just like him.

I don't remember when the pouring out stopped, but it must have, because I woke up early the next morning ready for the new day.

While Jim and Ethan were still sleeping, I read several chapters in a new book about the heart of Jesus and several chapters from the Gospel of Mark.

It was sweet time.

With an extra cup of coffee in hand, I picked up my phone to check my e-mails.

There I found a message from a dear friend, sharing with me the news of a special gift God had given to her family.

The message was sent with pictures.

The same kind of pictures that I had wanted Ethan to be able to send. The same kind of pictures that I had poured out in tears the night before.

One of the things that I had asked God for, after Ethan was first hurt, was the ability to rejoice and celebrate with others in the middle of my loss. I have never wanted anyone to feel uncomfortable talking to me about the lives of their children.

I believe God has answered that prayer.

I've been to showers, weddings, and all types of celebrations. I've held babies and smothered them with kisses.

To be able to rejoice with others, even while my heart is broken, has been a gift from God.

The friend that sent me that e-mail loves me. She doesn't just love me, she really likes me. I know she has prayed and prayed for me and for Ethan.

And I love her. Her heart is good and kind. I looked at the pictures and rejoiced with her. A good gift from God. A gift they had thought they might not ever have.

But the tears began to flow, and I couldn't stop them.

They were coming faster than I could breathe.

I put on my shoes, grabbed my big dark sunglasses, and walked out the door.

I've learned that God always redeems whatever hurts that much.

I didn't want to miss what He was going to do, or what He was going to say.

So I walked down to the park to sit on my prayer bench.

With each step, I cried harder and harder. I couldn't stop the pouring out. It was as if I was no longer doing the pouring out, but that someone else was doing it for me.

I got to the park, and the city workers were cutting the grass, so I turned the corner and continued walking along the water.

My crying became louder. I wondered what I would say if someone asked me what was wrong.

I decided I would tell them the truth.

I was drowning in the extreme emotions of being thankful for my friend's gift and of the possibility of my child never being able to experience that gift for himself.

I was convinced that it had been no accident, that I had come across the picture that had begun the pouring out the night before.

I believe God wanted me to find that picture, and to pour out my hurt and pain, and to deal with any bitterness that might take root, before my friend's message came.

He wanted me to be empty so He could pour into me.

But what did He want to pour into me?

I continued to walk.

And to cry.

And then, louder than my crying, I heard Him say, "I've got this, Cheri."

"I've got this."

He was pouring in, and what He poured in was enough.

It always is.

The crying stopped as I repeated to myself with each step back home: He's got this.

He's got this.

Isn't that what we all want to know when our world falls apart, when we think we just can't make it?

Isn't that what we want to hear above the sounds of a heart breaking, and a world shattering?

Isn't that what we want to know when it is dark and we can't find our way?

My sweet friends, that's what I want to share with you today . . . that no matter how big it is and no matter how much it hurts . . . He's bigger.

He's got it for me, and He's got it for you.

And He's got my dear friend, and her new gift.

"My big enough God, to You I gladly yield.

I trust You to carry all that I hold dear.

My big enough God, capable to heal.

Ready to deliver, waiting to reveal . . . more of you."*

*To hear the song, "Big Enough God," click here.

TO KNOW

2011-08-12T13:02:00.001-05:00

A recent convert to Jesus was approached by an unbelieving friend: "So you have been converted to Christ?"

"Yes."

"Then you must know a great deal about Him. Tell me, what country was He born in?"

"I don't know."

"How many sermons did He preach?"

"I don't know."

"You certainly know very little for a man who claims to be converted to Christ."

"You are right. I am ashamed at how little I know about Him. But this much I know: Three years ago I was a drunkard. I was in debt. My family was falling to pieces; they dreaded the sight of me. But now I have given up drink. We are out of debt. Ours is a happy home. My children eagerly await my return home each evening. All this Christ has done for me. This much I know of Christ."

from the book The Relentless Tenderness of Jesus by Brennan Manning

I was walking one morning, and a question came to mind.

I asked it out loud.

"Lord, if I could only use a few short words to tell someone how I know what I know about You is true, what would I say?"

I didn't try to answer my question.

The idea of using a few short words, to describe who God is to me and what He has done for me, seemed impossible.

As I continued to walk, plugged into my iPod, I sang to The Creator of all the beauty I saw around me.

While lost in the beauty of my surroundings and words of praise, God gave me my answer.

"You didn't die, Cheri. You tell them that you didn't die. That which you thought would kill you, didn't. You are alive."

Yes. I am ashamed that I don't know more about Jesus.

But, I know what I know:

I know He is real and alive and that He is closer to me than my own heart.

How do I know?

I didn't die.

What I thought would kill me, didn't.

I am alive.

Jesus said . . . "Go home to your friends

and tell them how much

the Lord has done for you,

and how He has had mercy on you."

Mark 5:19

THE "NO MORE SORRY" RULE

2011-08-10T13:54:00.002-05:00

I've implemented a new rule at our house.

No more saying "I'm sorry" for something you've already been forgiven for.

We are done with that business.

The other night I bent down to kiss Ethan goodnight and to tell him, like I do every night, that I am proud of him and that I'm glad that he is my son.

He looked up at me and said, "I'm sorry."

He says he is sorry often.

But that night I realized they weren't empty words. They were filled with sorrow and shame.

I looked him in the eyes and asked him, "When did I forgive you?"

He said, " In the very beginning."

"Then there is no reason to say you are sorry about it again."

I went to bed that night and I couldn't get all of his "I'm sorrys" out of my mind.

I couldn't get all my "I'm sorrys" out of my mind.

I wondered if my repeated asking for forgiveness of sins-long-forgiven grieve the heart of God like Ethan's persistent "I'm sorry" was grieving me.

The last thing I've ever wanted is for my child to feel shame. Yet there in the quiet darkness, God showed me that while it hurts me for Ethan to hang on to his shame, I am more than willing to hang on to mine.

I whispered, "Father, have I hurt you like this? Have I hurt you by my repeated "I'm sorrys" and by holding onto my shame?

His quiet tender voice said, "Yes."

I thought about what words I would have rather heard Ethan say, instead of the "I'm sorrys."

"I love you . . . I know you love me . . . Thank you . . . I'm glad you're my mom . . . I'm glad we're here together. . . Thanks for seeing the best in me.. . Thanks for loving me.. . Sweet dreams . . .

I would have loved to have heard him say what he would say to me as a little boy . . . You're the best mother in the whole wide "wor'd." (Yes. We had some problems with our "r" combinations for a while.)

When I realized how my "repeated sorrys" had hurt my Father, I said I was sorry.

I wanted to say it over and over again, but I wouldn't let myself.

My repeated "sorrys" had turned into a way to earn His forgiveness.

I had been trusting in my sorrow and sincerity more than I had been trusting in His Word.

I had been making an idol out of the words, "I'm sorry."

I took a deep breath and let the shame go and started, once again, to trust.

"We are never more courageous

than when we accept God's forgiveness."(unknown)

"Thank you Father for loving me. I love you. Thank you that you are here with me. Thank you that you will never leave me. You are so good to me. Thanks for seeing the best in me; for your tenderness and compassion. Thanks for being the best Father in the whole, wide world."

Several nights later, we were leaving Seth's condo. Jim was putting Ethan's chair in the trunk, and Seth was standing by Ethan's window telling him how much he loved him.

Ethan looked at Seth and said, "I'm sorry."

Immediately I said, "Remember. We aren't doing that anymore."

Seth asked what we were talking about.

Ethan said, "I'm not allowed to say I'm sorry for things you have already forgiven me for."

Seth looked at me with a puzzled look on his face.

Before I could explain, Ethan said . .

"It's done. It's finished."

Yes Ethan.

It really is.

"Then I acknowledged my sin to You

and did not cover up my iniquity.

I said, "I will confess my transgression to the LORD"-

and you forgave the guilt of my sin."

Psalm 32:5

Erasing

2011-08-09T09:09:00.000-05:00

I love to tell the story about my running into a wall of grace.

A wall with "grace-graffiti" written all over it.

Love. Acceptance. Favor. Delight. Salvation.Forgiveness...

I tell my story to anyone who will listen.

As I've shared this story over the last seven and a half years, I usually have heard one of three responses to my grace-story.

The first comes from those who have found the same grace. They listen patiently and smile. They know the joy. They have accepted the gift that can't be earned, bought, or bartered for. They've heard the same song, felt the same embrace, danced to the same music.

There's also those I've shared my grace story with that are glad I've found strength. They are glad I have peace. But to them, it's like finding a new diet, a new vitamin, or a new way to "psych" yourself into feeling better about yourself. They are happy for me, but it's not for them. They're okay just as they are.

And there's the people I call the "grace-erasers." They erase the meaning of grace... by adding to it.

Grace and Bible study.

Grace and church attendance.

Grace and service.

Grace and a quiet time every morning.

Grace and not drinking too much. And not fishing on Sunday, or going to the movies, or listening to secular music, or wearing shorts to church, or whatever one can think of at that particular moment.

Grace if you do this... and grace if you don't do that.

If left up to man, the add-ons are endless and can quickly become ridiculous.

However, many of the add-ons are good. The Grace-Giver Himself has called us into many of them so we can know Him more intimately and become more like Him. They bring His kingdom to earth.

But even the good add-ons are not ways to earn Grace.

God's Grace stands alone. It is sufficient.

Grace can't be earned. Grace isn't a reward. Grace isn't a merit badge for a job well done.

Grace is a gift from God.

To add-on to Grace is to take away its meaning.

"If you're a hard worker and do a good job, you deserve your pay; we don't call your wages a gift. But if you see that the job is too big for you, that it's something only God can do, and you trust him to do it - you could never do it for yourself no matter how hard and long you worked - well, that trusting-him-to-do-it is what gets you set right with God, by God. Sheer gift."
Romans 4:5

Paul states that Grace can't be both. It can't be a payment and a gift. Grace must be one or the other.

Grace is a gift.

"Grace-erasers" depress me. They remind me of the wasted years I've spent trying to earn what can only be given. They remind me of the scars I've given myself, and others, trying to make myself good enough for His love. "Grace-erasers" remind me of the failure and frustrations that I've experienced by trusting in myself.

But lately God has been showing me that I've been doing some erasing of my own. Maybe I haven't been erasing Grace, but I've been erasing gratitude.

"Grace-erasers" erase Grace by using the word and.

I've been erasing gratitude by using the word but.

Thank you God for this, but I wish it had been that.

Thank you God for giving me this gift, but why did it have to come wrapped up like this?

Thank you for the 80% good, but why the 20% I didn't want? The 20% that is painful, disappointing, and unbelievably hard?

I caught myself a few weeks ago in the process of erasing gratitude.

We were down at the park on a Sunday afternoon. When our family is together, on just an ordinary uneventful day, I am reminded that every day we are together as a family of four is a miracle, and is anything other than ordinary or uneventful.

There's always that moment when I remember the days and months when we thought we would never have moments like these again. Those days and months we ached for one more Sunday afternoon together. We ached for one more day of doing nothing except being together.

As I watched my three guys out on the dock, I began to thank God. I thanked Him for that moment, a moment that didn't come from anywhere else but from His hands. I thanked Him for our family of four. I thanked Him for the love that Jim has for his sons, and the love they have for him, and for each other. I thanked God that Seth was living close enough for us to be able to enjoy a lazy, unhurried afternoon without trying to cram three months of experiencing each other into a three day visit.

I thanked God that He loves my sons, and that He gave up His for mine.

But then I began to erase my gratitude.

But God, it's so hard to see Ethan in that wheelchair.

But God, Seth and Ethan should be pushing each other off the dock and wrestling in the water.

But God, we really shouldn't be here at the park on the dock, we should be at the beach with our feet in the sand. Ethan should be in the water, riding the waves, with me standing on the beach yelling at him to be careful.

But God, why? Nothing is impossible with you. You've given Ethan back so much.
But why not everything?

My joy was gone. My heart was heavy.

Gratitude, like grace, must stand alone.

The gift must be enough.

His goodness, that provides the gift, must be enough.

I had erased my gratitude, and the peace and joy that comes from a grateful and trusting heart.

I had erased the intimacy that comes from trusting, that my God is good in all that He does, and in all that He gives.

I found myself questioning God's wisdom, His character, His power.

I was questioning Him.

Don't get me wrong. I am a big believer in pouring my heart out to God.

One of my life verses is Psalm 62:8 . . .

"Trust in Him at all times, you people;

Pour out your heart to Him.

He is a refuge for us."

I believe God wants to hear me express my disappointments. He wants me to trust Him enough to be honest with Him.

But gratitude, like grace, can have no add-ons.

Grace is a gift, or it isn't.

I am grateful, or I am not.

I'm slowly learning.

I'm beginning to recognize when I pick up the eraser and start to erase my gratitude.

I've stopped myself many times in the middle of a thought because it began with the word "but."

I want to be deliberate in my thanksgiving.

I want to honor God by letting what He gives be enough.

It isn't easy when the heart is hurting. When much has been lost.

But all that I have, all He's given me, is by His grace anyway.

It's all been unearned.

I wonder if God knew that we would all have the potential to walk around with an eraser in-hand. Maybe that's why the word "all" is in Ephesians 5:20.

". . . giving thanks always for ALL things to God the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ."

And yes, Cheri. All really does mean all.

"Thank you God for days like this. When there's nothing to do except love. And no where to go except to each other. Thank you for the hot sun on our faces and for the sticky humid air. Thank you for wheelchairs, and the brokenness that you heal. Thank you for tears you dry up and for hope that you give. Thank you for parks with ramps and the clear waters of the bayou. Thank you that your heavens declare your majesty and that we are here to see it all. Thank you for this little spot of heaven on earth. You are good. No 'buts.' Just thank you."

FOOLISH

2011-08-05T10:56:00.001-05:00

Standing on Seth's balcony, I asked Jim which direction was south.

He pointed toward the pass.

"It doesn't feel like it," I said.

Then I turned and said, "This feels like south."

Jim said, "No. That's east."

Then he pointed up the bay where we live and said, "Cheri, just think about it. This is north."

Once again I said, "But it doesn't feel that way."

Later in the day, even as I saw the sun setting in the west, my bearings were still lost.

I was standing in a very familiar place. This area has been home for most of my life.

But now I was standing seven stories high. With the panoramic view, my perception had changed.

Seth, hearing my constant "it doesn't feel that way" walked out on the balcony with his iPhone and pulled up a compass.

He moved his phone around slowly, until the needle remained still, and then he pointed out features on the landscape to mark what was exactly north, south, east and west. The features included a building, a channel marker, a group of trees and a water tower.

My feelings, which had been confusing to me, began to come in line with the truth the compass was showing me.

Standing on the same balcony a few days later, I saw the references that marked north, south, east and west. I knew where I stood in relation to all that was around me.

I knew what was true, what was constant, but it still didn't feel like south was south, that east was east, that north was north, and that west was west.

Sounds foolish, doesn't it?

But I've been foolish many times before.

"Help me to honor thee by believing before I feel,

for great is the sin if I make feeling a cause of faith."
from The Valley of Vision

I find myself in familiar places, but my perception is always changing. Changing sometimes because of loss, disappointment, or fear. Sometimes my perception changes because of something simple like fatigue.

I am foolish when I feel like my life is out of control, when Truth tells me that Jesus holds all things together by the word of His power, and that He has hemmed me in behind and before (Hebrews 1:3; Psalm 139:5). The Truth tells me that God has plans for me, and that they are good and He can do anything, and no one can stop Him (Jeremiah 29:11; Job 42:2).

I am foolish when I think my broken heart will never be healed, when Truth tells me that His mercies are new every morning and I will not be consumed, and His compassion never fails (Lamentations 3:22-23). I'm foolish when I forget that He has promised, when I cry and my bed is wet with tears, that He hears me and He will receive my prayers (Psalm 6:6-9). I'm foolish when I forget that God has told me He sees each tear I cry and He puts them in a bottle, and that even though I cry all night, joy is going to come one morning (Psalm 56:8; Psalm 30:5). I am foolish when I forget that Jesus came to heal the brokenhearted (Psalm 147:3).

I am foolish when I think I can't do it anymore: that life is just too hard. Doesn't Truth tell me that I can do all things through Christ Jesus, and that He loves to show His strength in weakness (Philippians 4:13; 2 Corinthians 12:9)?

I am foolish when I think I've just messed up too badly, that I've sinned too much, when Truth tells me that there is nothing that will separate me from the love of God ( Romans 8:38-39). I am foolish when I forget that God has removed my sins as far as the east is from the west, and that He has nailed them to the cross with His Son, and that in His sight they are gone forever (Psalm 103:12; Colossians 2:14). I am foolish when I forget that there is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus (Romans 8:1).

I am foolish when I feel forsaken, when Truth tells me that God will never leave me (Hebrews 13:5). It is foolish of me to think God would leave me, when He gave up his precious Son for me (Romans 8:32).

I am foolish when I think the enemy has won, when Truth tells me that through Jesus I am more than a conqueror (Romans 8:37). I am foolish when I forget that Jesus, by his death and resurrection, disarmed the enemy and exposed him for what he is (Colossians 2:15).

I am foolish when I feel like I am being run-over time and time again, and I don't believe that I can get up, when the Truth tells me that I can tell the enemy not to rejoice just yet because I will rise. And when all I see is darkness, Jesus will be my light (Micah 7:8).

"Our feelings have no intelligence."

Tony Evans

My feelings will change, but there is Truth for every feeling.

My feelings will lie to me, but there is Truth for every lie.

And the Word of the Lord will stand forever (Isaiah 40:8).

Oh God, may my faith in your Truth, as was shown in your Son Jesus Christ, be as visible and constant as your sun that will forever set in the west.

The "Almost" Mighty Warrior... "Almost" Lioness

2011-07-20T15:04:00.000-05:00

A friend asked me at church the other day where I had been and what I had been doing.

I told her that I had been in Narnia fighting the White Witch.

She smiled. She's been fighting her own battles.

It's funny how you can know how the story ends, that the good prevails over the evil, but still hate the battle scenes in a movie. I can watch a movie over and over, but still, when the battle begins, my heart races, I become anxious, and when it is finally over, I feel exhausted. Reminding myself that I've seen it before, and I know how it ends, doesn't change my reactions.

It's the same with life.

My victory is secured by God Himself, but I don't look forward to the battles.

"Yet in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us." Romans 8:37

I can relate to a man named Gideon. His story is told in the book of Judges.

An angel of God came to Gideon while he was hiding in a cave, scared to death of the Midianites. The People of Israel had been under the cruel domination of the Midianites for seven years.

The Angel of God called Gideon, the one hiding in a cave, a "mighty warrior."

Gideon immediately began to correct Him. I imagine Gideon knew that he could be called a lot of things, but "mighty warrior" was not one of them.

God told this "mighty warrior" that He had a job for him to do. And it involved going into battle with the very enemies from which Gideon had been hiding.

Though Gideon persisted in trying to convince God that He had the wrong man, he didn't change God's mind.

God said to him, "I'll be with you. Believe me, you'll defeat Midian as one man." (Judges 6:16 the Message)

Gideon believed Him. Although it took him a little time and some added drama, he defeated the enemy.

I'm a lot like Gideon. If someone called out "mighty warrior" in a crowd, I'd never think to turn around and ask if they were speaking to me.

But in truth, God has called me to fight many battles while promising that He would be with me, and that I too would see victory.

I have fought them . . . and He has been faithful.

Not too long ago I was watching Prince Caspian from The Chronicles of Narnia, and my breath was taken away. It was like everything stood still while God reminded me that there are more battles for me to fight.

I was Lucy.

God was talking to me.

He's always been talking to me.

Lucy: The others didn't believe me.

Aslan: And why was that stopping you from coming to me?

Lucy: I'm sorry. I was too scared to come alone. Why wouldn't you show yourself? Why didn't you come roaring in to save us like last time?

Aslan: Things never happen the same way twice, Dear One.

Lucy: If I'd come earlier would everyone have died? Could I have stopped that?

Aslan: We can never know what would have happened Lucy. But what will happen is another matter entirely.

Lucy: You will help us?

Aslan: Of course. As will you.

Lucy: Oh. I wish I were braver.

Aslan: If you were any braver, you'd be a lioness.

I'd love for God to come in and fight all my battles and keep me off the battlefield.

I'd love to stay where life felt safe.

I'm not much a risk-taker.

But God knows it's in the battles where I learn to depend on Him the most and where I can see His heart the best.

I heard Beth Moore say one time, "If we got the life we wanted and prayed for, we'd be bored to death."

There are certainly some days where I would gladly welcome some boredom. But I wouldn't trade what I've learned in Narnia, in the battles, for any security or safety the world has to offer.

Beside my Aslan, even on the battlefield, I'm the safest I could ever be.

I've missed writing. There's wasn't much time for blogging "in Narnia," but I did come home from my adventures with more stories than I could ever tell.

I came home from my adventures with something else.

I came home with a bit more of the image of the mighty warrior and lioness God has called me to be.

It might have been a wee-bit. But it was still a bit.

THE SECRET WEAPON

2011-05-19T15:21:00.000-05:00

"Just because the tests are negative and you didn't show an allergic reaction, it doesn't mean your head-aches aren't being caused by allergies," the otolaryngologist explained.

He explained it like this: You can have one neighborhood child come over to play with your child, and you won't even notice they are there. You can have two or three more children come over to play, and you will know they are at your house but they don't really bother you. But, when you have four or five children over to play, you will know they are there and they will drive you crazy.

It's called the "cumulative effect."

I've thought about his explanation and decided that it doesn't only apply to allergens, or neighborhood children, but also to my trials.

I'm not talking about the big ones.

I've lived through those and I know people, loved ones, that are trying to find their way through them now.

I'm talking about the trials that are considered little, only when compared to the life shattering trials like we experienced seven years ago.

These little trials won't go away. They have the ability to wear you down.

Weather specialists will tell you that weaker sustained winds during a hurricane do more damage than the stronger gusts. The relentless pounding loosens nails and roofing materials. The sustained winds weaken trees, causing them to fall. Trees that had previously withstood much stronger gusts.

These sustained, relentless trials have certainly weakened me.

I am certainly aware of the potential for a fall.

Many of these trials come from trying to find experiences and opportunities to help Ethan reach his full potential physically, and to keep him challenged mentally.

The other trials are personal. The One who knows them all is the only One who can do something about them.

These ~~neighborhood-kids~~ trials really need to be quieted and calmed down. They are driving me crazy. I can't make them go away, but I do need to keep them in their place.

To keep them from controlling my life, I must draw boundaries for them and keep them there.

Yesterday morning as thoughts of kids and trials and quieting and boundaries were running through my head, I asked God what to do.

I remembered all the years I taught four-year olds and the times I needed to settle them down, and keep them within boundaries that were safe and that would encourage appropriate and respectful behavior.

As their teacher, I had a secret weapon. When nothing would settle 14 or 15 four- year olds after a field trip, a holiday party, or an unusually good time on the playground, I used it.

My secret weapon was to sing.

I would choose a favorite CD, usually something by Raffi, and before long everyone was listening, doing what I ask them to do. I was back in control.

So yesterday morning I put on my shoes, grabbed my I-pod, and I took the little ~~kids~~ trials for a long walk. I sang and I sang and they were quieted. They stayed quiet for several hours.

The trials didn't go away.

I wish they had.

But they were in their place, and I was reminded Who is really in control.

It's not them, and it's definitely not me.

"God made sky and soil, sea and all the fish in it.

He always does what He says-

He defends the wronged,

He feeds the hungry.

God frees prisoners-

He gives sight to the blind,

He lifts up the fallen.

God loves good people, protects strangers, takes the side of orphans and widows,

but makes short work of the wicked.

God is in charge - always.

Zion's God is God for good!

Hallelujah!"*

If you need some songs to sing to your trials, I have lots to suggest. One of my favorites, that I sang to the ~~kids~~ trials on my walk yesterday, is "HOLY CAPTIVATED" by Nicole Mullens.

Enjoy and be blessed.

*Psalm 146:6-10 from The Message

GRACE-GIVERS

2011-05-09T22:05:00.000-05:00

Sorry for the absence.

Some in the blogging world call being absent from your blog not caring about your readers. They call it not being committed or disciplined.

I just call it life.

The times that I have been absent from writing, and from this blog, always seem to be times that I find myself more and more convinced that I can't do this life on my own, and that the One who has promised to never leave me alone to do it is true to His word.

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

A few days ago I looked at Ethan sitting across the room and said, "I'm sorry for my mood the last couple of weeks. I'm sorry that I've been so self-absorbed and that I haven't been there for you."

He smiled and said, "I haven't even noticed."

"Ethan," I said in the voice that reminds him that I'm his mother, "it's not alright to lie."

He said, still smiling, "No Mom. I haven't really noticed."

GRACE.

Seth called to say he was going to spend the day with us on Mother's Day. He lives in another city about 60 miles away.

But his firm has a local branch only about 10 miles away where he recently started working twice a week. The night in-between those two days, he stays with us. It is a really special "middle-of-the-week treat" for Jim, Ethan and myself.

I told Seth that he didn't need to come over Sunday, and suggested that maybe he should use that day to rest or to get ready for a busy work week. I reminded him that we had just been together the weekend before to celebrate Ethan's birthday, and that we would see each other again during the middle of the week. We could celebrate Mother's Day then.

He said, "Of course I'm coming over on Mother's Day. You are the one that holds us all together when the rest of us are falling apart."

GRACE.

In the past few days my boys have given me exactly what I want and exactly what I need . . . GRACE.

The day I first became a mother, I dreamed about the kind of mother I would be.

But my dreams didn't include the failures, the mistakes, or the need for so many "do-overs."

I thought I would be a better mother.

I had no idea, as a new mother, that what I would want, and what I so desperately would need from these two precious boys of mine, would be GRACE.

"The Shepherd leads those with young not to be Hallmark versions of perfection, but rather persevering versions of humility. Grace stands in the gap." Ann Voskamp

My mothering has not been perfect by any means of the imagination.

Yesterday, as they thanked me and showered me with gifts and compliments, they were perfectly aware that their mother has not been perfect.

They do not suffer from amnesia when it comes to the times I've lost my temper, the times I have allowed my selfishness to drive my decisions, or the many times I have said one thing, yet lived another.

My boys aren't fooled. They know their mother.

But, where I'm concerned, they have both chosen to be "Grace-Givers."

And the Grace my two sons have given me this week, and all the weeks before, have made me more proud, and more humbled, and more honored to be their mother than anything they could have ever done.

They have chosen to see my good, instead of my bad. They have chosen to see my efforts and attempts, rather than my failures. They have chosen to focus on the intent and the motives, instead of the results. They have chosen to understand that I'm like Paul . . . "I want to do what is right, but I can't. I want to do what is good, but I don't. I don't want to do what is wrong, but I do it anyway." (Romans 7:18-19 NLT)

What a wonderful gift is the Gift of Grace.

It isn't a gift you can keep to yourself.

It has to be given in return.

But not return out of requirement or obligation . . .

The need and desire to share the grace you've been given is the overflow of a very, very thankful and humbled heart.

When I fail to offer grace, I have forgotten the Grace given to me by the Greatest Grace Giver Of All . . . Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

Seth, thank you for the grace.

Ethan, thank you for the grace.

Thank you Father, for my two precious "Grace-Givers."

My Grace-Givers eating crayfish.

One of the many ways we celebrated Ethan's birthday.

Two gifts that were given with the Gift of Grace.

THE CROSS AND REGRETS

2011-04-22T13:56:00.000-05:00

One of my most precious possessions on this earth are the hundreds and hundreds of pictures we have stored in photo albums and boxes.

There are pictures of Easter and Christmas and birthday parties.

Pictures of performances in school plays and on the baseball field and on the golf course.

Probably my most favorite pictures are the ones of what seemed to be just ordinary moments.

I know now, with time passed, that there are no ordinary moments when they are shared with the people you love. They are all extra-ordinary.

There is nothing that can replace opening the albums and boxes and remembering each moment that has been recorded. I run my hands over the little faces. I listen to hear the sounds of the "too loud" voices. I breathe in and try to remember the smell of dirty, sweaty little boys that played outside until dark. I look at hands and feet and eyes and smiles and I think, "God, You couldn't have made them any more beautiful."

Opening the albums and boxes flood this momma with gratitude for every single memory.

But opening the albums and boxes also flood me with a burden that's too heavy for me to carry . . . one which does its best to break open what God has healed.

The burden is called "regret."

I can not look at all the memories without regret.

Regret over the things I taught my boys. Not so much with my words, but with my actions.

Things will make you happy . . . emphasis on the outside instead of the inside . . . pleasing man more than God . . . too much of Santa and the Easter bunny . . . lyrics to songs and lines to movies hidden in a heart instead of God's Word . . . spending more time doing for them instead of encouraging them to do for others . . . looking to the world for good role models instead of Jesus . . . pointing out the successes of celebrities and sport-heroes instead of the only One who lived a perfect life because He humbled Himself and did all His Father asked Him to do . . . helping them to reach their dreams and goals instead of helping them to find God's purpose and plan for their lives . . . spending time and energy and emotions trying to protect, and teach, and guide instead of trusting God . . . words spoken without grace to people and about people . . . not giving my boys a momma who loved God with all her heart and all her soul and all her mind . . .

My list of regrets is endless.

Yours may be too.

However, though my list is endless, there are many things I don't regret.

All the time I gave my boys . . . the material things I sacrificed to be able to spend that time with them . . . snuggling with them, rocking them, singing to them . . .the hours at the beach . . .the hours sitting out front with them while they rode bikes, played with their neighborhood friends, and pretended and pretended and pretended . . . watching Seth pitch a baseball . . . walking the golf course with Ethan (when he was playing great or playing on the other side of awful) . . . all the golf clubs and baseball bats and gloves and guitars and books that were bought . . .reminding them that even though they were talented and beautiful and gifted that they weren't any better than anyone else . . . times in Sunday School, Vacation Bible School, children's choir . . . the thousands of times I told them that I loved them, that I was proud of them, and that I was glad and thankful that I was their momma. . .

Yes. By God's grace, I did some things right.

But what I got right, and the goodness I see in those two little boys who have grown up to be wonderful, compassionate young men, isn't enough to take away the burden of regrets. It isn't enough to quiet the voices that remind me where I've failed, and of the consequences of those failures. The love I have for them, the love they have for me, and the love they have for each other isn't enough to heal the pain and sorrow of regret.

The only way to take the heavy burden of regret off of my back, and out of my mind is to lay them at The Cross.

The Cross is where I trust that there is nothing that God can not and will not redeem. Because The Cross isn't a cross of merit, of having done it right. It isn't a cross of reward for a job well done.

The Cross of Jesus is a Cross of Grace.

"Undeserved favor."

There's a line to the David Crowder song, "How He Loves," that speaks of regret. I cling to it when I open the photo albums and take the top off the boxes of pictures.

"I don't have time to maintain these regrets

when I think about the way

He loves ."

When what I did right won't negate the burden of regret. . . when the sweet memories won't drown out the accusing voices, when seeing the men my boys have become won't take away the pain regret brings . . .

the promise of His Love does.

And no where else is His love more demonstrated than at the cross.

"But God demonstrates His own love toward us,

in that while we were yet sinners,

Christ died for us."

Romans 5:8

I've learned that when I go to The Cross and I think about the way He loves me and my boys, I don't have the time, the energy, or even the desire to maintain my regrets.

A STORY ABOUT EGGS

2011-04-19T23:16:00.001-05:00

Sometimes the words won't come.

Sometimes they come too fast and there are too many of them. They churn and twist and flood.

And sometimes when the flooding won't stop, too many words flood away the story that you wanted to tell.

The story that you are called to tell.

Story telling and story writing bring great joy but only if you can slow down the flood of words enough to be able to put them in the right order. Slow enough to make a sentence, a paragraph. Slow enough to paint a picture of what happened.

This is a story I've told but never written down. The words are many, and they flood like a river, but they are inadequate. I'd rather tell you this story face to face. If I could see your face, as the words flowed, I'd be able to tell if you were getting it. If the picture was complete. If my words had come together like I wanted them to.

I can't see you as you read this story. I can't see the questions on your face and stop to explain myself.

But I'll write it anyway . . . and trust.

***********************************************************************

I stood on the other side of the kitchen. The kitchen that had become half-kitchen, and half-hospital room. With bedrooms all upstairs, the eat-in area of our kitchen seemed the most practical place to care for Ethan.

Ethan looked peaceful while the four men surrounded his bed. One was a close friend of Jim's. One was a man that had worked with Jim, and the other two were the man's pastor and the pastor's son. They had come to pray for Ethan.

Ethan had been in a coma for over three months.

As I stood across the room, feeding our dog cookies to keep her quiet, I heard these men make requests for my son before the throne of God. They ask God to restore what had been taken from Ethan. They asked for healing of his body and mind. They asked God for a miracle. I heard them ask with boldness, and with confidence, and with expectation. I heard love.

They wept over my child.

I watched as the son of the pastor, a young man probably in his early twenties, took Ethan's feet in his hands and asked God "to make them dance again."

I appreciated their prayers, their kindness, and their compassion. But to tell you the truth, I was emotionless as they prayed over my sweet child.

It was like I was watching a movie about someone else's life, about someone else's child.

What I realize now was that while these men were praying for my child with faith and hope of God hearing and answering each request, I had become hopeless.

Not hopeless about everything. I knew God wouldn't forsake us. I believed that He would make a way for our family, but I had also come to believe that it would be a way without Ethan. I knew that He would give us strength. I even believed that one day, even though I didn't know how, God would give joy to our lives once again.

But as far as God waking up Ethan, my hope was gone.

As Proverbs 13:12 says, "Deferred hope really does make the heart sick."

I've asked myself many times why I quit hoping. Why I quit asking.

(This is where the words flood, and I wish I could see your face so I would know if my words were making sense.)

You see, I knew that if I didn't trust God, I wouldn't make it. I knew if I didn't trust Him, I'd never be able to be a wife to Jim or a mother to Seth. I knew that if I didn't trust God, I'd never be able to spend another day taking care of Ethan.

I was trusting Him for every breath I was taking.

In the beginning I did ask. With every possible improvement, with every positive report, I asked. When the doctors in Gainesville said that Ethan would die within 48 hours, and he didn't, I asked. When we brought him back home from Gainesville, and he was surrounded by friends and family, I asked. I fell asleep asking, after spending 16-hour days at the hospital. I woke up asking.

But the waiting was long. And I was weary. And I was way past disappointed.

Looking back, I think I had become afraid to ask God to wake Ethan up. I think I was afraid to ask for a miracle. I was afraid that if I hoped and asked, and God in His sovereignty chose not to do a miracle in Ethan's body, that my disappointment would cause me not to trust Him.

I had to trust Him.

It was like asking God to wake up Ethan was putting all my eggs into one basket. And if He didn't do it, all my eggs would be broken and I wouldn't have any more eggs.

I would be broken, more than I already was, and there was no room for any more brokenness.

I decided to spread "my eggs" around, and I quit asking.

I was putting my faith in holding onto God, instead of Him holding onto me.

I was putting my faith in my own understanding.

Being afraid to ask, even though I didn't realize it at the time, was believing that His grace would not be sufficient for an answer I didn't want to hear.

I was heart-sick, and heart-sick people aren't always rational. They don't see clearly. They are desperate to protect themselves from any more pain.

I was truly heart-sick.

But then The Healer spoke. . .

"Cheri, look at these men. They don't even know Ethan. Yet they ask and they are believing for him. You are his mother, and you are not asking me to wake up your son."

It was that simple.

No lecture. No scolding. No fireworks or explosions. Just the truth.

God was asking me to trust enough to ask.

He was asking me to ask without knowing what the answer would be.

He was asking me once again to trust Him.

And I did.

A few days later, a friend came by who had been faithful to pray for us. She sat on the sofa with me, and asked me what she could pray for during the following week. The only words that came out of my mouth were, "Ask God to wake up Ethan."

Her response was precious. She said, "I did for such a long time, but lately I have been praying for strength and comfort for you, Jim, and Seth. I will pray and ask God to wake Ethan up."

Another friend came by to drop off food and, as she was leaving, I ask her to also pray that God would wake Ethan up. After we both agreed that it was impossible with man, but possible with God, she committed to pray the same prayer.

I didn't predict what God was going to do. I didn't know. All I knew was that I was to ask, and that the One who had called me to ask was good.

God chose to wake Ethan up several weeks later in a most miraculous way. You can read about it here.

Lately it seems like God is asking me the same question that He had asked me in the kitchen that day seven years ago.

"Cheri, why aren't you asking?"

I don't know. Maybe I've become a little heart-sick again.

Would you like to join me in asking God to do another miracle in Ethan's body, and in his spirit?

I'm no longer afraid of broken eggs.

"Hope deferred makes the heart sick,

but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life."

Proverbs 13:12

a few days after April 19, 2004, the day our prayers were answered

2683 DAYS

2011-04-12T19:48:00.001-05:00

A Tee-ball game and a family dinner at a favorite pizza place were on the agenda for last Friday night while we were in Mobile.

I was getting ready in the guest bedroom and bath, when I heard my sister and niece laughing in my sister's master bathroom. The power had gone off at my niece's house, and she had come "to borrow" some of her mother's electricity.

(I have decided electricity is one of a girl's best friends.)

I never have the opportunity to get dressed with other females, unless you count Bayley, my dog. I miss getting solicited and unsolicited advice about lipstick color, my choice of shoes, or how my hair looks in the back. My sister and my niece sounded like they were having so much fun, that I couldn't resist gathering up my stuff and joining them.

There was a bottle on my sister's vanity with the word "moisturizing" on it. Considering I was going to wear capris, I figured I could use some moisturizing. I picked it up and began to "moisturize" my legs. It seemed kind of thick, and it didn't seem to be absorbing into my skin, but I thought . . ."oh well." I continued to rub it into my legs, and figured I could use some on my arms, too.

About that time, my sister looked at me and said, "What. Are. You. Doing? That's liquid soap!"

I had been "moisturizing" my skin with soap!

I got a wet washcloth, began washing it off, and soon became a walking bubble bath.

Needless to say, we were crying we were laughing so hard . . and I smelled really clean.

I always love it when I can make someone laugh.

My sister, after she got her breath back, said to my niece, "She'll probably write about this on her blog."

I responded, "The three people that read my blog would probably like me to. I'm sure they get tired of me writing about the same thing."

The "same thing" I share, over and over again, is what God is teaching me as I walk through this life. The path I am walking, is not the one that I would have chosen. It isn't even close. But knowing that He is walking it with me, makes it, on most days, very good. Some days, the path is absolutely beautiful and I wouldn't trade it for any path in the world. But there are days when the path is bearable only because He is carrying me.

My life took a turn on December 7, 2003. That turn put me on a path that has been marked with regret, grief, loss, and uncertainty. A path that has led me straight into deep, dark valleys. There have been many times when this path, while winding through all the valleys, has led me upward. Upwards to mountains where I can stand and see more beauty than I ever could have imagined. Mountains where my vision is not obscured, and I can see past the hurt, and loss, and disappointment. I've found myself on mountains so high, that I've been lost in the clouds and mist of God's hope and peace. Blinded to everything, except His presence.

But as the path has taken me upwards to the mountains, the path has also taken me back down into the valleys. It's seeing the mountain behind me, and the valley once again in front of me, that sends me reeling into panic, dread, and depression.

"Not again," I've pleaded.

"I like it on the top. I like it where I can see. I like the feelings and emotions up on the mountain. It's a place where I don't feel so alone. It's easier to see You from the mountain top. It's someone else's turn to be in the valley. I am weary of being in the valley."

When you are in the valley, it is easier to listen to the the lie that says, He is closer to you on the mountain than He is in the valley.

By God's grace I now remember, when I again have to take that first step off the mountain, heading back into the valley, that it was in the valley where I first found Him.

It was when I was in the deepest of all valleys, that I found My God.

It was there I found the One my heart had always wanted.

The One I knew who was always there, yet the One I couldn't find.

It was in the deepest valley where I fell in love with the One who had loved me first. (1 John 4:19)

That was 2,683 days ago.

Because He walks with me every day, through the valleys and up to the mountains and back down into the valleys, I have at least 2,683 days of the "same thing" to share.

Every new day there will be another lesson. There will always be one more thing to share. Every lesson comes out of the love He has for me, and of walking the path with Him.

His Love is higher than any mountain and deeper than any valley.

I know.

I learned it in the valley.

"For I am persuaded that neither death nor life, nor angels nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present or things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord." Romans 8: 38-39

PREPARING

2011-04-04T18:48:00.002-05:00

Spring is the heart's best preparation for Easter.

Spring reminds us: the things that are most important in life, we can't do for ourselves.

They are gifts from The One who gave Himself for us.

"And being found in appearance as a man, He humbled Himself and became obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross." Philippians 2:8

483. God did what I couldn't do for myself

484. when I can't forget what I've done, He does (Jeremiah 31:34)

485. pear tree blossoms against a blue sky

486. going barefoot

487. riding in the backseat because Ethan is with us

488. my family of four-plus-one being together for church on Sunday

489. the same five, eating a leisurely Sunday lunch with the sky above us and the bayou in the background

490. blooming dogwood trees

491. worshiping and studying God's Word beside precious friends

492. seeing a little light, maybe, just maybe

493. good news about a sick little baby girl

494. the church that sponsored the Priscilla Shirer simulcast

495. knowing God will make a way for me, and others, when it seems like there's not one

496. a moment I thought I would never have again

FALLING FISH

2011-04-01T14:34:00.002-05:00

The headline from our little weekly community newspaper read:

"FISH FROM SKY
NEARLY CLOBBERS MAN"

No kidding.

It's true.

A 15-inch flounder fell from the sky, and landed right next to a man who had just stepped out of his truck.

He looked up to see what could have dropped the fish and saw a disappointed osprey flying overhead.

Apparently, the osprey caught his lunch from the bay and was able to fly with it in his talons for a short distance. But the fish was too heavy for the osprey to carry and he dropped it.

We scanned the story into the computer and have had some good laughs about it.

Only in a place where the local guys are call "Boggy Boys" (named after Boggy Bayou, a bayou that runs through the town), where the newspaper is called "The Mullet Wrapper," and where the biggest event of the year is called "The Mullet Festival" . . . could fish actually fall out of the sky.

It's also probably one of the few places where people didn't doubt the story at all.

We live in a place where cast nets are toys, kids learn how to swim and ski before they learn how to ride a bike, and a place where there are more waterfront parks than there are gas stations. A place where dinner comes from a shrimp boat, instead of a meat market.

A place where you don't decide "if" you are going to go swimming, but "where." The spring? The creek? The bayou? The bay? Or the Gulf of Mexico?

We live in a place where it is impossible not to hear God speaking through His handiwork.

It surrounds us.

He certainly spoke to me through the over-confident osprey and the dropped flounder.

He reminded me that I've been like the osprey over and over again, with the same results.

I've tried to carry things that are just too heavy for me.

I've tried to carry people, circumstances, and messes that I was never supposed to carry.

Dropped "flounders." Dropped circumstances. Dropped loved ones.

The outcome is always the same.

When anything or anyone tries to carry a load that's too heavy, they will eventually drop it.

I've asked myself "why?" Why have I continually thought I could carry the loads?

I've asked myself, why did I try, when so many times like the osprey flying overhead, I've ended up squawking about something I dropped.

My squawking usually involves the same phrases: I'm sorry. I thought I could. I won't do it again.

But I do.

Over and over.

Why?

I've searched my heart and I've come up with these reasons. . .

Well, first of all, mommas are supposed to fix things. We are supposed to protect and rescue others. I believe it comes under our job description. I see my name written in big bold letters on problems, heart-ache, and the messes of life.

Secondly, I believe that whatever is going on, whatever is broken, certainly has to be in some way or another, my fault. So . . . it's my responsibility to make it right. To undo the damage. I believe the lie "that it is all up to me."

The saddest reason, and the biggest lie that drives me to try to carry loads that were never meant for me to carry, is that God won't do what He has promised. It is a total and sinful unbelief in God's Word and in His Character.

In Beth Moore's Living Free, she states, "the Greek word for unbelief is apistos,. . . not worthy of confidence, untrustworthy . . . a thing not to be believed, incredible."

Meaning I guess, as hard as it is to confess, that is what I say about My God every time I think "it" is up to me. Every time I try to fix and rescue. Every time I try to carry a load that's way too heavy for me, and a load that has His Name on it instead of mine.

I'm tired of "dropping" people I love. I'm tired of trying to fix everything, and only causing more hurt and damage.

Most of all, I am tired of calling my God untrustworthy. I'm tired of not having confidence in The One who is the only source of any confidence at all that I could have in this life.

The fall the flounder took when it was dropped by the osprey didn't kill it.

But the man that it almost clobbered in the head, took the fish home and ate it for lunch.

I thank God, that by His mercies, He has protected who and what I've dropped.

I am thankful that He is faithful when I'm not.
(2 Timothy 2:13)

"Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light." Matthew 11:28-30

"If we are faithless, He remains faithful; He cannot deny Himself." 2 Timothy 2:13

HOLES

2011-03-29T12:30:00.004-05:00

"I wonder too... if the rent in the canvas of our life backdrop, the losses that puncture our world, our own emptiness, might actually become places to see.

To see through to God.

That that which tears open our souls, those holes that splatter our sight, may actually become the thin, open places to see through the mess of this place to the heart-aching beauty beyond. To Him. To the God whom we endlessly crave."

Ann Voscamp

One Thousand Gifts

That's exactly what happened to me. Seven and a half years ago.

My world fell apart.

It was torn from top to bottom.

I was torn from top to bottom.

And in that moment of tearing, of falling apart, of sinking and shattering, I found the God I had always wanted.

In that moment, for the first time, I saw the God who had always seen me.

There was something in my heart that knew He was there, that knew what He must be like. An unfinished outline. An empty silhouette. An idea.

Was it a memory from when He chose me before He laid the foundations of the world (Ephesians 1:4)? I don't know.

I believed in God. I believed in Jesus. But . . . I couldn't see.

I couldn't see until everything seemed lost. I couldn't see until my world was torn in two.

God was there, when Ethan's roommate called and handed the phone to the paramedic that told us that our son wasn't breathing. He was there as we prayed, mile after mile, for mercy, for forgiveness, for a miracle. God was there as we made promise after promise. Promises He knew were made by children of dust. Promises He knew we could never keep. But . . . He heard them.

He was there, and I knew it.

I could see Him.

The God I had feared, the God I had run away from, the God I couldn't appease, the God I had hidden from . . . He was there.

And I wasn't afraid.

I've heard it over and over again. I've heard it from friends, from women in my support group. I've read the words on blogs from sisters I've never met. The Apostle Paul, the broken Jacob, the suffering Job and King David all tell the same story.

When life falls apart, when it seems everything is gone and you have nothing, you find what you have always wanted. You find the One you've always wanted.

God is so often found in the tearing, in the shattering. In the loss.

Yet, if we aren't careful, if we don't guard our hearts, over a period of time, the loss that allowed us to see God, can once again blind us to Him.

As we try to build back a life. As we try to put back the pieces together and make life work, we find there are gaping holes. Holes that are caused by loss. Lost dreams, relationships, security. A life once known, gone forever.

We try to fill the empty places, to cover up the holes. We apply spackle but it won't stick. Nothing works and we are frustrated by the gaping. We become desperate. We hate the holes caused by loss so we try harder, and harder, to fill them. We demand that others fill them. But they can't.

We survive some days by pretending that the holes don't exist or by denying their depths and their impact.

The whole time we are working desperately to fill in the holes, we know, deep down inside we know, that loss is loss. The pain of loss is . . . that it is forever.

And the pain of forever is too much.

In the pain, in the forever, in the trying, in the desperation, we can become blind. We can become blind to God's goodness, to His gifts, and to His grace.

The light becomes less. The darkness more.

In my pain of forever, I've heard God tell me that He sees the holes. That He is grieving with me and that He is sorry. I've felt Him hold me close and tell me that He understands. That He knows. And I felt Him hold me while saying nothing. The holding is enough.

I've heard Him tell me that He will rebuild my life. That He, the One who put my life together in the beginning, will put it together again. That it will be beautiful. And more beautiful than before.

But I've also heard Him say, "Sweet, baby girl, there's still going to be those holes. There's still going to be the loss. I love you too much to take them away. The holes caused by loss, brought you to me. They allowed you to see me, to find me. They allowed me to give you what you have always wanted. And it will always be that loss that will let you know I'm near. The loss, as much as we never wanted it, will be your gain. And, if they let it, it can be gain to those you love."

And I've heard the words, hundreds and hundreds of times over the last seven years, "TRUST ME."

When I listen and when I trust, I stop my re-building. I stop the spackling and the pretending and the denying. I stop hating the holes.

I look at the them. I don't turn away. I look straight at the holes in my life, and when I give thanks, I look through them.

"Mourning not only means facing our losses; it also welcomes our losses as ways of following more radically the voice of love. The gospel calls us continually to make Christ the source, the center, and the purpose of our lives. In Him we find our home. In the safety of that place, our sadness can point us to God, even drive us into God's loving embrace. Here mourning our losses ultimately lets us claim our belovedness."

Henri Nouwen from Turn My Mourning Into Dancing

Looking through the holes with gratitude, I see again. My vision is perfected. The blurriness is gone. When I look through the Lens of Gratitude, my sight is corrected.

Gratitude is the way I say yes. Yes to the holes. Yes to the loss. Yes to Grace. Yes to seeing God.

I think of the saints who have gone before that now see God's glory face to face and I think I hear them say, "Yes, Cheri, it's true . . .

We know that all things, (even the loss, the holes, the tearing down, the falling apart, the regrets, and all that's broken) do work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to his purpose." (Romans 8:28 with my amplification)

466. grace to see through the holes

467. the One I see

468. being held

469. being called, "sweet baby girl" by the One who made me

470. this moment

471. and this one

472. color

473. a sweet, young momma wanting so badly to do it right

474. a Saturday morning singing praises between two good friends

475. hearing testimonies from women that said He did for them what He did for me

476. the word "ALL" in Romans 8:28

478. the man at the pier that looked at Ethan in his chair and refused our money and said, "enjoy."

479. early mornings on the patio, wrapped in a blanket

480. the birds singing so loudly that I can hear them over my iPod

481. logs in my eye that keep me from pretending

482. God's rebuilding

FEATHERS AND WINGS

2011-03-25T12:03:00.000-05:00

This weekend . . .

may He cover you with His feathers and under His wings may you take refuge. Psalm 91:4

HUNKERED DOWN

2011-03-24T11:56:00.000-05:00

It's been a season of storms.

Storms that were expected, and storms that caught me completely by surprise.

Storms so familiar I've named them. They show up on the radar frequently enough for me to know their patterns. The way their winds swirl. I know how long they usually last. How hard their rains fall, and how much damage they leave behind.

They are predictable.

Some of the other storms aren't.

They come with no warning. With no time for preparation.

Their winds expose vulnerable, weak places. Their winds and their rains uncover buried feelings, and emotions, and fears.

They blow away the pretense. They blow off the mask of strength, and of complete healing, and of having it all together.

Living along the Gulf Coast, I'm familiar with storms. Big storms.

I know when hurricane season begins and when it ends. I have the Hurricane Preparedness Plan memorized. I consider the Weather Channel's Jim Cantore an old friend. I'm familiar with what part the barometric pressure plays in the strength of a storm, and I've seen first hand what a Category 4 storm can do.

Our family usually stays put when a storm is headed our way. We haven't had much luck when we've tried to evacuate. The traffic is too much and so is the craziness that accompanies a predicted storm. We stay home and follow the advice: Run from the water. Hide from the wind.

When we find ourselves in the middle of the "cone of uncertainty" we hunker down.

hunker down:

1. to crouch or squat, to sit on one's haunches

2. to settle in at a location for an extended period of time

3. to take shelter, literally or figuratively; to assume a defensive position to resist difficulties
( Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary)

Sometimes, hunkering down is all we can really do.

And it's all I've been able to do with the recent storms that have been coming my way.

Oh, trust me, I've tried to run. I've tried to pretend. I've tried to act like I just don't care.

I've tried to act tough.

But, I'm not.

I've tried to keep my storms private. Especially from those who are dealing with violent, overwhelming storms of their own.

So, I'm doing what a person who's had lots of experiences with storms does.

I'm hunkering down.

I'm hunkering down, with Jesus.

Sometimes that's the only thing you can do when a storm is on its way.

And most of the time, it's the best thing you can do.

He has proven, over and over again, to be my Refuge and my Fortress.

My Shelter from all that is swirling around me.

My Peace from all that is swirling around inside of me.

"Put your life in My hands, and it will be for you a place of peace and of spiritual comfort. So long as you abide in this place, I will control the rains that fall upon you and the winds that blow. So long as you are in My hands, you are in a garrison the walls of which no enemy will scale."

from Come Away My Beloved by Frances Roberts

I've learned from the hurricanes and tropical storms that I've experienced that it's usually the dead and diseased trees that fall first. It's the dead and useless limbs and branches that we find laying in the yard after the winds have passed. Limbs and branches that have served their purpose and no longer produce fruit.

It always amazes me, while we are picking up the downed branches, yelling to one another over the roar of chain saws, and washing off the dirt and the leaves that have been glued to the windows, that the sky has "never" been so blue. That the sky has "never" been so beautiful.

But I wonder. Maybe the sky didn't change.

Maybe it was always so blue... maybe it was always so beautiful.

Maybe I just couldn't see it.

Maybe I just needed a better view.

A view that only a storm could bring.

A GIFT?

2011-03-18T12:14:00.001-05:00

It's a gift we don't want.

A gift we want to return.

We've been given it too many times.

We cry out for God to take it away.

We argue, "If You really loved us . . ."

But deep down inside we know. We know this gift, the one we don't want, is wrapped in His love.

He has given us the gift of loneliness.

". . . there is a . . . loneliness. God is calling you to deep, personal intimacy, an intimacy that is wonderful and very demanding. God asks you to let go of many things . . you must live it with trust, standing tall. You must try to say, 'Yes, I am lonely, but this particular loneliness sets me on the road to intimacy with God.' "

Henri Nouwen

from From Here to Love

"You are My witnesses," declares the Lord, and My servant whom I have chosen, so that you may know and believe Me and understand that I am He. Before Me no God was formed, nor will there be one after Me." Isaiah 43:10

MISSING PIECES

2011-02-05T13:29:00.000-06:00

This past week was like trying to put together a puzzle with too many pieces missing.

It just didn't come together and make the picture that I thought it would make.

Next week will be better.

I've asked the One Who Holds All the Pieces of My Life to tell me what was missing.

"Make me know your ways, O LORD;

teach me your paths."

Psalm 25:4

Hope your week-end, and your next week, has all the pieces your need to make a beautiful and grace-filled picture.

IN THE SMALL

2011-01-29T09:39:00.000-06:00

I pull back the curtain to let the morning in, and I see the canopy God gives for our house to sleep under, and I am reminded that everything great starts small.

The body, the branching out, the reaching to the sky. It all started small and I wonder why I always want the big and the more and the right now.

The trees had to wait to cover, to shade, and to touch the sky. But I don't wait well, and I want to do now.

And He still says to wait.

And I ask how.

How do I wait?

And He answers me and He says, "Cheri, wait in the small."

To wait, in . . .

a small thank-you

a small turning of the other cheek

a small kiss on the forehead

a small yes

a small grace filled word

a small whispered prayer

a small doing before the asking

a small touch of the hand or pat on the back

a small amount of looking for the good instead of the bad

a small amount of looking up and out instead of down and in...

It all starts in the small.

"I cry out to God Most High, to God who will fulfill His purpose for me."

Psalm 57:2

IT MATTERS

2011-01-25T22:46:00.001-06:00

#441-465

When we fail to Thank God, we say what He gave didn't matter.

Yesterday I did something that I had been putting off for quite a while. I sorted through boxes and boxes of pictures of Ethan. I had tried to do it before, but I quit before I really got started. It was just too hard. That was the day I learned, that if you cried hard enough, you could cry your contacts right out of your eyes.

It's hard looking at legs that used to walk, and run, and climb. It's hard to look at legs that pushed pedals on bikes and flew across the water on skis. It's hard to look at legs that walked golf courses and danced with friends.

It's just hard.

I'd be lying if I said that, after 7 years, it doesn't hurt quite so much.

And I'd be lying if I said, I don't still ask why.

But I realized yesterday, while trying to keep hundreds of pictures from becoming wet with tears, that for twenty years, Ethan had so much more than so many other children have had.

I was thinking yesterday that there are children who will never know what it's like to walk, to ride a bike, or to hit a baseball. There are children who will never know what it's like to run and jump into the gulf, or what it feels like to skim across the water on skis. There are children who will never know what it's like to have leg cramps from playing too hard outside, or what it's like to have aching feet from spending six hours on a golf course lugging around a heavy bag of clubs.

There are children who won't grow up to be teen-agers that drive, and go to dances. There are children that won't be able to stand taller than their dad, or wrestle on the floor with their brother or sister.

And though I don't understand why, and I wish with all my heart that all children could, I do know, that the fact that Ethan could, was a gift from God.

So I thanked Him.

I thanked God with every picture, and with every tear.

I thanked Him that Ethan pushed a swing, and climbed on a teeter-totter.

I thanked God for all the times E climbed on the kitchen counter, and for all the stairs he climbed.

I thanked God for the time when Ethan, unimpressed with our nation's capital, decided he was not going to climb one more step!

I thanked Him for all the times Ethan walked on the beach with the sand between his toes.

I thanked God for the trees He gave Ethan to climb, and for field days where he could run in a race and pull a rope in a tug-of-war.

I thanked God for the times Ethan jumped to shoot a basket and skated with friends.

I thanked God for all the times Ethan got to "show-off."

I thanked God that Ethan got to know what it was like to fly on skateboards and bikes.

I thanked God for all the things that Ethan drove and rode, and for all the pretending.

I thanked God that Ethan had the chance to drive a car, and to hang out with the best of friends.

I thanked God for the times Ethan explored, and for the times he conquered.

I thanked God for times Ethan went fishing with his brother, and for times he stood beside his dad.

I thanked God that Ethan knew what it was like to hit a baseball and to hunt for Easter eggs.

I thanked God that E was able to do something that he loved so much, and that he was able to do it for a long time. I watched Ethan practice for hours. I followed him around golf courses tournament after tournament. I saw how much he loved walking the courses, and experiencing the challenges. There was nowhere he'd rather be. And though it hurts that he can't do it now, I am so glad he was able to do it then.

I thanked God for all of this, and so much more.

There are hundreds of pictures of Ethan.

And hundreds of thank-you's.

I thanked God, oh how I thanked Him, that the Ethan I see in the pictures, the Ethan that walked and ran and jumped and climbed and skied and biked and drove, is the same Ethan I see today.

He has all of his memories, all of his humor, all of his intelligence.

He has all of his heart.

God didn't have to give any of it.

But He did.

And oh, how it matters.

Every single day, and every single minute.

"Even though our efforts to thank God in prayer are weak, nevertheless we find that when we succeed in truly thanking God, we feel good at heart. The reason is that we have been created to give glory to God, now and forevermore. And every time we give thanks, we feel that we are in harmony with his plans and purposes for our lives. Then we are truly in our element. That is why it is so blessed to give thanks."

O. Hallesby from the book "Prayer."

BETTING

2011-01-22T13:11:00.001-06:00

I know there's a bank on the other side of this bayou. A bank with trees and houses and boat docks. The fog keeps me from seeing it. But I know it's there.

If I had to, I'd bet my life on it.

I know there's a bridge out in the bay. I've crossed it many, many times. On most days I can stand right here, on the edge of the bayou with my feet in the sand, and see it. On really clear days, I can see cars traveling across it. I can't see the bridge because of the fog, but I know it's there.

If I had to, I'd bet my life on it.

The fog tries to convince me that what I see of the bayou is all that there is. But I know better. I know if I look to the left, the bayou flows around the bend into another bayou. I know if I look to the right the bayou flows out into the bay, and the bay flows out into the Gulf of Mexico. I know that there is more to this bayou than I can see through the fog.

If I had to, I would bet my life on it.

The Bible tells us of men and women who bet their lives on things they couldn't see.

They bet their lives on Someone they couldn't see.

They are remembered in the book of Hebrews, Chapter 11. The people in this chapter are sometimes called members of the "Hall of Faith." Philip Yancy calls them "Survivors of the Fog."

I have many, many days when the fog rolls in. Some days, the fog just clouds a small part of my life, like a relationship, or a decision, or a memory, or a failure. Other days, I just can't seem to see anything at all through the mist of the fog.

I like sunny clear days. Days when I can see the bank on the other side of the bayou and the bridge out in the bay. Days when I can see the plan, and the way I am suppose to go. Days when I can see God's hand working in my life.

But if I were to be perfectly honest, I'd have to say that on those clear sunny days, I think I don't need God as much. On those days when I have answers, and I can see the plan, I try to make it on my own.

"The kind of faith God values seems to develop best when everything fuzzes over, when God stays silent, when the fog rolls in." Yancey

I want to be remembered for my faith. I want to please God with my faith. I want to be called a "Survivor of the Fog."

But, I can't . . . without the fog.

Faith in what I can see, isn't faith at all.

"Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." Hebrews 11:1

And as far as pleasing God . . .

"But without faith it is impossible to please Him, for he who comes to God must believe that He is, and that He is a rewarder of those who diligently seek Him." Hebrews 11:6

It pleases God when we trust Him in the fog. It pleases Him when we trust that He is there and that He is good and that He has a plan for us . . . even, and especially, when we can't see.

How do we do that when we are blinded by the fog of confusion and chaos and fear?

One thing I try to do, when the fog rolls in, is to remember.

I remember what God had done before, when I couldn't see.

I remember that when the fog was lifted, I could see that His hand had been there all along.

I remember God's goodness and His mercies and I hang onto to His faithfulness.

I remember all His benefits from Psalm 103.

And I remember that, though the fog will return, there will be days when I can see.

There will be clear and sunny days.

"Fidelity involves learning to trust that, out beyond the perimeter of the fog, God still reigns and has not abandoned us, no matter how it may appear." Yancy

Only twenty four hours after the fog, I could see this . . .

And this . . .

When the fog wins, when it's so thick I find I can't even remember... He makes a way.

" . . . come boldly to the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need." Hebrews 4:16

He's there in the middle of the fog.

I know it.

I'm betting on it. I have to.

UNCOVERED

2011-01-19T14:20:00.003-06:00

I don't think much about the 154 days that Ethan was "asleep," and we couldn't wake him up. I don't have flashbacks or nightmares about all those days when he was gone.

Sometimes sounds do haunt me when things are quiet and still, but life does a good job of quieting them. A good job of covering them up, of drowning them out.

But this morning when I woke up sobbing, I knew that what we think is gone or healed or forgotten is frequently just covered with the dirt of time and new experiences, and a whole lot of God's grace.

I think the uncovering started with the shooting in Tucson, and hearing that Congresswoman Giffords had suffered a horrific brain injury.

All brain injuries are horrific. They can in no way be good.

Eight months before Ethan's accident, I had surgery to removed a small and silent tumor from my brain. I remember my neurosurgeon saying something to the effect that it is never good when you have to do something to the brain. Brains weren't made to be messed with.

My surgery ended with the very best possible scenario. I will always be thankful.

The words from the news reports about the congresswoman's condition began to affect me.

The next 48 hours. Brain swelling. Removing part of the skull. Ventilators. Intensive Care. The right hemisphere. The left hemisphere. Can't say. The next 72 hours. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

Ethan's brain injury was unlike the congresswoman's. But the words I've heard recently were so much the same. Same enough to make my heart race. Same enough to feel the panic. Same enough to relive the unknowing and the uncertainty, and the slow, long hours and days and weeks and months of waiting.

When President Obama announced the good news that Congresswoman Giffords had finally opened her eyes, I went back. Back to Ethan's dark ICU room when he first opened his eyes. We had waited for ten days. And even though the neurologist told me that it didn't mean anything and that it didn't change Ethan's prognosis, his eyes were the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen.

I began to feel hopeful for Congresswoman Giffords. I was hopeful because I heard one of her doctors say, "We would be wise to acknowledge miracles."

I was in the process of burying the fresh thoughts and memories from those 154 days, when I read a prayer request for a 38-year-old mother and writer who had suffered a stroke. I prayed as I read about her husband, her two daughters, and the critical condition the stroke had left her in.

I know that I'm not the only one who feels overwhelmed by prayer requests.

There's so much pain, so many needs. There are so many requests. Trying to remember and to squeeze them all into a busy, already crowded day, can leave us feeling like "what's the use?"

But I know the use. When you've been on the other end of a prayer request . . . when it's your loved one people are praying for . . . when you know that all your hope, your only hope, is in God, you want people to pray. You want anyone and everyone to pray.

I remember standing in the hall outside of the ICU waiting room when Celeste, the liaison between the hospital and families, walked past me, stopped, turned around and said, "Oh yeah, I wanted to tell you that I just got an e-mail from a mechanic in India, and he's praying for Ethan."

I'm not a mechanic in India. I'm a wife and mom and someone who likes to share her thoughts with people on a little blog. I live in a tiny community in the panhandle of Florida, but I am praying my heart out for Joanne, The Simple Wife.

Reading the updates that Joanne's husband is writing on her blog, has taken me back once again to a time and place I'd rather not go.

Joanne's husband describes the sound the ventilator makes being like the breathing of the Star Wars villain, Darth Vader. He's so right. I hated that machine and the sound that it made. But I loved it because it was being used to keep my baby alive.

I remember the doctor's reporting that Congresswoman Giffords, though still connected to the ventilator, was doing some breathing on her own.

How well I remember the day the respiratory therapist explained to us that every time a certain little light blinked on the ventilator meant that Ethan was breathing for himself. We stared at the light waiting for it to blink. We begged for it to blink. Ethan needed to remember how to breathe.

Joanne's husband shared how devastating the pictures of his wife's brain looks. We saw those pictures, too. The ones the doctor holds up while he takes his pen out of his pocket to use as a pointer. He asks if you see the darkness he's pointing to and you say "yes." And then he says the darkness is not good. And then you realize that what you are looking at isn't a broken bone that can be set and put into a cast, it isn't a ruptured appendix or inflamed tonsils that can be removed. You realize the medicines they might give aren't to fix or heal, but are only to keep something else bad from happening.

Your loved ones' brain is who-they-are. It is their personality, their memory, their sense of humor. It is the part of them you love more than any other part. It is the part that loves you.

And the doctor tells you that the darkness that covers it means severe injury, and possibly dead tissue that might be gone forever. I remember silently screaming, "NO!"

I read about the first time Joanne's little girl walked into see her, and I thought about the first time Ethan's brother and cousins and friends saw him. When The Simple Wife's husband tried to share his wide range of emotions, emotions totally out of control, I thought about my niece sitting on the floor, out in the hall, crying into her hands. I thought about my nephew's anger as he cornered the neurologist who lacked the gift of communication. I thought about experiencing total despair and hope at the same time. I remember having enough of it all, and of losing control, and of screaming at the top of my lungs. I remember being totally confused when I found myself laughing with my cousin in the ICU waiting room.

Emotions. Joanne's family is feeling every emotion possible right now, and they are very possibly feeling them all at once. I remember.

The family is asking people to pray Psalm 46 for Joanne. We asked people to pray Psalm 40 for Ethan.

I prayed Psalm 40 again this morning.

"I waited patiently for the LORD and He inclined to me and heard my cry. He also brought me up out of a horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock, and established my steps. He has put a new song in my mouth-Praise be to our God. Many will see it and fear, and will trust in the LORD." v.1-3

"For innumerable evils have surrounded me. My iniquities have overtaken me, so that I am not able to look up. They are more than the hairs of my head. Therefore my heart fails me." v.12

Let all those who seek You rejoice and be glad in You. Let such as love Your salvation say continually, "The LORD be magnified!" But I am poor and needy. Yet the LORD thinks upon me. You are my help and my deliver. Do not delay, O my God." v.16-17

Yesterday, Joanne's husband wrote a post about the peace and strength he is experiencing. It brought me to my knees. I have experienced that peace and strength. It is a mystery. It is supernatural. It is Spirit-born and Spirit-breathed. In a moment when all seems lost and hopeless, it comes from within us, but it is not of us. Peace and strength beyond understanding and comprehension.

I ask you to pray, in the name of Jesus, for Joanne. Pray for a miracle. Pray for complete restoration. Pray that God will do more in her body, and in her brain, than can ever be imagined or hoped for.

Please also continue to pray for healing and restoration for Congresswoman Giffords. Pray the miracle that God seems to be giving to be complete and glorifying to The Giver.

As I was praying for these two incredible women, I thought about the many, many families who are in an ICU with their loved ones and have no one praying for them. They have no one that will put their husband or wife or child or parent's name on a prayer list. E-mails and blog posts aren't circulating through the internet with their heart's greatest desires.

There are people who are hopeless and don't know that hospital walls are holy unto the Lord and that He hears the cries of His people. I believe that God, in His Great Love and Mercy, hears the cries of all people.

Would you please ask our Father to touch the lives of some of those that are unknown today. Would you ask him, with me, to work a miracle for those who don't know what prayer can do. The Lord knows who and where they are. They are precious to Him.

I hope I haven't turned the tragedy and pain of two beautiful women into something about myself.

As I sit here and type and I hear Ethan yawning and yelling,"someone please come and get me out of this bed" I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that none of this is about me. It never has been.

It is all about Him.

"Many O LORD my God, are Your wonderful works which You have done. And Your thoughts toward us cannot be recounted to You in order. If I would declare and speak of them, they are more than can be numbered." Psalm 40:5

BY AND BY

2011-01-17T13:36:00.002-06:00

"Trials dark on every hand and we cannot understand
All the ways that God would lead us to that blessed promised land;
But He'll guide us with His eye, and we'll follow till we die;
We will understand it better by and by.

By and by, when the morning comes.
When the saints of God are gathered home,
We will tell the story how we've overcome;
We will understand it better by and by."

Words sung by two little girls to their grandma and grandpa.

Words sung with no idea of the meaning of trials, or of waiting, or of the by and by.

We sang the words and the melody for one reason. Our singing made Grandma and Grandpa happy. It made them smile.

Singing was a way we could love them.

Our singing was something we could give to them.

How true . . . that in giving, we receive.

It's hard to believe that my cousin, Mary Jo, and I are close to the age our grandparents were when we sang to them.

They seemed so much older than we do now.

They seemed so much wiser.

The years that have passed have brought with them the understanding of trials, and of waiting, and of the by and by.

Jesus said, "In this world you will have trouble. But take heart I have overcome the world." (John 16:33)

Jesus was right. The troubles have come. Troubles that two little girls could never have imagined.

Grandma and Grandpa knew they would come. Troubles had come to them.

Maybe that is why they encouraged us to sing. Maybe that is why our voices made them happy.

They knew they were sowing truth into us. They knew, though we didn't understand at the time, that one day we would.

By encouraging us to sing God's promises, they were giving us a gift.

A gift that would be opened long after they were gone. They were giving us the gift of hope. Hope for when the troubles came.

They knew without hope, the two little girls they loved so much, wouldn't make it.

There have been times when hope was thought to be lost.

Times when we wondered if the by and by would ever come. Times when it seemed the by and by passed right by us, without us ever seeing it.

Times we still wonder, will there ever be any understanding, or sense made of what we see in our lives.

But the wondering and the waiting can't destroy the promise that was placed in our little-girl hearts, by Grandma and Grandpa, and by the Savior that gave His life for us.

The promise is that the morning will come. That there will be understanding.

Until then, two grown up little girls who don't feel very grown up at all, will follow the One that sees.

We will wait with hope for the by and by, and we will tell our stories.

We will pass Grandma and Grandpa's gift to another generation.

And we will continue to sing.

"One generation shall praise Your works to another, and declare Your mighty acts."

Isaiah 145:4

Giving thanks for . . .

427. grandmas and grandpas.

428. girl cousins.

429. singing for smiles.

430. hope sowed that blossoms.

431. stories to tell.

432. a spiritual inheritance.

433. the promise of the by and by.

434. the promise of the morning.

435. wooden church pews and old green hymnals.

436. new Bible studies.

437. new faces and friends.

438. knowing the best we can do is all He asks.

439. the assurance a friend has received that her daddy will spend eternity in heaven.

440. His overcoming our world!

WANTING LIGHT

2011-01-08T09:50:00.003-06:00

The sun is celebrating its first week of 2011.

"Often we want to be able to see into the future. We say, "How will next year be for me? Where will I be five or ten years from now?" There are no answers to these questions. Mostly we have just enough light to see the next step: what we have to do in the coming hour or the following day. The art of living is to enjoy what we can see and not complain about what remains in the dark. When we are able to take the next step with the trust that we will have enough light for the step that follows, we can walk through life with joy and be surprised at how far we go. Let's rejoice in the little light we carry and not ask for the great beam that would take all shadows away." from Henri Nouwen's Bread for the Journey

I hope your week-end will be filled with His light and that you have someone to share it with.

IT'S RAINING

2011-01-06T21:53:00.002-06:00

I remember the words Jesus spoke about forgiveness.

"For if you forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses." (Matthew 6:14-15)

They didn't know they had hurt me. But they had. And when I couldn't stop the bleeding from the wound and make it go away, I chose to forgive.

Forgiveness is always a choice.

I chose.

God chose.

He chose once and for all.

I whisper the words and tell Him what they did. I almost feel like I am tattling on a friend. But He says that "He is my refuge and that I can pour my heart out to Him." (Psalm 62:8)

So I do.

With all the horrible pain and sadness and loss people are experiencing, my words sound silly and petty.

But it hurt. And I have to be honest.

Honesty is the first requirement in all forgiveness.

I whisper my sins to Jesus. I whisper how I have spoken hurtful words and how I have refused to give grace. I tell Him about not turning the other cheek, and of thinking the worst. I tell Him of the times through the day that I forgot Him. The times I chose to do it my way. I confess I heard Him say "no".

And it all unfolds in front of me. How my sins were much more intentional. How they were much more hurtful and spiteful. How they were against Him.

I wonder will I change? Will I be different tomorrow? Is there hope for me?

I ask for His forgiveness.

And it starts to rain.

And it's raining Grace.

I can feel it hit my face, and it covers me, and I know He is washing it all away.

He is washing away what I've done to others, and what they have done to me.

The Grace-rain falls so hard that when it stops, it leaves puddles.

The Rainmaker has left me puddles of Grace.

"God's law was given so people could see how sinful they were. But as people sinned more and more, God's wonderful grace became more abundant. So just as sin ruled over all people and brought them to death, now God's wonderful grace rules instead, giving us right standing with God and resulting in eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord." (Romans 5:20-21. NLT)

WE COULD HAVE MISSED IT

2011-01-05T20:41:00.002-06:00

I'm thankful that Christmas isn't . . .

lots of gifts under the tree.

spending time with extended family.

a wonderful sit-down dinner of turkey and my sister's amazing cornbread dressing.

I'm thankful that Christmas isn't . . .

attending parties and programs and open houses.

going to our church's Christmas Eve "glow-stick" service and singing my heart out.

sending out cards with our family's faces on it.

I'm thankful that Christmas isn't . . .

sharing delicious baked goodies with my neighbors and making my special pound cake for loved ones.

writing a post on my blog that points people to the One in the Manger.

packing bags of food for the needy from our church's food pantry.

I'm thankful that Christmas isn't . . .

a day without a little disappointment.

a day that is easy and struggle-free.

a day that goes as planned.

I'm thankful Christmas isn't . . .

the only day for spiritual epiphanies and revelations.

the only day we can draw near to the manger.

the only day we can read the Christmas story.

Because if it was, we would have missed it.

My mother's fall on December 13th, changed our plans a little and caused a few things to be marked off the "to-do" list. Marked off, not because they were done, but because they no longer were a priority. We were okay with that. We were just thankful that we could do what we could to help my mom and dad, and my sister.

I tried to squeeze two weeks of preparations into two days. I was determined to pull it all together. I was so determined that I found myself, sitting in a shopping center parking lot, with my face buried into my hands doing the "nasty cry."

The frustration that brought on the sobs was from not being able to find what I was looking for, running out of time, needing to be in two places at the same time, and being physically and emotionally exhausted. I found myself saying over and over again, "It's just a day. It's just a day. His birth wasn't just any birth. He's not just any Savior. But Christmas is just a day."

Sobbing in a parking lot, bound up with plans and expectations, trying to continue family traditions at all cost, and being overwhelmed by a much-too-long-to-do-list wadded up on the car seat beside me were a heck of a way to celebrate the birth of the One that came to bring us freedom!

Christmas Eve, when three of the four of us got sick, all of our Christmas plans quickly came to a halt.

And,

I felt perfect peace.

The colds, sore throats, and fevers were out of my control. There was nothing that I could do. Nothing I could do except open up my heart to whatever God wanted to show me through the busted plans, failed attempts, and un-baked cookies.

What He showed me was exactly what I had said to myself during my melt-down in the shopping center parking lot . . . Christmas is just a day.

But "The Reason We Celebrate" isn't.

He is . . . everything.

The Redemption Story . . . The Rescue Plan . . . Our Emanuel - "God With Us" . . . The Incarnation . . . The Savior in the Manger . . . Jesus Messiah . . . He is worthy of our praise and celebration 365 days every year.

I was determined to spend my Christmas Day being grateful. That was one way I could celebrate Jesus, regardless of our circumstances. I told myself that if I felt the least bit ungrateful or if I felt a "pity-party" coming on, I would get in my car and drive to the hospital where we spent Christmas 7 years ago. Sitting in another parking lot, reliving painful, horrible memories would have been a small price to pay for the "Offering of Thanksgiving" that I wanted to give to Jesus.

But I didn't have to go anywhere.

My heart was full. And I was grateful.

Grateful . . .

406. that My Savior is so amazing, so powerful, so indescribable, that a 24 hour day isn't enough time to celebrate his birth.

407. that He's in everything . . . even sore throats and colds and fevers.

408. that the pressure's off because He knows my heart.

409. that my extended family is close enough in distance that we can celebrate together whenever we want.

410. for the safety of a sweet, stubborn dad that chose to stay alone.

411. for the healing of broken bones and for good surgeons.

412. for Sunday morning worship services where I can sing my heart out.

413. for Christmas cd's that are going to stay in the car for a few more months.

414. for my sister's offer to make us cornbread dressing when we come for a visit.

415. for Ethan's two great aunts and great uncle who showered him with 12 surprises to celebrate "The 12 Days of Christmas."

416. for our church's food pantry that shares food every week of the year.

417. for a text message with a picture telling us we were missed on Christmas Day.

418. that Ethan was able to fight a wicked virus and is back to normal.

419. for songs sung and a guitar played.

420. that the Christmas Story can be found in every book of the Bible.

421. for a generous surprise found in an e-mail.

422. for a sister that loves my oldest son so much that she was willing to drive two hours to satisfy his turkey addiction. (I wouldn't let her do it. He had to eat fried chicken instead.)

423. that cookies and cakes can be given and received all throughout the year.

424. for all the memories hung on a real tree.

425. for a sister that shows me grace by doing for my parents when I can't do.

426. that God, who loved the world so much that He gave His Only Begotten Son, so that whoever believed on Him would never perish but have eternal life, gave my youngest son back to me.

*******************************************************************

When Seth was walking out the door, to return home the Monday after Christmas, he said, "I feel like we kind of missed Christmas."

And then he said, "But not really."

Oh how I agreed.

We didn't miss anything.

It was a wonderful, wonderful Christmas.

And it will be tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that . . .

Grateful that Wednesday is as good of day to give thanks as Monday!

IN 2010 . . .

2010-12-31T23:20:00.001-06:00

We enjoyed the quiet.

We laughed.

And we laughed.

We watched sunsets from the pier.

And we told strangers about our miracle.

There were times we felt small and insignificant.

And times we heard Him call our names.

We shared and we listened.

We touched just to make sure we weren't dreaming.

We watched fireworks over the bayou.

We rejoiced when Seth moved closer to home.

We celebrated ordinary days.

We found old friends on Facebook.

(That's me on the right.)

We went for long walks.

We told friends good bye.

We cheered with one of our two favorite athletes.

We went to the beach.

We remembered that God tells us that His thoughts toward us outnumber the grains of sand.

We acted like we were 12.

And pretended that we were tourists.

We texted. (Some more than others.)

The Creator awed us.

We celebrated with our loved ones when their team won.

We thanked God for time with special people.

We held each other up.

We posed for dad over and over again.

We loved and got loved back.

We were amazed.

We loved on each other.

We thanked God for clean oil-free beaches and wondered why we get to live in such a beautiful place.

We played music and we took pictures.

We remembered. . .

and we remembered.

We were amazed how much people love us.

We realized the greatest gifts come from above.

We lived everyday in His mercies and by His grace.

Some moments were prettier than others.

We doubted and we trusted.

We hoped and we despaired.

We fell and we got up.

We fought and we forgave.

We laughed and we cried.

Oh boy, did we cry.

And it was all covered by God's Grace.

May your 2011 be covered in the same.

THE LAST TEN DAYS

2010-12-23T11:14:00.000-06:00

Dear Friends,

I have so much I'd like to share. So many stories I'd like to tell.

My heart is broken that I can't.

Ten days ago my mother fell and broke her hip in three places.

It has been difficult, as I have wanted and needed to be with Jim and Ethan, to be two hours away with my mother and dad. I fight the guilt of leaving one to be with the other.

It has been difficult and scary to think of my 88 year old dad being alone, while my mother is in rehab.

My heart breaks when I see the pain my mother is experiencing from her injury. I am sad I can't take away the fears that uncertainty brings, and her disappointment of not being at home for Christmas.

Thinking of the future, as my parent's independence seems to be slipping away, is overwhelming. My sister and I so desperately want what is best for them, but the answers to what that might be and how it will come about seem to be hidden.

The last ten days have been difficult for my "recovering people-pleaser self." I'm fighting the feelings of failure that come from not being able to meet the expectations of others, and the expectations I have for myself.

This time of year is filled with memories of God's faithfulness towards our family. Seven years ago today, we brought Ethan back to the hospital where he was born. He took the four and a half hour trip in an ambulance with a ventilator helping him breathe. His broken and desperate parents followed him in their car, while they prayed for mercy and strength. The doctors had told us that the child we were bringing home would never wake up. They told us that he was gone . . . that his brain had suffered too great of an injury.

I praise God everyday that He gave Ethan back to us. I thank Him everyday for Ethan's life and the miracle He has done.

But I also grieve everyday for the part of Ethan that is still missing. I want it back.

I want all of my child.

I miss not having all of Ethan.

The emotions that come from remembering make it difficult to deal with another trial at this time of the year.

Seven years ago, when Christmas seemed to be salt poured into a gaping wound and just a horrible reminder of all that was lost, God gently reminded me that Christmas was the only reason I had any hope at all. He even sent a sweet man, Father Julien, to confirm His words to me.

Once again, in the darkness and the disappointment, I am trusting in the Sweet Baby in the Manger. I am trusting in the hope He brings to us all.

My hope this Christmas is found in His words . . .

"I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace.

In this world you will have trouble.

But take heart!

I have overcome the world."

John 16:33

I wish you all the love and hope and peace The Overcomer brings.

Cheri

ALL

2010-12-11T10:31:00.000-06:00

"The hopes and fears of all the years are met in Thee tonight."

Because God came, to be with us, all of our hopes and all of our fears are safe with Him.

"Behold, the virgin shall be with child, and bear a Son, and they shall call His name Immanuel, which is translated, God with us." Matthew 1:23

There is no hope, there is no fear, that He doesn't understand. Jesus came for them all.

"For we do not have a High Priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses, but was in all points tempted as we are, yet without sin. Let us therefore come boldly to the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need". Hebrews 4:15-16

I have so many hopes, and so many fears.

May they all be laid down at the manger.

And at the cross.

"O come to us, abide with us, Our Lord Immanuel!"

THE TIRES

2010-12-07T20:00:00.003-06:00

This is a story that's been told and told. But, it has never been written.

It's a story about coming home and being met by The Father. Like The Father before, He ran to meet us. He welcomed us with love and clothed us with His grace.

He celebrated our return by giving us gift after gift.

It was as if we had never been gone.

*******************************************************************

Seven years ago today . . .

"What are you doing? Why are you stopping? We don't have time for another stop."

We had only been driving for two hours.

We had been driving since the call came. The call with the awful, terrible words.

I remember hearing Jim say the words to Ethan's roommate on the other end of the phone . . . "Don't say that to me. Don't say that to me."

My first thought, when the words became real, and while we were caught in traffic with other Christmas shoppers, was to get out of the car and run. To run to Gainesville, to get to Ethan any way I could.

We were on interstate later that Sunday evening when I asked Jim why he was taking the exit to make another stop. It was around 5:30. There was now little traffic. We were two hours closer to Ethan.

When we weren't screaming, or praying, or crying, or begging, we sat in silence as we stared ahead at the miles that separated us from Ethan.

Seth was back home alone. He called every few minutes begging for answers and reassurance. I had none to give him. Leaving Seth at home with the unknown and the fear that came with it, had been an unbearable decision to make. We couldn't lose an hour to return home to get him. Seth agreed that we just needed to go. To go to Ethan.

That's why I was confused when Jim exited the interstate. Why would we stop?

"The tires, Cheri. Something is wrong with the tires."

The station off the interstate, close to where Jim had noticed the tires beginning to wobble and the car beginning to swerve, was our only choice. Having traveled this road many times to see and to touch our college boys, we knew there was not going to be many options.

Jim jumped out of the car to find both back tires were flat. There was a spare for one but we needed two. Apparently, somewhere over the last 100 miles, we had picked up two large nails.

Jim ran into the convenience store to ask if the clerk knew of any business close by that could give us help. The answer was no.

I sat in the car. I couldn't move. I thought of the mother in the movie Home Alone and her desperation as she tried to get across the ocean back to her little boy. Gainesville seemed an ocean away. I wished I was a character in a movie, and that the last two hours had been something someone had written and not something that I was living.

Jim put on the spare and used a patch kit he had in the trunk on the other. The air hose at the station had been cut. We soon learned as we drove further down the interstate that cutting air hoses was a favorite activity of vandals with nothing better to do with their time.

I remember Jim breathing hard as he worked frantically while taking in the cool December air. I was afraid he would die and that I would never get to Gainesville. The only way to fill the patched tire with air was with a little cigarette-lighter-operated compressor Jim had bought on a whim and kept in the trunk.

It had been a blessed whim.

It seemed to take forever. When Jim got in the car, trying to catch his breath, his hands were shaking and bleeding.

We had lost precious time.

Nurses called my cell requesting our permission to use life-saving measures. One specialist after another quickly explained what was being done and why. We gave our permission for every request. We had no choice.

Before we got back onto the interstate, Jim wanted to call the doctors from a land phone. He had thought of questions while he had been working on the tires and knew we could quickly lose cell coverage.

I was able to finally move and get out of the car. I stood beside Jim as we shared the phone receiver. The doctors listened as Jim asked his questions. They tried to answer. But the answer Jim wanted to hear, when he asked if Ethan would make it, the doctors couldn't say.

After driving a few miles, we realized that the patched tire wasn't holding air. We stopped again only to find another cut air hose. We once again used the little compressor. It seemed we could have blown up the tire faster with our mouths. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.

We were losing time with every stop. The calls from the nurses and doctors were still coming. We received a call from a woman named Simone. She worked as a volunteer liaison between the hospital staff and family members. Just a few hours before we were buying Christmas presents for Ethan. And now a woman, whom I had never met, was giving me updates on my son's condition, on his life, and reminding me to drive carefully. She shared the statistics of families being involved in traffic accidents as they traveled to get to a sick or injured love one. I didn't care about other people, or her statistics. I wanted to get to Ethan.

We were relieved when we saw a billboard advertising a nearby truck stop. Maybe they would also have auto tires. Or maybe they would have a better patch kit and an air hose that wasn't cut.

They didn't have what we needed, but the girl behind the counter told us that there was another truck stop a few miles down the road, The Red Onion Grill. She said there was a mechanic that had a little garage behind the truck stop/restaurant. If he wasn't there, she said that we could go into the grill and ask the hostess to call him. The mechanic lived close by, and maybe he could come and help. She said she thought he had some tires in his shop.

We prayed as we watched for the billboard that marked the exit where hopefully we would find The Red Onion Grill. We saw it just ahead, and with our hearts racing faster than they could beat, we turned into the parking lot.

And then, behind the grill, we saw this . . . with the mechanic standing out front under the light.

He was resting his back on the garage door, smoking a cigarette. He looked as if he was waiting for something. I believe he was waiting, even though he didn't know why, or for whom, or for what. I believe, on a quiet Sunday night, that God had him waiting for us. There was nothing more beautiful than seeing that mechanic.

I jumped out of the car before Jim had put it into park. I ran to the man, grabbed him and screamed, "My baby is dying in Gainesville, and we have two bad tires, and you have to help us."

He looked at me calmly and said, "Okay."

He had a truck trailer in the back with old, used tires. He told us the tire he found that would fit the car was not very good, but that it was better than the patched one that wouldn't hold air. Jim ran into the grill to get cash out of the ATM, while I listened to Simone tell us to be careful.

I also talked to a special person in our lives that was already at the hospital with Ethan. Ethan's roommate was also there. I asked them if Ethan was alive. I had decided that if he wasn't, Simone, and the doctors and nurses, wouldn't tell us over the phone. I knew they would wait until we were off the road and safe.

"Yes. He is alive." they said. "But, it is very, very bad. You need to get here soon."

The mechanic quickly had the tire on the car and added air to the spare with his air hose. He didn't have much to say. He was a quiet angel. He did remind us, as Jim handed him the cash for the tire, that he couldn't guarantee it, and that it might need air along the way.

Our praying, our crying, our screaming, and begging continued as we drove in the night.

We had to stop again to put more air in the tire with the small and slow compressor. More time lost.

We were a short distance from Gainesville when I noticed the car was beginning to pull to the right. I mentioned it to Jim. He looked straight ahead and said, "I am not stopping again." I was scared about what would happen if the tire went completely flat. What if we had made it so close, only to be stranded alongside the road minutes away from Ethan? I made my case for one more stop. And Jim repeated, "I am not stopping again."

We saw the familiar signs. The University of Florida. Alachua County. Santa Fe Community College. We saw the green gators with the "F" on their bellies that decorated the billboards of stores and restaurants advertising their goods and services. On previous trips to Gainesville, this was the place where I'd get the mirror out of my purse and put on a little blush and lipstick. I wanted to look pretty for my boys. That night I was crying.

Jim, who had gone to school at the University of Florida, knew the way to the hospital. It wasn't the campus hospital complex where Seth had been admitted for serious strep infections twice before. It was the small, original downtown Gainesville hospital, just a few blocks east of the campus. It was called Shands at Alachua General Hospital. It was an old red brick building with huge oak trees sprinkled throughout the parking lot.

Simone was waiting for us at the front door of the hospital. She was there to take us straight to the Medical ICU. She was waiting to take us straight to Ethan.

We jumped out of the car and ran to her. As I was running, trying to keep my feet in my shoes, I did something, which I still do not know to this day, why. I stopped in the parking lot and turned around and looked at our car.

Both back tires were completely flat.

The tires weren't low. They were completely flat, like all the air had been pulled out with a syringe.

We had made it. A four and a half hour trip had taken us almost eight. But, we were there and, Ethan was still alive.

I've wondered why. Why the nails? Why the flat tires?

God had to know, even before the day had begun, that we would need to get to Ethan. He knew the way we would go, and He knew where the nails would be.

So why the tires?

Why the three-plus hours of added fear and pain and struggle?

I've wondered if we had gotten to the hospital sooner, if we would have been asked to make decisions for Ethan that would have been too difficult to make. Maybe we would have made the wrong decisions.

In the car, on the interstate, we had to trust in what the doctors thought was best, and gave them permission to do so. There wasn't time for them to make a case about every one of their decisions. And we were in no position to respond. Maybe, God was protecting Ethan by keeping us away.

Maybe the doctors would have been distracted by two grieving parents. Maybe our tears, or the look in our eyes, would have caused them to make different decisions. Decisions that weren't the best for Ethan.

Maybe the sounds and the sights of the emergency room and watching the doctors trying to save Ethan's life, would have been more than we could have handled. Maybe we would never have been able to get that scene out our minds. Maybe it would have tormented us.

Maybe God was protecting us by keeping us away. (When we first saw Ethan, he was in a quiet, peaceful ICU room with two male nurses standing beside him. They looked like angels. I will never forget the peace I felt in that awful, awful moment.)

Maybe God just wanted to have a little more time with us. We had been away for a very long time.

Maybe He wanted to provide for us through ~~a stranger~~ an angel at The Red Onion Grill. Maybe He wanted us to know that He is always sufficient and that He will meet every one of our needs. Maybe God was teaching us to be completely dependent on His strength instead of our own.

Maybe God just wanted us to ask Him, to cry out to Him. Maybe our cries that night were truly "better than a hallelujah."

My mind works overtime always trying to figure things out. I wear myself out sometimes with all the "maybes." I try to make sense of it all. It reminds me of the verse from Job I shared on my last post.

"I admit it. I was the one. I babbled on about things far beyond me, made small talk about wonders way over my head." (Job 42:3)

For whatever reason, the nails found their way into our tires. Why, I don't know. I probably never will. But, this I know: God was faithful. When we had run away, and stayed away, when we were at our worst, He was there. When we were faithless, HE WAS FAITHFUL.

He was faithful in all the wonderful gifts He gave that night. His keeping Ethan alive, the wonderful, dedicated doctors and nurses that cared for him, my sister and brother-in-law that dropped everything to be with Seth and to drive with him to Gainesville the next day. He was faithful in the gifts of the tire and the spare that got us to Gainesville and most certainly for the mechanic on duty.

His gifts were better than we could have asked for or imagined. But the gift of Himself was the best gift He gave us that night, seven years ago.

God has given us many gifts since December the 7th, 2003. Gifts too many to name, and some so wonderful words can't describe.

But He has been, and will always be, the Greatest Gift we could ever, ever receive.

"Behold what manner of love, the Father has bestowed on us, that we should be called the children of God!" 1 John 3:2a

BECAUSE

2010-12-06T06:34:00.020-06:00

The question comes.

Why?

Why must I do it your way?

Why can't I do it mine?

I plead my case.

I've tried your way. It's too hard. It's too slow. It hurts.

I've tried playing by the rules, but sometimes it seems that I'm the only one and it takes two.

I've tried to follow the Christian principles, you know, the ones in the books, but they didn't work.

Doing it your way looks like someone's going to be left out and hurt and rejected and misunderstood, and I'm pretty sure that that someone is going to be me.

You just don't understand.

I'm tired.

My way makes sense.

Yours doesn't.

Why do it your way?

Why can't I do it my way?

In the quiet, just as the sun is making its first appearance of the day, God whispers His answer into my spirit.

And my spirit whispers it to me.

Answers usually come in the quiet.

In the quiet, where there are no distractions.

In the quiet, where there are no "bodies" to run to. No "bodies" to listen to me and no "bodies" to tell me what I want to hear.

In the quiet, spirit speaks to spirit.

Because He Is Worthy.

That's the answer.

That's the only answer.

Because He is worthy.

There's no case to be argued. No defense to be given. No threats are made. No manipulation.

Because He Is Worthy.

As The Light becomes brighter I can see.

I can see that ...

... sometimes we forgive, only because He Is Worthy.

... the cheek is turned, because He Is Worthy.

... we serve when there are no "thank-yous," because He Is Worthy.

... we take a chance and let go of the hurt knowing it may come again, because He Is Worthy.

... we keep our mouths closed and we don't give a defense, because He Is Worthy.

... we trust when we think it's as dark as dark can be, only to realize it's getting darker, because He Is Worthy.

... we don't quit when we see no fruit and the vine looks dead, because He Is Worthy

... we look past what we see to the unseen, because He Is Worthy.

... we love when the love is rejected and mocked, because He Is Worthy.

... we put ourselves out there and become vulnerable and exposed when it would make more sense to hide and build walls to protect ourselves, because He Is Worthy.

... we say no to the temporary fixes and highs that surround us, because He Is Worthy.

... when the finish line is so far we can't see it, and we know we're going to have to crawl on bloodied knees to cross it, we keep running the race because He Is Worthy.

The sun takes it's place on the stage of the day, and its light shines brighter than ever.

And in the light . . . His Light, I see, that Jesus is always the answer.

He was, and is and will always be the answer for every question.

He Alone Is Worthy.

"You asked,'Who is muddying the water, ignorantly confusing the issue, second guessing my purposes?'"

"I admit it. I was the one. I babbled on about things far beyond me, made small talk about wonders way over my head."

"I admit I once lived by rumors of you; now I have it all firsthand- from my own eyes and ears!"

from "The Message," Job 42:3 and 5

MONDAY'S GRATITUDE LIST

386. That He hears me and wants to answer me

387. That He waits for the quiet so I will be sure to hear

388. For times when there are no "bodies" to run to

389. That my foolishness and forgetfulness doesn't drive Him away

390. His understanding that the dust I'm made of is weak

391. The sun that gives light and warmth and reflects His Glory

392. His ways that are always better than mine

393. The strength that comes from Him to follow His ways that are better

394. A turned cheek

395. A quiet mouth

396. Learning to enjoy serving with no "thank-yous"

397. Vines that aren't dead

398. Learning that being misunderstood isn't the worst thing in the world

399. Coming out from behind the walls.

400. Knowing that the finish line is there

401. Pinching myself to see if it's true, that Seth is just an hour away from us

402. Hearing my two grown sons quote lines while they watch the Disney movie "Davy Crockett" one more time... and being flooded by sweet, sweet memories

403. Being reminded that "Nothing Is Impossible with God" when we went to get a Christmas tree

404. For your faithfulness, when one of your children asked to hear from you, and for the message of hope you gave her... and that she was willing to share your faithfulness with others... and that your love for her is perfect and forever

405. For Jesus who is the Answer to my every question

KNOWN

2010-12-03T09:05:00.005-06:00

"He was in the world, and the world was made through Him, and the world did not know Him." John 1:9-10

I think that's one of the saddest verses in the Bible.

The world that Jesus made, the world that He left heaven to die for, the ones He loved, didn't know Him.

They saw Him. They saw His light. They looked at Him with their eyes. But they never saw Him.

His creation sees Him today. But, they still don't know Him.

I know a little of the pain of being seen, and of not being known. I know the pain of loving someone so much that you would never think about not laying down your life for them, and them seeing you, but not knowing you.

I know the pain and the agony of looking into the eyes of your precious child, and him not knowing you are the one that God chose to give him life.

When I think about my pain, and the human love from which it is born, and I compare it to the pain that comes from the perfect, selfless love of Jesus, my heart breaks over the rejection He must have felt.

It breaks for the rejection He still must feel.

It was two weeks after Ethan's injury before he opened his eyes. I was standing at the foot of Ethan's bed with a nurse. The nurse, who became my friend, and a messenger of God's comfort and compassion, said "Look. His eyes are open."

The doctor in the room, a neurologist, was quick to temper the excitement and hope of the moment. "It doesn't mean anything. His eyes are open, but it doesn't mean anything. Nothing has changed."

When the doctor finished his examination and left the room, the nurse, my friend and God's comforter, took my hand, looked me in the eyes and said, "It does means something. It means that his eyes were closed, and now they are open. And that is a good thing."

It was a good thing.

But it was also a very painful thing.

When Ethan's eyes were closed, we knew he couldn't see us. No one would expect to be seen by someone whose eyes are closed. But with his eyes opened, we hoped, and expected, that he would see us. We expected him to know us like we knew him.

The feeling of not being recognized by my child was a hurt I cannot describe.

For months I would get in Ethan's face and stare into his beautiful blue-green eyes. I was determined that I was going to make him see me.

There were times when the nurses questioned if Ethan was becoming aware of his surroundings. They wondered if he was coming back. They so wanted to see a miracle. They watched as we stood in front of him. Would he track with his eyes? Would he respond to light? Was there any recognition? Just a little?

There never was.

I don't know if it was my pride, or just a mother's heart, but I always felt like if Ethan was going to know anyone, if he was going to respond to anyone, it was going to be me.

I knew him nine months before anyone else. I felt his life first. He "breathed" with me. His first heartbeat, beat inside of me. He was my baby. He would know his momma.

But he didn't.

For 4 months, he looked at me, but he didn't know me.

How long has Jesus stood in front of the very ones He created and waited to be seen? How many times has He done everything He could possibly do to make himself known? How much love has He poured out? Hasn't He given all he had to give? How much suffering did He endure to be seen? How much humiliation and scorn did He subject Himself to, just so He could give to the ones that didn't want Him? How great the hurt when His children see all He has created for them but they still don't see Him?

I wonder if I had lived when Jesus walked this earth, and if I had come face to face with Him, would I have seen Him. Would I have known Him?

Would I just have been one that was following the crowd, looking for some drama, wanting to see a few miracles here and there? Would I have been one that wore the "tee-shirt" and talked and wrote about what I had seen, only to disappear when I saw Jesus carrying His cross?

Would I have seen Him?

Would I have known Him?

It took me a long time to see Jesus. Years in Sunday School. Years teaching it. Singing in the choir. Reading Bible stories. Doing for Jesus. And I didn't see Him.

I didn't know Him.

The pain that it must have caused Him.

It's Christmas, and we Christians are sometimes angry or frustrated because people choose to say "Happy Holidays" and "Season's Greetings" instead of "Merry Christmas."

We get angry or frustrated when atheists put up billboards mocking the Christian slogan "Jesus is the Reason for the Season." We are fed up with the use of "X-mas." E-mail after e-mail exhorts us to do something about it.

I heard someone on television last night, someone who thinks he's a comedian, making jokes about Christians wanting Christ to be remembered at Christmas. I was sickened and disgusted.

We may get angry or frustrated by what we hear and what we see at Christmas. We may feel sickened or disgusted by what others say, or don't say about our Savior and Redeemer. Our pride may rise up when we are ridiculed or not respected for our beliefs.

Jesus is Christmas. Jesus is The Celebration. Jesus is The Reason. We want to make it right and we feel helpless and defeated when we can't.

We Christians feel so much, don't we?

I think, maybe in the smallest, most human sense, I have an idea of what Jesus feels at Christmas.

What Jesus has felt since the very beginning.

Hurt.

The hurt of not being known, of not being seen by the very ones He created. The ones He who knew no sin, became sin for, so that they might become the righteousness of God and live forever.

Lord, keep my eyes open. Help me to know You more and more. Open the eyes of those who do not see You. Who do not know You. Open the eyes of those who ridicule You and who love your gifts and not You, The Giver. May Your Light shine bright this Christmas so the blind will see in their darkness and so that every heart will sing . . .

"Holy, holy, holy. The Lord God Almighty. Who was and is and is to come."

"You are worthy, O Lord, to receive glory and honor and power; for You created all things, and by Your will they exist and were created."

"You are worthy to take the scroll, and to open its seals. For You were slain, and have redeemed us to God by Your blood."

"Worthy is the Lamb who was slain to receive power and riches and wisdom and strength and honor and glory and blessing!"

"Blessing and honor and glory and power be to Him who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb, forever and ever."

Be blessed this "Christ season" as you see and sing!

Love,
Cheri

(Praises from the book of Revelation, chapter 4 and 5)