NEVER ONCE

I knew the words were true, when I first heard the words to Matt Redman's song, "Never Once."

Because I know, that we have never once walked alone.

"Standing on this mountaintop

Looking just how far we've come

Knowing that for every step

You were with us.

Kneeling on this battleground

Seeing just how much You've done

Knowing every victory

Was Your power in us.

Scars and struggles on the way

But with joy our hearts can say

Yes, our hearts can say.

Never once did we ever walk alone

Never once did you leave us on our own

You are faithful, God You are faithful.

December 7-2003 - December 7, 2012

"Scars and struggles on the way

But with joy our hearts can say

Never once did we ever walk alone.

Carried by Your constant grace

Held within Your perfect peace

Never once, no, we never walked alone."

Yes today, nine years later, we are carried by His constant grace and held within His perfect peace.

There are struggles every day, but we have joy when we remember.

When we remember that we have never walked alone.

BLAMING OUR GIFTS

The pundit on the news said, "You can't just blame the campaign. You have to blame the candidate. Blaming the campaign is like a tennis player, who hasn't played a good match, blaming the tennis racket."


Immediately, a memory flashed through my mind in technicolor and surround-sound.

I knew the same memory was flashing through Ethan's head when the only word I could understand through his laughter was "putter."

There was a time when I thought there would be no more sharing memories with Ethan.

What an amazing gift. To laugh. To share. To remember. Together.


I'm not sure if we were laughing about one of my best parenting moments or one of my worst.

Regardless, we were laughing together, and together is always a gift.

Ethan was about fourteen or fifteen. He was playing in a two-day golf tournament in Mobile, and he was playing terribly. He spent most of the tournament in the woods, looking for lost golf balls.

I rode in a cart with other golf moms, and was thankful for their friendship and patience. They knew what it was like, after paying a huge entry fee, for their sons not to be able to hit a beach ball much less a golf ball.

Ethan's whole game had been off. His tee shots. His iron shots. And his putting. He putted so badly, I really think that if he had picked up the ball with his hands, and put it in the cup, it would have jumped out.

It was not a good tournament. But Ethan loved golf, and we both knew there would be better days playing golf.  We also knew that all athletes have good and bad days, and unfortunately in golf there is no room for being a "little off."


Ethan and I were driving home from the tournament, discussing what went wrong and where he  might need to concentrate his practice the following week.

That's when Ethan said, "I think it was my putter. I think I need a new putter."

With that comment I pulled off the road, stopped the car, and told Ethan to get out. Yes. I told him to get out of the car two hours from home. And in that moment, I meant it.

My mind was "chinging" like a cash register, ringing up all the money that had been spent on putters, drivers, and other various clubs. They were usually all given as birthday or Christmas gifts, but all golf gifts are expensive gifts.

Ethan looked confused. He knew I was his greatest cheerleader. I never missed a tournament, and although parents weren't allowed to talk to their children during a match, I would smile, nod my head, or give him a thumbs up even when he had to take off his shoes, roll up his pants, and wade into a pond to find a lost ball.

Ethan knew, as well as any fourteen or fifteen-year-old could, the time and money Jim and I had sacrificed for him to pursue his passion.

When Ethan didn't get out of the car, I told him he could either get out of the car and walk home and never play golf again, or that he could promise never again to blame his poor play on his equipment.

Ethan chose to continue to play golf and accept responsibility for his game, and I remained his greatest cheerleader. Regardless of how he played.

Ethan, when he found himself disappointed with himself and fearful that he had disappointed others, blamed his gift.


I too have blamed my gifts.

I think maybe we all do.

Adam sure blamed God's gift of Eve when he disobeyed God and ate the apple.

I've blamed my husband, a wonderful gift, for my frustrations and tempter tantrums when they actually come from the selfishness that lives in my heart.

I've blamed my children for my worry and anxiety, when my unbelief in God's goodness is the source.

It's easy for me to blame the business of others for my feelings of rejection, when those feelings are the result of worshiping at the "wrong feet."

I can blame life's disappointments and my past mistakes for my wandering and wilting, but it's me who decides to live in the world of "if only."

I can blame my lack of discipline on my circumstances.

Yet although they are hard, God has told me that as His child I am an over-comer.

I could blame the church, politicians, the weather, or the oak trees in my front yard. I could blame the fish in the bayou, or the sand in my shoes.

To tell the truth, I probably have.


I've wondered why Ethan felt the need to blame his putter.

I've wondered why I feel the need to blame the gifts in my life.

Could it be that it's just too much to admit we've failed?

Is it just too painful to admit that, after all the trying and striving and all the promises to do better, we've missed the mark again?

Does the realization that we'll never get it right, that we'll never be good enough, and that we will continue to fall, make us turn hatefully to our gifts and throw the blame off on them?

Do we blame our gifts because we have forgotten that Jesus came to fulfill the requirements of The Law, once and for all, because we can't?

Could it be we blame our gifts, because we forget that Jesus came for the sick and the weak and for those who have no righteousness of their own?


Would there be the need to blame, if we accepted the grace the tax collector accepted when he prayed, "O God, be merciful to me. I am a sinner?"

I know that the day Ethan blamed his putter, he was thankful for the gifts he had been given, and that he was just looking for a way out.

God knows that I am thankful for my gifts and that when I blame them, I have forgotten that Jesus is, and will always be, My Way Out.


Jesus came to do what I could never do for myself.

He took my failure on the cross and gave me His righteousness.

That is The Gospel and that is where, and only where, the blame game can finally come to an end.

"If we want to enjoy the benefits of The Gospel in our daily lives, we must learn to live like Paul. We must learn to look outside of ourselves and our performance, whether good or bad, and see ourselves standing before God justified - cleansed from our sins through the shed blood of Christ and clothed in the perfect righteousness of Christ."  Jerry Bridges  The Transforming Power of the Gospel

God put the wrong on Him who never did anything wrong, 

so we could be put right with God." 
2 Corinthians 5:21
The Message

 

ROOTS

The Bible calls bitterness a root (Hebrews 12:15).

I'm thinking, if we aren't careful, bitterness will become the whole tree.


It starts as a seed of resentment.

Something we just can't let go.

An expectation that wasn't met.

A circumstance that can't be controlled.

A loss that seems unfair.

An overwhelming disappointment.

A hurt that leaves one wounded.

A seed of resentment can be very small.

But it can become very powerful.

All it needs is to be buried, and to be held onto tightly.

We think that we can keep the seed of resentment from growing.

And when we realize that we can't, and that it has turned into a root of bitterness, we convince ourselves that we can surely keep it hidden.

We think that no one will ever know the ugliness that is growing inside of us.

But we can't keep the ugliness hidden.

The roots of the trees that stand on the bayou shore are exposed.

They had no control over the waves that washed their covering away.

They weren't uncovered by a series of storms but by the day to day events of high tides, winds, and wakes from traveling boats.

And I know what that's like.

To have the ugliness in me exposed by the everyday of life.

I never see it coming.

I don't see how, in the "underneath,"  the roots have spread and reached out to touched the people in my life.

I don't see, in their being buried, how ugly and dark and nasty they have become.

I am shocked to see how time has made them grow into a gnarly twisted mess.

Some of the roots started as just "a little slight."

Just "a little disappointment."

And some roots started as a life-crushing event.

An event that crushed me into a million little pieces.

But either way, the ugly mess in me started as a seed.

A seed that was held onto and buried, instead of giving it up to God.

My ugliness exposed makes me feel embarrassed, ashamed, and scared.

Scared that the ugliness will stay.

That it will continue to grow.

Life is going to hurt. There are going to be disappointments. And for many there will be life-crushing moments that only God's Grace will bring one through.


But we can fight resentment and bitterness.

We can fight them with gratitude.


God must have known that our hearts could become fertile ground for the roots of bitterness, so He commanded us to give thanks in everything (1 Thessalonians 5:18).

He knew that we could not be grateful and bitter at the same time.

Gratitude changes our perception.

It gives us "eyes" to see.

Gratitude allows us to see God's hand, His working, and His goodness in everything.

It doesn't take away the pain. I wish it could.

But gratitude takes our focus off the hurt and turns it toward the Mercy and Grace of God.

Gratitude is a choice.

But when the ugly twisted roots growing inside of us are exposed, and we see the damage that they have done to the people that we love, the choice is not a difficult one.

The choice is between humbling ourselves and letting go of the hurt, or holding on to it and letting it become your whole life.


Yes. The Bible calls bitterness a root. But I'm thinking if we aren't careful, it can become the whole tree.

"I will offer to You the sacrifice of thanksgiving,

 and will call upon the name of the LORD!"

(Psalm 116:17)

 

A SAVIOR

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 be 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

"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

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

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.

VERY GOOD NEWS

  

"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

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

INCARNATION

from The Jesus I Never Knew

by Philip Yancey

"I learned about incarnation when I kept a salt-water aquarium. Management of a marine aquarium, I discovered, is no easy task. I had to run a portable chemical laboratory to monitor the nitrate levels and the ammonia content. I pumped in vitamins and antibiotics and sulfa drugs and enough enzymes to make a rock grow. I filtered the water through glass fibers and charcoal, and exposed it to ultraviolet light. You would think, in view of all the energy expended on their behalf, that my fish would at least be grateful. Not so. Every time my shadow loomed above the tank they dove for cover into the nearest shell. They showed me one "emotion" only: fear. Although I opened the lid and dropped in food on a regular schedule, three times a day, they responded to each visit as a sure sign of my designs to torture them. I could not convince them of my true concern.

To my fish I was deity. I was too large for them, my actions too incomprehensible. My acts of mercy they saw as cruelty; my attempts at healing they viewed as destruction. To change their perceptions, I began to see, would require a form of incarnation. I would have to become a fish and "speak" to them in a language they could understand.

A human being becoming a fish is nothing compared to God becoming a baby. And yet according to the Gospels that is what happened in Bethlehem. The God who created matter took shape within it, as an artist might become a spot on a painting or a playright a character within his own play. God wrote a story, only using real characters, on the pages or real history. The Word become flesh."

For way too long I was just like the fish in the tank. No matter what God did...no matter how He blessed me or took care of me...I was afraid of Him. And whenever I heard Him call me. Whenever I felt His nearness...I would run. I would try to hide. I would try to pretend He wasn't there.

How sad it makes me to think of the way that must have hurt Him. For Him to have sent His Son for me. To have loved me with an ever-lasting love. All the blessings. All the care. I misunderstood it all. I was afraid of Him.

Yet, when I had no where else to run, I ran to Him. And His grace took all my fears away.

In my head, I had always believed in the Trinity. I knew the verses that spoke of Jesus being God in the flesh. But, I didn't know it in my heart. The fear blinded me to the truth that Jesus is the exact image of God. God shows all of Himself, all of His glory, all in His Son.

Jesus. The One that loved His mother and His friends. The One that loved to spend time with the misfits and the outcasts. The One that went out of His way to talk to a scorned woman at a well. The One that gave sight to the blind and told the crippled to get up and walk. The One that cried as his friends experienced grief. The One that told stories to His followers so they could understand things too great for human minds. The One that spoke with the authority of the King of the Universe and said not to fear Him in the same breath. The One that was never surprised by anyone's sin and never rejected anyone because of it. The One that was more concerned about His disciple that denied Him than the pain He was going to face. The One that watched His creation ridicule Him, torture Him, and reject Him. And, then He asked the Father to have compassion and mercy on them. I could go on and on.

This is God. The God I feared.

Yes. God sent His Son for our redemption. For our reconciliation. To give us eternal life with Him.

But, He also sent Jesus so we could see Him. So, we would know exactly what He was like. So we would stop running. So we would stop being afraid. So we would stop thinking of Him as our tormentor. So... we would know the love He has for us.

So He left heaven and stepped into a world that He knew all too well. He knew all the ugliness, the vileness and all the awful things that men and women do to each other. He came knowing what to expect. And, we didn't let Him down, did we? The human race showed Him all the pain, humiliation, and rejection it could muster up. He knew we would. And He came anyway.

I'm thankful that I live on this side of Christmas. That I live at a time in history where I don't have to guess what God is like.

My heart has much regret for wasting so many opportunities to spend time with Jesus. Time wasted on things that didn't matter. But, my heart is also filled with excitement that His mercies are new every morning, and that He is always near for those that call.

Billy Graham's daughter wrote a book called, Just Give Me Jesus. And, that is exactly the gift I want this Christmas morning. Jesus.

I really do just want Jesus.

"And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us,

and we beheld His glory,

the glory as of the only begotten of the Father,
full of grace and truth."

John 1:16

picture from salt-water aquarium guide.com

FATHER JULIEN

One morning, when Ethan was in the ICU in Gainesville, we decided to leave him long enough to go down to the cafeteria and try to eat a hot breakfast. As the elevator doors opened, we were met by Santa and his helper. A life-sized gingerbread man. They were way too happy and I wanted to slap them.

Yes. I just said, "I wanted to slap them."

I had held it in long enough.

I was sick of the Christmas decorations. I was sick of the Grand Piano in the lobby and the Christmas carols I heard coming from it. I was sick of the beautiful red bows and wreaths that decorated the halls. I was sick of the nurses in their cute little Christmas smocks. I was sick of Christmas.

How could people celebrate? How could people go on like nothing had happened? My life was falling apart! The celebrations continued to build. Everyday, the excitement was growing. Our lives seemed to have stopped, and everyone else's lives were continuing on.

And I was mad. I was really mad.

Just a few days before, I was planning for the greatest Christmas ever. We had a lot to celebrate.

In March of that year, I had surgery on my brain to remove a tumor. The neurosurgeon told me I had a 50/50 chance that it would be malignant. He also told me that because of the location of the tumor, that I might not be able to communicate when I woke up in the recovery room. But, with speech therapy and a lot of hard work, my speech would probably come back. He also told me, after the surgery, that because the tumor had grown deeper into my brain than he had expected, that there was a chance I would have seizures. He didn't want to put me on seizure medications because he didn't want to mask anything. He did, however, want me to have someone with me at all times for the next six weeks. Just in case.

Well, the tumor was benign. I could talk after surgery. I never had a seizure. And, I survived having someone with me all the time for six weeks.

Seth graduated from the University of Florida that May and received the news in August that he had been accepted into the law school at UF. He would begin law school in January.

Ethan was working at a nursery outside of Gainesville. He seemed to be doing so well. He enjoyed working with the two young men that had started the business, and he really enjoyed being outside. At work, Jim would answer the phone with his name and then his office name, "Plans and Programs." Ethan started to answer his phone with, "This is Ethan, pansies and petunias." He would call me at lunch almost everyday to tell me how beautiful the sky was. He would say, "Mom, it's the most beautiful color of blue." He loved being outside. He had been to some career fairs and had narrowed down what he wanted to major in when he started at UF as a junior. His two requirements for any career would be that... 1. He didn't have to work too closely with people and 2. He could be outside.

We really did have a lot to celebrate.

The day before Ethan was injured, Jim, Seth and I went to pick up our Christmas tree. We decorated it that night while Seth watched the SEC championship and ate chili. The dining room was full of all the Christmas decorations Jim had gotten down from the attic. I just wanted everything done early. The decorations. The shopping. The baking. I wanted to have nothing but free time to spend with the boys when Ethan got home for the holidays.

If your kids have moved out of the house or gone away to college, you know there is nothing like having them home. When they are home, in their own bed, it's like a holiday. Actually, it's like every holiday rolled into one. As the boys got older, I realized the day might be coming when they couldn't be home for Christmas. Or, maybe, not be home at the same time.

I was going to take advantage of this Christmas and do it right!!!


But less than 24 hours after decorating the tree, nothing was right.

There I was, standing in an open elevator with a laughing Santa and a ridiculously-big ginger bread man staring me in the face while my baby was upstairs hanging on to life. A life that we had been told by his doctors would not be worth living.

I hope you don't think I am exaggerating about the hopelessness of Ethan's condition after his injury. One of the reasons I find it so hard to write about that time and the months that were to follow, is because there aren't words to describe it. Any words I try to use...any words I use to draw you a picture of it...seem empty and meaningless. There are no words to describe that time. My sister and I were talking about it the other night and decided that unless you were there...unless you heard the doctors...unless you saw the way the nurses looked at us...unless you heard the machines that were working to keep Ethan alive... there's no way you could understand the despair and the hopelessness. We weren't in a hospital waiting for someone to get better. To get well. To go home. We were just there. Going through the motions. Barely hanging-on.

I was reading God's Word. I was praying. I was seeking Him. I so desperately wanted to trust Him. I felt His presence. But my heart was broken. I was past controlling what I was feeling. I felt myself becoming consumed with anger and resentment.

I don't do anger well. I never have.

My anger was beginning to spill out on to others. And, I hated that. Yet, as hard as I tried to keep it to myself... I couldn't.

The general practitioner assigned to Ethan's case, passed me in the hall... right after my encounter with Santa and his helper. I guess he noticed my demeanor and he asked if anything was wrong. Wrong question! My child was in ICU, being kept alive with a ventilator. I've been told that he will never wake up... that he will never know me. And this guy, a doctor, is asking me if anything is wrong. I'm sure after I got through telling him what was wrong, he wished he had never asked.

When I had a chance to go back to the motel and be alone, I let it all come out. I told God exactly how I felt. I told Him exactly how unfair it was that Ethan was hurt. That he was hurt at Christmas. That the pain and the loss would have been the same regardless of whatever time of the year it was, but, with it being Christmas it was like pouring salt into a wound. Why didn't I get to have my Christmas. Christmas with my boys. And, then I started to cry. I told him that I didn't really hate Santa and his ginger bread helper. That I really did want the doctors and nurses who had been so kind to us, to have a wonderful Christmas. That I really did want people to enjoy their families and their celebrations. But, I wanted it for myself, too. I wanted to have Christmas with my family.

And, as I poured my heart out to Him, I became undone. I was broken, guilty, and sorry. And, somehow I became free of it. Free of the anger.

That's when He reminded me that, without Christmas, I would have no hope. Without Christmas I wouldn't be able to receive strength from the Father. I wouldn't know His comfort. I wouldn't have any promises to hang on to. He reminded me that, because God had sent His Son to bridge the gap between a Holy God and a sinful world... a sinful me, I could talk to Him. And... I could receive His grace. He reminded me that the only reason the words in the Bible had spoken to me...the only reason I could pray...the only reason I had felt any comfort at all... was because of Jesus. Jesus. The One in the manger. The Reason for Christmas.

I knew His words were true. His light was shining in my darkness. I asked forgiveness for my anger, and I vowed to take His words with me as I went back to the hospital. I would take them with me as I walked in a world that was planning for the greatest celebration of the year.


Several days later, I was in Ethan's room alone. I was standing beside him, looking at how beautiful he was, when a nurse came to the door and told me that there was a priest that would like to come in and say a prayer for Ethan. I just shook my head no. I was so tired of strangers. I was so tired of talking... I just wanted to be alone with Ethan. But, as soon as I shook my head no, I knew I could never turn down a prayer for Ethan. So, I walked out into the hall and motioned to her that it was okay to send the priest into Ethan's room.

I went back to stand beside Ethan's bed, and Father Julien walked in. During the days we had been in Gainesville, many of the hospital's chaplains had come in to encourage us and to pray with us. Each one had been a blessing. But, I had never seen Father Julien. He wore a red sweater with his white collar and a black blazer. He came and stood beside me.

And for the longest time, he didn't say a word. He just looked at Ethan and then he began to pray. The very first words he said were, "Heavenly Father, what a wonderful time of year it is. Thank you for Christmas. Thank you that because of Christmas we can have hope. Hope for Ethan. Hope for this family." Father Julien was repeating basically the same words that God had spoken to me in the motel room. I don't remember anything else he said.

Hope. Because of Christmas. That's all I heard.


And I knew right then, that God had sent Father Julien to verify, to confirm, what He had spoken to me. He knew that I would need to know that this was truly a message from Him. God wanted me to know that He was well aware that Ethan had been hurt at Christmas. And, that the timing of it all... the timing that seemed to be salt being poured into a wound... was really a gift.

Every red bow I saw. Every Christmas smock I saw on a nurse. Every song I heard played on the piano when I walked through the lobby. Every holiday plan I heard being discussed by others... even Santa and his helper. They would all be reminders of the baby in the manger. The Baby that was sent to reconcile me with the Father. The Lamb of God. Sent so I would never be alone. So I would know His strength and His comfort. So I would have hope.

I wondered for a while if Father Julien was real. Maybe I had imagined him. Maybe he was just an angel.

However, last December when Seth graduated from law school in Gainesville, we saw Father Julien again. Jim was determined to find him. He called Alachua General Hospital to see if Father Julien was on call. He wasn't. After being put on hold several times, Jim was finally able to find the name of his parish. We weren't sure where it was, or if he would even be there, but Jim was determined to find him.

We found his church, and Ethan and I stayed in the car while Jim went to find him. Sunday services were over, but Jim was hopeful we would find him. He went into the sanctuary, and they said Father Julien was next door in his office. He was getting ready for a Christmas party for the children of prisoners at a state prison outside of Gainesville. He was going about the Father's business.

Jim found him and introduced himself, and told him about his visit with me four years before. At first I'm not sure he remembered us. But he came out to the car, and he knelt down beside Ethan's open car door. And he remembered coming to see Ethan. Then he placed his hand on Ethan's forehead, and made the sign of the cross, and prayed for Ethan again. He prayed that Ethan would know the Father, to know Him in all His fullness.

And, as Father Julien left us and walked back inside to get ready for a Christmas celebration, I knew that he truly was an angel. He was my Christmas angel.

Christmas isn't family. Christmas isn't gifts or baking or doing nice things for our neighbors. Christmas isn't traditions or a tree or decorations. Christmas isn't a time of year or a holiday.

Christmas is Hope.

Christmas is Jesus.

"May the God of Hope

fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit."

Romans 15:13

FOR US

This morning, me and my terribly sore throat and totally stopped up nose, turned on the TV and found Beth Moore on Life Today. I haven't been turning on the TV in the morning and when I saw she was on I figured it wasn't a coincidence.

This is a quote from Beth's lesson today:

"The things God allows us to go through are for our giftedness. Not for our harm."

Four years and nine months ago, someone spoke basically the same words to me. Or should I say she spoke them over me. I say over me because those words have become a blessing, a charge, an anointing. God has used them over the years as an answer to many of my "whys?".

She spoke these words to me at a time when things were so bad in our family that I can't even talk about them. Ethan was still in a coma and we were taking care of him at home. And when I thought that things couldn't get any worse...when I thought I could bear no more...there was more.

This person, with a tear-choked voice, told me that when she was praying for me... and in the pain she was feeling for me, she asked God "why" He was doing this to me. He replied, "I'm not doing this to her. I am doing it for her."

"For our giftedness. Not for our harm."

God's timing is perfect. Perfect to speak words exactly when we need to hear them. At a time when we have a choice to make. A choice to believe. A choice to go forward. Or to give up and quit. A time like this morning.

Like I've said before, sometimes we find not one huge mountain standing in front of us but a whole mountain chain. Many times my cry has been, "Lord, could we handle just one thing at a time? Could we climb one mountain at a time? This is too much." But, life's not like that. The mountains seem to go on and on and on. Multiplying mountains.

And, God reminded me today, through Beth Moore and the words that were spoken over me years ago, that it's all for me. It is for my purpose. And if I believe Him...that it's for my giftedness... it will be for the difference that my life...my plain old-ordinary-messed up-redeemed life can make in the lives of the people I love. And, for the difference that my life can make in this time and place where He has placed me.

But, I have to make that choice.

To resent it all...or, in faith, to give thanks for it.

To hate it all...or embrace the opportunity for God's grace.

To fight it with everything in me...or to receive it in humility and trust.

To blame others...or to believe that in every circumstance of my
life, God has the final say.

To lay down in front of the mountains and say I can't and I won't..
to throw a hissy-fit....
or to take that first step in faith and to let Him give me the
strength to continue and when I can't...
to let Him carry me.

"For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, is working for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory, while we do not look at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen. For the things which are seen are temporary, but the things which are not seen are eternal." 2 Corinthians 4:17

Did you see that?

Our affliction is working for us.

Amazing.

THE CHRISTMAS PROGRAM

Yesterday I thought about Christmas programs.

I had to take my car to the dealership for some minor service and on the way, I passed the preschool where I taught for 16 years. I smiled as I thought about all the Christmas programs. All 16 of them! The costumes, the practices, kids falling off the risers, the pulling-out of my hair, hearing the kids sing... those are all good memories.

Then my sister called and she was on her way to see my great nephew (and he is definitely great) in his little Christmas program. I would have loved to have been there. He was playing a wise man. He's so precious just sitting on the floor playing. How precious he must have been as a singing wise man!

I thought about the Christmas programs that Seth and Ethan had been in. And my mind got stuck on Ethan's first grade program. That year the four first grade classes combined for the program. The teachers sent a note home explaining how they had little time for practice and how important good behavior would be. They had come up with a point system. If a child misbehaved, was disruptive, etc., they would receive a point. Too many points and they couldn't be in the program.

I understood, but was horrified at the same time. Banning kids from a Christmas program? Being a little too excited? Misbehaving a little? Isn't that normal for kids at Christmas?

But like I said, I understood where they were coming from and stressed to Ethan how important it was for him to listen and to be respectful of his teachers.

It's not like Ethan had ever misbehaved at school. He hadn't. But, I knew the potential was there. And, with Ethan, I had learned not to be surprised! I was a little worried, and being the little-bit-obsessive mother I could be - I can hear my sister laughing as she reads the phrase"little-bit"- everyday when I would pick Ethan up from school, I would ask him if he had gotten any points. Everyday he said no.

I was a proud momma.

The day of the Christmas program, Jim and I got there early to get a good seat. Imagine my horror when Ethan filed into the cafeteria and up on the risers and I saw his little red, tear-stained face. Although he wasn't crying anymore, his little bottom lip was still quivering.

His teacher, Mrs. S., looked over at me and mouthed, "Everything is Okay. He's alright." Then she took her hands and patted them down in the air. Like, "Trust me lady. Don't go running up there and make a scene. I've got it under control." So, I didn't make a scene. I tried to get my heart rate down and I put a huge smile on my face. I kept smiling at Ethan. I was now the one mouthing, "It's Okay. Everything is alright." I begged him to sing. Just to sing. And, he finally did. He eventually sang his heart out.

When the program was over and we walked to Ethan's classroom, his teacher met me on the outside ramp. I think she sensed there was a mother tiger looking for blood. Mrs.S. told me that there had been a misunderstanding and one of the other first grade teachers, a young, new teacher, had told Ethan he couldn't be in the program. When Mrs. S. heard Ethan crying she asked what had happened. Mrs. S. took the new teacher aside and said that Ethan would be in the program, and then she put him back in line. Mrs. S. assured me that she had handled it, and it had truly been a misunderstanding. She never gave me the details and, without saying it out right, I knew she was asking me to just let it go. And, I did.

Hey, I had been a young new teacher at one time.

There's been lots of times when I have felt like I've been kicked out of line. Times when I've felt like I don't get to be in the program. Or play in the game. Times when I don't have the right to sing. The right to participate. The right to share.

Because I have too many points. Points I've received for messing up. Points for not trusting. Points for becoming depressed and losing hope. Points for being a cry-baby. Points for being ungrateful.

Points for missing signs. For not protecting my child. Points for misrepresenting God to my children. For teaching them things about Him that just aren't true. Points for wasting so much time on things that won't last. On things that aren't eternal.

Points for saying one thing but living another.

Points. Points. Points.

Out of the program. Out of chances.

Watching from a distance. Standing back. Feeling excluded. Observing instead of participating.

Knowing I have deserved every point I've been given. My points weren't given because of a misunderstanding. I earned every one. Some were earned because I was blind. Some because I was weak. But most because I just wanted to do things my way instead of His.

But just like Mrs. S. heard Ethan's cry, God hears mine.

And, He steps up and says, "Put her back in line. She's mine. She gets to play. She gets to participate."

"But what about all the points I earned? You know. For this and that. Remember?"

And He says, "What points? I don't remember any points? You have points? I don't think so."

"I laid all those points on my only beloved Son. He payed the price for all of them. Those points and all the ones you will earn in the future are gone. They're cast into the sea. Removed as far as the east is from the west. You, my child, are "point-less" and you always will be. Your account says, "The penalty for your points has already been paid. Paid in full. And don't let yourself, or anyone else, ever try to convince you that you can't play. That you can't be in the program. Your part in the program was established long before the foundation of the world was laid."

He says to me. "It's Okay. Everything is alright. I've got it under control. Your part is to sing."

"Just to sing."

Thank you, Mrs. S. for putting Ethan back in the program.




Thank you Jesus for leaving heaven, for coming to earth, for paying the price for my points.

So I can be in the program.

So I can sing!

Lazarus Sat at the Table with Him

I've tried all week to write this post, but every time I became overwhelmed and gave up. I am going to try one more time.

I know that God and God alone brought Ethan back to us. I know that He gave Ethan back his memory, his personality, his sense of humor and his ability to think and reason. However, I often wonder how God will use him to make a difference in this world and in His kingdom. I am so amazed at what all God has done in Ethan's life, but sometimes frustrated at the same time that others may not see it. I want Ethan to know that his life makes a difference in this crazy world. I know that he might not ever be able to do the things that others do. I know that the plans and dreams that Ethan had for himself may have to change. I know that I have had to lay down many of my hopes for him. But I also know that God has a plan and a purpose for this life He saved.

Living with Ethan's injury day in and day out, and watching other young people get married, start new jobs, become independent, well, sometimes my eyes start focusing only on what I can see. How good is God that He rescues us with a word and helps us to remember that we have to believe to see. (John 11:40) He rescued me once again last Sunday morning.

I had a few moments to spare, so with a cup of coffee in one hand and the remote in the other, I went channel surfing. I ran across a preacher talking about Lazarus. Here is where God stepped in with His hope. "Then, six days before the Passover, Jesus came to Bethany, where Lazarus was who had been dead, whom He had raised from the dead. There they made Him a supper; and Martha served, but Lazarus was one of those who sat at the table with Him. Then Mary took a pound of very costly oil of spikenard, anointed the feet of Jesus, and wiped His feet with her hair. And the house was filled with the fragrance of the oil." (Luke 12: 1-3) Martha is still doing what she does best, serving. Mary is again worshiping on her knees. And the one who was raised from the dead is sitting. Wouldn't it make more sense for Lazarus to be up doing something important? Wouldn't you think that considering what Jesus had done for him, that Lazarus would be doing something for Him? The Bible doesn't tell us anything that Lazarus did after he was raised from the dead, except that he sat. No books, no great speeches. He just sat at a table with Jesus.

Ethan does a lot of sitting. What God showed me is that it isn't what Ethan can do that will make a difference. It is what He has done for Ethan that will make his life count. For those that have eyes to see, Ethan's life, even with him just sitting, will be an example of God's compassion, His grace, and His power. "This sickness is not unto death, but for the glory of God that the Son of God may be glorified through it." (John 11:4) I am humbled that God has chosen my son through which to glorify His Son.

I know that I get so busy in trying to do for God, in trying to make a difference, that I don't spend enough time with Him, just sitting at His table with Him, to let Him be glorified through me. Amazing that He could use me. Now that's some kind of mercy, some kind of grace, and some kind of power!

I remember now a special moment that happened only a couple of weeks ago. When my niece and her new groom walked out of the church after their wedding, and my sister and the groom's mother had been escorted out of the church, my little family had the opportunity to walk down the aisle of that beautiful church. The pews were filled with many people who knew our story and who had prayed for a miracle for us. I thought, as my husband pushed Ethan in his wheelchair, and my oldest son and I followed behind them, this is what God has done. Look and see what God has done! All for His glory and our good.

Bless you. I hope that today you may have a few minutes just to sit with Jesus.




At the wedding reception