TWO WORDS

I read where a popular, and controversial, host of a radio talk program said that he regretted bashing a young woman that had been in the news.  He didn't regret bashing her because it was unkind, but because he now believed that his frequent talking about her on his show only added to her fame.

I wonder, as I think about this man's regrets, if my words, the ones I use to tell my story, will bring fame to my enemy.

I hope not.


Words are powerful. The tongue that speaks those words are as strong as a rudder that turns a ship to the left and to the right. (James 3:4)  And I'm afraid that my words might turn someone's eyes in the wrong direction. Toward the wrong  person.

I worry in telling my story, with all the pain and all the loss and all the struggle, that I might turn someone toward the one that made the pit instead of the One that lifted me out of it.

I want to be honest and real, in sharing the consolation that I've been given to those that might need it, but I also don't want them to zero-in on the hurt instead of the healing.

I don't want to pretend that life is easy, that all the pain is gone, or that I have become the strong person I've always wanted to be.

I want them to see me.

The real me.

Simultaneously hurt and healed.

Living in loss and abundance.

Living with unanswered questions but full of confidence in God's goodness and provision.
 
Weak but strong in Jesus.

I'm not always sure how to share my story.

I'm not always sure when to share my story.

How far do I go?  How much do I share?

Will my words add to the hopeless despair that the world already breathes in and out?

Or will they be heard as a reminder that all can be truly well with our souls?

I ask myself how do I share the Light without sharing the dark?

How do I share the comfort without first sharing the pain?

How do I explain the wonder of being found without sharing the fear and horror of being lost?



I think about Joseph, and the terrible things that others did to him.

His brothers sold him into slavery, not having any thoughts of the brutality he would suffer in his captivity.

The wife of Joseph's friend accused him of violating her, and his friend believed her, and Joseph was thrown in prison.

While in prison, Joseph shared his gifts with another prisoner that led to the prisoner being freed. Joseph asked to be remembered in his release.  The  man forgot Joseph.

Joseph lived most of his life away from his father whom he loved. From the security of home. He lived in exile with those of a different culture and a different faith. Joseph lived a lonely life.

Joseph's pain, his rejection, his suffering, and his lonliness are told in his story.

But when I get to the end of Joseph's story, the heartache and disappointment are dimmed by two words.

Two words that turned all the fame and all the glory back to the One, and Only One, Who is Worthy.

Two words that turned the table on the one that seeks fame from his evil acts.

Two words that take the pen out of the hand of the one who wants to write our stories, and tries to convince us that he is the author of our lives.

Two words that give us eyes to see that the pen was never taken from the Author of our lives, and that everything He writes is ultimately for our good, and for His glory.

So, when I stumble while telling my story and I use too many words, or too few...

When my words fall out all over the place and make a big messy heap...

When I'm heavy on the hurt instead of the healing, or the pain instead of the joy, please remember Joseph's two words . . . BUT GOD.

"You intended to harm me,

 but God intended it for good

 to accomplish what is now being done . . ."

Genesis 50:20

Yes, Lord.. In every story you have given me to share, and in all the ones you are still writing for me, may I bring fame to you with the two words . . .  BUT GOD.

"Your name, O Lord, endures forever.  

Your fame, O Lord, throughout all generations."  

Psalm 135:13

ME AND THE TIN MAN

"My flesh and my heart may fail, 

But God is the strength of my heart

And my portion forever."
Psalm 73:26

ALMOST MORNING

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

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.

ALL

"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!"

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